Page 56 of Stepbrothers with Benefits
“The real question is when you’re going to tell Marty.”
“When I damn well feel like it.”
“You get so petty and stubborn when you’re pissed off at someone.”
“I get pissed off all the time. I’m not petty and stubborn.”
“Yes,” he snorted, “you are. Constantly. But I’m not going to say anything else for now, there’s more than enough for you to think about as it is.”
“I’m so thankful for the reminder.”
“Please, like you won’t be obsessing about what happened, especially anytime you’re around me.”
“Shut up.”
He chuckled, scooping up my empty beer bottle and taking it to the kitchen. “It’s okay, I’ll pretend like you’re not freaking out constantly while we go through our day-to-day life like something didn’t happen.”
“You continue to be an ass.”
“I’m pretty sure my ass was included in the list of things you found hot about me.”
“Asshole!”
“That wasn’t listed, but?—”
“AGH!”
ELIJAH
If I squinted and was a little drunk, I might be able to ignore the fact that there was something awkwardly sitting between the two of us. It had been two weeks since our little incident, and a week since Milo had come home in a frazzled, panicked state to try to...I don’t know, knowing him, he had run back to the apartment with a half-formed plan in his head. Some part of him was probably trying to apologize, another part trying to deny or confirm the worst-case scenario he’d built up in his head, and another part desperate to make sure the things that mattered to him hadn’t just exploded and scattered all over the place.
As I watched him come in, flashing a believable smile at me and setting a bag down to pull off his coat, I could almost believe he was doing fine. The thing with Milo that many people missed was that he was exceptionally good at letting things roll off his back. Hell, sometimes the things people thought should be a big deal didn’t even make it to his back to roll off, they just breezed right by as he continued his life as carefree and happy as ever. People even thought that life and its troubles never found root in Milo’s head and heart.
They were wrong; it was just notoriously difficult for something to get to him. In those rare moments wheresomething did hit him and stick, all that energy and enthusiasm turned inward and focused on the problem with an intensity that bordered on psychotically obsessed. He would run the entire problem, its causes, possible solutions, and the implications repeatedly in his head until he was worn down to the emotional bone. The only way to prevent him from doing that was to distract him with something he couldn’t resist.
And a night of drinks, gaming, and takeout food was the distraction with a perfect track record.
“What did we end up with?” I asked, following him into the kitchen. The other important thing when he was mentally obsessing was to act like nothing was wrong. Sure, it could backfire and piss him off because he didn’t like being treated with kid gloves, but I could generally get away with it a lot easier than others. The key was not to come off as condescending, but instead act normally and let him latch onto that normalcy instead of whatever thoughts were swirling around in the chaos of his brain.
“Rum sounded like a decent choice,” he said as he pulled rum and bottles of Coke from the bag.
“Interesting,” I said, making sure there was approval in my voice because we both knew I liked a good rum. I chose to leave out that Milo didn’t like rum much. He drank slowly if something had rum in it. That was pretty telling, but doing the actual telling would set him into a spiral. I’d be able to tease him more once he was calmer, especially after getting food into his stomach and a drink or two.
Sure enough, the first sign of the real Milo surfaced when he tilted his head back and sniffed the air, turning to eye the bags I’d brought in earlier. “And what do we have here? Oh my God, soul food?”
“I thought it sounded good.”
“You’re goddamn right it does, oh my God, I can smell everything.”
Which of course was my cue to finish putting away what he had bought, the liquor into the freezer and the Coke into the fridge. He pulled out the boxes and laid them on the counter. The smell of Mac N Cheese filled the air, along with the rich and enticing aroma of fried chicken. The cornbread and greens weren’t as pungent, but I knew from experience the restaurant’s food could be relied on to be delicious, especially because the owners always threw in ham with the greens.
We loaded up, and I let him pick the video, knowing I was about to see some cooking show. While filling my plate, I heard the familiar sounds of a show I hadn’t heard in a while and realized he was trying to get into a good mood. It had been ages since I’d last seen him watch Worst Cooks in America, but it told me he was looking for entertainment and laughs instead of information or new ideas. By the season's midpoint, the contestants had some well-thought-out and interesting dishes, but he was starting right from the beginning.
Taking my food with me, I dropped onto the couch with Milo. I was pretty sure the only reason he hadn’t curled up in the chair where I wouldn’t have the option of being close to him was because it had a terrible angle for seeing the TV. He was pressed against the arm of the couch, but I let him have the delusion of being subtle and dropped onto the opposite end while we watched the show.
It was one of those rare meals where he took his time. The occasional glance in his direction showed me he was starting to relax, forgetting everything in his head while he watched the show and ate good food. When I got up to get us more food and returned with drinks, his eyes lingered on the rum and Coke with the barest hint of wariness. It didn’t last long, though, and he was back into the show, picking up his glass absently andtaking a sip, making a small face but laughing when someone made a dish that could only be described as an affront to mankind.
We ended up sitting through three episodes, boxing up the leftovers, and stowing them away for the inevitable hunger trip to the fridge later. Milo waited until my glass was empty before getting us a refill. I had been tempted to check if there was even booze in his, but there was no way to be sure. The alcohol was there to provide normalcy for the kind of night we liked to have with one another anyway, so I wasn’t going to start chanting ‘shots’ at him if he really wasn’t comfortable drinking.
