Matt shrugged. “She almost did.”
“Huh.” Santi scoffed before turning his head away, hiding behind his falling curls as usual. “Well, tell her you’ve done your duty,” he said lightly. “And with a clear head. Good night, Matt.”
The more unbothered Santi acted, the more bothered he was. Matt’s mother hadn’t been totally wrong about him and his moods. Santi felt everything, and deeply, and had learned early to protect himself. That was the key to Santi. It was also probably why Santi saw through Matt’s bullshit so quickly.
And why his mother had chosen Matt to do this. His siblings wouldn’t have understood this very basic fact about Santi.
“She’s worried.” Matt was careful. “Or, everyone else is? I didn’t get the details. But, look, you stand with me and pretend to talk and I’ll leave you alone.Oryou can have them circling you all night. Think of me as a reprieve. The slap on the wrist versus jail time.”
“A reprieve,” Santi repeated, brushing his hair from his eyes. He laughed, short and soft, to himself more than at Matt. “And what about you? What are you expected to do, exactly? Ensure I eat? Talk to me about politics and the economy, but in a way that suits the company we are in? Peel me off the floor and take me home?”
“You planning on getting wasted?” Matt asked in real surprise. “You can get a bit loose at these things sometimes but I’m not one to throw stones about that. Getting sloppy drunk for no reason is something else.” He looked Santi over until Santi’s hand twitched around the glass and Santi inhaled sharply. Matt turned away. A moment later, he turned right back. “Adulthood sucks and,ugh, having fame and talent must besoterrible for you” –the amused outrage in Santi’s expression was warming—“but youareokay, right? You’d tell me if you weren’t?”
“You’re alarmingly good at that,” Santi said, clearly trying to keep his lips in a firm line but failing. Matt smiled innocently. Santi cut him a sideways look. “I’m very thirsty,” Santi declared after a pause. “You may get me—” he sighed “—a ginger ale.”
“You know where everything is,” Matt answered smartly. “Get it yourself.”
Santi dropped his head and laughed, a real one this time. “Sometimes, Matty….” He left that unfinished. “I think I will. Do you want something? Not wine, obviously. You hate wine.”
He said it matter-of-factly, in a house of winemakers and wine drinkers.
Matt couldn’t be shocked, although he did lower his voice. “Cabernet might the worst,” he admitted with a shudder. “Tastes like licking an oak barrel.”
“An image.” Santi blinked. “The fact that you sell that to people daily and make good money doing it continues to amaze me.”
Matt gestured dismissively even as he lowered his voice more. “Selling wine is not about the wine. It’s about getting people drunk and telling them that if they get drunk this way, off our super special grape juice, it makes them higher class than other people.” He didn’t usually say things like this out loud but Santi’s slow grin made him want to keep going. “I can also sell the bourbon Nicky invested in that way. Olive oil too, but that is about the promise of a pleasant future in a large kitchen.” Something rough slipped into those last words. Matt sucked in a breath and shook his head as if that would make Santi ignore whatever he might have heard. “Bring me something strong.”
Santi gave him a sharp nod of bouncing curls and headed toward the bar.
Matt watched him go, how easily Santi moved through the crowd, acknowledging people without getting trapped in conversation. He wasn’t the only one watching him. Santi’s mom had an eye on him. So did Matt’s mother, although she darted a glance to Matt that Matt responded to with a shrug and an innocent smile.
Santi reappeared with a ginger ale and something that smelled like rum and lime. He handed this to Matt and once again took his place at Matt’s side. He sipped his ginger ale without any apparent longing for anything harder.
“Really,” Matt couldn’t help it, “what’s up with you?”
“Nothing worth panicking over. I’m as busy as ever. As always. Making things I love or hate, and other things to sell to pay for food and rent and the money to do more of the things I love or hate.”
“Those sell well too,” Matt pointed out, with a sip of what turned out to be Planter’s Punch.
“But not as reliably.” Santi tucked a single curl behind his ear. Two more fell to take its place. “Though the paychecks are larger. This is nothing. I just decided to try a change or two.”
Matt frowned. He knew their families. There was nothing like a small change to make everyone unsettled. Still, he tried. “All you’re doing is behaving yourself for one party.”
“If you announced you were thinking of moving out of the guest house right now, what would your family do, no matter what they say about supporting you?” Santi lifted one eyebrow when Matt had no answer except the truth—his family would collectively lose their minds. Matt was expected to be a certain way and he had never challenged that.
He had another drink. It was strong enough to make his next words come out in a rasp. “Luckily for you, I’m not the sort to pry.”
Santi inclined his head. “The perfect choice for a babysitter. Our mothers should have gone into politics.”
Matt froze. “Please don’t say that. They’re terrifying enough at a social level. Although, at least we’d still be liabilities, wouldn’t we? That much wouldn’t change.”
“Cheers to that.” Santi raised his ginger ale. They each took a drink.
Matt’s father was giving them the eye, like they were up to no good. “Should we mingle?”
“Mingling is terrible. Let’s not.” Santi shook his head. “Anyway, we know everyone here, and we know what they’re going to say.”
Lots of asking why Matt was still single. Lots of not asking Santi about his love life.
