Page 3 of Green Tea and Pink Apples

The black print on his white shirt was stenciled frogs wearing crowns.

Santi stared silently up at him, and it was only then that Matt realized that this usually went the other way around. Santi would find Matt at the bar or hiding outside on a lawn chair after a church service and approach him.

Whatever Matt might normally have said got lost in his head so he stared back. Santi blinked several times, quirked his lips in a smile, then directed his gaze elsewhere. Matt followed where he was looking and was surprised to see the bride and groom-to-be.

He usually tried not to look at happy couples too much. Marriage and all that, forever sort of loves, were not something Matt felt comfortable dwelling on. He’d assumed Santi felt the same, since, as Matt’s mom had pointed out, Santi never brought anyone serious to these things. But maybe Matt was wrong. Or maybe Santi was getting older and changing his mind, or had been too busy before to think about it.

“You look almost wistful,” Matt remarked with a pointed shudder and pushed the untouched glass of wine toward Santi.

Santi shook his hair from his face before glancing up. He curled his fingers around the glass, exhaled, then handed it back. “How thoughtful of you. But not tonight, I think.”

Matt accepted the wine automatically. “You’re not drinking tonight? Are you sick?” Not that Santi drank to excess or embarrassed himself. But if anyone was with Matt on the idea of getting through family parties with a bit of liquid courage, it was Santi. “Santi, are you dying? No one told me.”

Santi rolled his eyes. “I can’t tell if you’re serious, but I guess I deserve that, either way. No. Not sick. Not dying that I know of. Or more than anyone else, I suppose. I’m simply abstaining for the evening. No need to worry, Matty.”

His tone was hard to read, possibly on purpose. Matt awkwardly held onto the wine. “But are you okay?” If something was really wrong, his mom should have told him.

“Matty,” Santi said firmly, “I’m fine. I’m… trying not to get stuck in my ways. Consequence of getting old, probably.”

“You’re younger than me,” Matt argued.

There was a hint of a smile on Santi’s face now. “Still.”

Matt deflated with a huff. “Asshole.”

The hint became a full grin. “So charming, Matty. Do you call all your guests assholes?”

“No. Just the assholes.” Matt smiled back and took a sip of wine without thinking. He forced himself to swallow it.

“For someone who sells that for a living, you make the most disgusted faces when forced to drink it.” Santi was looking at Richie and Ella again, or pretending to.

“Not for a living,” Matt corrected breezily before anyone else could. “Other people work for a living. I work as a hobby.” Santi said nothing, of course, though he should have. Matt took another sip, careful not to grimace this time. “So how’ve you been?”

“The same. Are we going to make small talk?” Santi turned to look at him. “I’d ask how you’ve been, but you’ll say ‘fine’ no matter what.” Matt stiffened. Santi widened his eyes. “By which I mean to say, small talk has never been our style. You know I don’t care for it. You usually don’t bother. Should I be asking ifyouare okay?”

“Suddenly regretting some decisions I’ve made,” Matt said to the wine. “But I’m fine.” Saying those words back to Santi had a certain funny, bitter quality. Saying them in a polite, customer service, appeasing-his-mother voice made it even better. “Are you sure I can’t get you something?”

The look he got was almost fiery. “We have waiters here, Matty, if I wanted something. Also, I have been in this house for what probably amounts to years of my life. I know where everything is and can get it myself.” Santi took a deep breath. “But thank you for offering,” he added softly, as though Matt hadn’t been prodding him for a reaction.

Matt had nothing to say in response, nothing acceptable, anyway. Santi didn’t care about acceptable, but he also probably didn’t need Matt’s shit. He was dealing with whatever was bothering him. Matt couldn’t even excuse himself and leave him alone.

He belatedly realized he was drinking red wine, a cabernet, probably 2015. He should hold his nose and chug it. Down it one go like a messy, day-drunk wine tourist in the town square. The businesses and the police in downtown area kicked out the transients and the poorer migrant workers, afraid they would get intoxicated in public, but if it was wealthy tourists plastered on expensive wine, somehow it was all fine and good.

Matt was not okay. Naturally, Santi had been the one to see it. That was almost enough for Matt to suspect that their mothers had tricked Matt into thinking he was babysitting Santi when actually it was the other way around. Except that Santi kept glancing at Matt the longer Matt stayed quiet.

“Nice night,” Matt offered at last, although they were indoors and that was definitely small talk. His charm seemed to have disappeared.

“Nice night?” Santi snatched the glass from Matt and sniffed it as though checking for drugs. “What the actual hell, Matty? Have we really reached the point where that’s all we have to say to each oth….” He narrowed his eyes. “Wait. What’s going on?”

Matt let his mouth fall open. “What?”

“Don’t play coy, Matthew. Your mother nodded at me a moment ago, and you’re standing there, miserable and talking about the weather. Withme. As though I can’t tell—” He stopped there too. “Is the family up to something?”

At another time, it would have been amusing that he referred to their families as ‘the family’ as if they were the Mafia.

“So….” Matt looked down and accidentally met Santi’s concerned gaze. “My mother asked me to be sure to talk with you tonight,” he admitted.

Santi stayed silent for a very long moment. “Your mother neverasks.”

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