My phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out to see Michael's name lighting up the screen. He inherited Dad's suspicious nature along with his broad shoulders and stubborn streak.
I glanced at Dorian. His gaze tracked every movement. "I should take this."
The phone kept buzzing as I walked to the kitchen. Michael had radar for when something was off—always had, even whenwe were kids sneaking cookies before dinner or coming home past curfew.
"Hey, Michael."
"You sound weird." No preamble and no small talk.
The call crackled with static. "Can you hear me? Signal's terrible down here on the coast."
"Barely. You sound like you're underwater." Michael's voice faded in and out.
"Everything okay?"
I turned my back to the living room, dropping my voice. "Just tired. Long shift yesterday."
The call locked in as Michael's annoyance became apparent. "Kayla called Marcus. Said you disappeared for an hour at Harborview after that freeway pileup and then acted strange the rest of the shift." The accusation was mild but persistent. "She's worried you're having a rough patch."
I gripped the kitchen counter with my free hand. Turning back around, I saw Dorian pretending not to listen, his attention fixed on the window like the street outside held fascinating secrets.
"I'm fine. Just needed some air."
"Air." His tone suggested he wasn't buying it. "When's the last time you came by the house? Ma keeps asking if you're eating enough."
"I eat plenty."
"Takeout doesn't count." A pause. "You missed dinner Sunday. Didn't even call."
Guilt twisted in my stomach. Sunday dinners were sacred in the McCabe house—Ma's way of keeping her boys close after Dad died. I hadn't missed one in months.
"Sorry. Got called in for overtime." It was a lie, and it tasted bitter on my tongue.
"Bullshit." Michael's voice rose and sharpened. "Kayla said your shift ended at six last Sunday. Dinner was at seven-thirty. You live twenty minutes away."
I rubbed my forehead, feeling a headache building behind my eyes. "It's complicated."
"Complicated how? You met someone?"
The question hit closer to home than I wanted to admit. My gaze drifted back to Dorian, who was studying his hands.
"Something like that."
"Good. About time. When do we meet him?"
"Michael—"
"Her. When do we meet her?"
I closed my eyes. "It's not like that. It's... new. Complicated."
"Everything's complicated with you, Matthew. Doesn't mean it has to stay that way." A protective edge began to seep into his voice. "Just don't disappear on us, okay? We worry."
"I know."
"Ma's making lasagna this Sunday. Bring your complicated whatever. She'll feed them until they can't move, and we'll all pretend not to notice you're happier than you've been in months."
He assumed I was happy.
