Page 16 of Wings
"Motorcycle twin." I forced the words past the tightness in my throat. "The one who joined the Army."
Her eyebrows shot toward her hairline. "The one you had the massive crush on?"
Heat flooded my face, automatic and embarrassing. "I didn't have a massive—"
"Ki." She held up one hand. "You literally drew hearts around his name in the margins of your anatomy notes."
The memory hit like a slap. Second year pre-med, cramming for finals in the university library. Alex passed out at home after another bender, and me pretending everything was fine. Drawing little hearts around "Gabe" in the margins while highlighting the bones of the hand. Writing "Kiara Moreno" in tiny letters, then scribbling it out because what kind of person fantasized about their boyfriend's twin brother?
"That was one time," I muttered.
"One time that Icaughtyou." Maya appeared with Stephanie's order, setting a fresh latte and something that looked like a cinnamon roll had mated with a diabetes diagnosis. "You used to get this look whenever anyone mentioned him. Like someone had lit a candle inside you."
She was right. I had been that obvious, that pathetic. Crushing on the good brother while dating the broken one. Like some terrible soap opera plot, except soap operas didn't usually end with emergency room visits and restraining orders.
“I saw him. Today.”
"Holy shit." Stephanie leaned forward, voice dropping. "He's back? Did he find you? Do we need to—"
"No." I cut her off before she could start planning my relocation. Steph had contingency plans for my contingency plans, all centered around keeping me safe from ghosts that might turn solid. "Not exactly. He's . . ."
I took a shaky breath. The coffee shop sounds seemed too loud suddenly. The espresso machine's hiss sounded like accusations.
"He's my new pickup guy. For the supplies." The words fell between us like stones in still water. "He's Heavy Kings now."
Stephanie's coffee cup froze halfway to her mouth. The shop noise continued around us—the espresso machine's hiss, someone's laptop keys clicking, Maya calling out a mobile order—but our table had become a bubble of suspended time.
"Wait, wait, wait." She set the cup down with exaggerated care, both hands raised like she was trying to physically hold back the universe. "Gabe, the guy who sent you postcards from Syria that you kept in your jewelry box, is now a biker? Your contact for the medical supplies?"
My face burned hotter than my latte. "I didn't keep them in my jewelry—"
Her look could have cut glass.
"Okay, yes, fine." The admission tasted like defeat. "But that's not the point."
"Ki, you kept his postcards in the same box as your grandmother's rosary and your mom's wedding ring. That's the definition of precious." She leaned back, processing. "The same Gabriel Moreno who you said had hands that could fix anythingbroken? Who you described—and I quote—as 'sunshine in human form'? That Gabriel Moreno is now running medical supplies for a motorcycle club?"
"I was nineteen when I said that." My voice came out smaller than intended. "And probably drunk."
"You were stone sober and doodling butterflies while you talked about him." She pushed the cinnamon roll toward me. "Eat something and tell me everything. Start with how he looks. No, start with how you almost gave yourself a coronary texting me. Actually, start with—"
"He has a prosthetic leg now."
The words cut through her momentum like a blade. Stephanie's nurse face appeared—the one that processed terrible information without flinching.
"Combat injury?"
"I think so. He stumbled trying to . . ." I stopped, the memory of him moving toward me too fresh, too raw. "Something happened overseas. He's different. Harder. There's this weight to him now, like he's carrying ghosts."
"But he recognized you?"
A laugh escaped, bitter as burnt coffee. "Immediately. Even with thirty pounds gone and a name change and three years between us. He said my name like—" I pressed my fingers to my eyes, trying to block the memory. "Like it hurt him to say it."
"Ki." Stephanie's voice went gentle. "How did it feel? Seeing him?"
"Like getting hit by lightning." The truth spilled out before I could stop it. "Like every nerve ending remembered him at once. We touched for maybe five seconds—just fingers, just reaching for the same vial—and I felt it everywhere. God, Steph, he still smells the same. How is that possible? After war and years and everything."
"Do you still have feelings for him?"
