Page 36 of The Fate Factor

“Have you been icing?” I ask, watching him over my shoulder while I unpack food boxes, scooping fried things onto plates.

“Uh…”

“What?”

“It’s just that the freezer is so far from the couch.” He smiles, though it’s significantly dulled by pain, and it’s a good thing he’s cute because what the hell.

“This is a pretty big injury, Jamie. You need to take it seriously.”

He winces. “Yeah, I’m starting to see that.”

The reusable ice packs they gave him at the hospital are shoved in the corner on the counter. I fill one with cubes from the dispenser on the fridge door, then twist it into a tight pack and hand it to him, my eyebrows raised expectantly.

He has the good sense to look chastised. “Thank you,” he says. “Again.”

“You’re welcome.” I set the plates on the coffee table, but I don’t join him on the couch yet. I’m easing into this, being in his space. Also, I want to keep snooping.

Lingering in the living room, I spot some photos in an impressive gallery formation and wander over for a closer look. They’re snapshots, stuff you would see on social media—in fact I think I recognize one of them from Fortune’s Instagram—but displayed like this, they’re a whole vibe. “Were these taken downstairs?”

He nods, taking a bite of a spring roll, before pushing the plate away. “Em took them throughout the first year we were open. She gave them to me last Christmas. You can see more and more customers in each photo, then the band playing when we added live music. It reminds me of those people who have photos done of their kids each year and hang them in a row so you can see the changes.”

I smile at Jamie showing off his bar child.

He’s in a handful of them and I notice the same effect with his various states of facial hair. From clean-shaven just like when I first met him, to a couple of mountain-man looks, back to this thick stubble thing he has going on now. In the center, there’s a photo of him and another guy standing back to back, arms across their chests, grinning. Jamie has one of his sinfully tight-fitting Fortune tees on, and the other guy is in a shirt and tie. It’s mid level beard and I try to guess the timeline. Summer, based on the girls in dresses in the background. Two of them are clearly staring at Jamie, their crushes accidentally immortalized. Just like the flutter in the car, the jealous ping in my chest is also a surprise.

“Who’s the guy you’re posing with?”

“That’s my brother Wes. He’s my business partner.”

“Oh.” I look again with new interest.Jamie’s complexion is fair, like he might burn easily in the sun. Wes, on the other hand, looks like he has a year-round tan. They both have dark hair, but Jamie’s is soft, with a wave so perfect it must have been bestowed on him by an angel at birth. Wes’s is sleek andnear black, like a vintage cologne ad. He’s Armani to Jamie’s Abercrombie.

“You two don’t look like brothers.”

“We’re stepbrothers. Well, ex-step. His dad and my mom were married for three years. They divorced when we were seventeen. But we’re brothers in the ways that matter.”

“What ways are those?”

“We fight like brothers.” He laughs to himself, but it’s edgy like maybe he’s not speaking in generalities but in present tense. “I don’t know, growing up together, we just get each other on a different level. For good or bad.”

I give him a sympathetic smile, thinking of Mom and how I know exactly what he means about the bad. Sometimes I wish I didn’t know the reasons she does the things she does. It would make it a lot easier to be angry instead of sad when she disappoints me. “It’s hard to hide from family.”

“You can say that again.”

Rounding the couch, I take the seat beside him, and he hands me the TV remote. I’m not sure if it’s because he thinks I don’t want to watch what I think is a rerun ofThe Walking Deador because he’s in too much pain to pay attention anyway. His eyelids are barely at half-mast, and he hasn’t touched the food he seemed excited about.

“Aren’t the meds helping? When’s your next dose?”

“Two hours.”

Oof.I glance at the ice pack beside him, then the way his chest rises and falls, controlled like he’s being careful with each breath. He’s clearly miserable, and I could help if I could muster the courage to touch him.

That element of this connection is still untested, though. Both times it happened, my hands were on him or his on me. But we’ve also touched without anything happening: In my car after the hospital, when he held the door for me at breakfast and myarm brushed his stomach, momentarily striking me with the fear of God. I’m still as clueless as ever as to how and when these visions will come about.

But he looks so pathetic.

“Come on, sit up.” His eyes pop open, and I gesture for him to turn his body away from me. “Let me help you.”

He shuffles to the side and I lift the back of his sweatshirt, pressing the ice against his ribs. He groans. Or moans. I’m not sure, butflutter, flutter, flutter.

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