Milo’s current grudge-holding record is six days.
I don’t have that kind of time.
Fixing my eyes on his, I keep my voice gentle but steady. “Milo, I know you’re mad and I’m going to let you tell me your side of the story, but first, you need to face the consequences for whatever you said. Am I clear?”
In addition to Mom’s stubborn streak, Milo also inherited her blue eyes. They meet mine and he nods before looking at his teacher and principal. “I apologize for my language. I should not have used those words even though Danny would not stop bothering me and I told him eleven times to leave me alone but he wouldn’t. I even went to the Calm Down Corner but he followed me and wouldn’t stop. So I’m sorry for using bad words to make him get away from me because nothing else worked.”
Milo and I are going to have to work on the non-apology, but that’s a worry for another day. Right now, the suspense is killing me. “What on earth did you say?”
He looks over at the other women in the room, gauging if he’ll be in more trouble if he repeats the illicit words. They sigh collectively and that’s when Milo spills. “Danny kept bugging me, Josie. He kept poking my shoulder with the pointer finger of his right hand and everybody knows that’s the finger he putsdown the back of his pants to scratch his butt. So when he kept touching me and he followed me, I just turned around and said, ‘Do you wanna suck my balls, or what?’”
If you had asked me to write a list of the things I thought my brother might’ve said, that sentence would not be on it.
“Milo—”
“You can’t even be mad at me, Josie. Because I know those aren’t Rainbow Room words, but they are 7142 Fernwood Road words.”
“They are definitely not,” I correct. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry, but I know that’s not a question anyone in our house has ever asked.
The defiance is back. “Uh huh. Zane watches the same movie late at night every night and I hear the guy say that exact sentence. There’s all this moaning and then he says, ‘Do you wanna suck my balls, or what?’”
A glance at my watch tells me I need to be back at Bainbridge in three hours to tutor Van. I should make it, unless I die right here in The Principal’s Office of embarrassment.
Once everyone at my house is reasonably settled, and we have had extensive conversations about appropriate language, boundaries, and keeping our earbuds charged, I make my way to my car to start the drive back to Bainbridge.
Levi’s plane landed on time, so he’s back home to take the night shift. He’s fully aware that it’s his job to talk to Zane about the importance of, um, self-care, but also about the unrealistic standards and toxic environment of the porn industry and the ways to source ethical adult entertainment.
But Levi’s still laughing, so it may be a while until they have that talk.
I tap my phone a few times and cue up my driving playlist, and that’s when I see a voice message from Van. I hit the button and his voice fills the space.
Hey, Jos. I’m glad everything’s okay. Be careful driving back. And I was thinking maybe we could do tutoring in your room tonight, just this once? And not just because I want to hang out in your room…I figure you had a long day and I want to hear all about it.I was thinking maybe you’d rather read about old, dead, white guy philosophers from the comfort of your bed. Ok, that sounds bad. Anyway, text me when you get home and I’ll be over, ok? I just need to make a couple stops first.
He’s right on both counts. We definitely should not study in my room, but I totally want to. And if he has a few stops to make, I probably have time for a shower.
My place it is.
An hour later, I’m fresh and clean, and feeling a little more like myself when I answer the knock at the door.
“Nice shirt,” Van says, leaning in for a kiss and pointing at the hockey hoodie I stole from him.
“We match,” I say, looking at his hoodie. It’s a faded, more worn version of the one I swiped.
“Almost,” he says, setting two bags on the counter in my kitchenette. “That’s a great hoodie,” he agrees, tugging on the hem of the one I’m currently wearing. “But this one? It’s my favorite.”
I look down at myself and then at him. “They are exactly the same. Yours is a little faded and there’s a tear at the neck, but other than that, they're identical. And mine is every bit as soft.” I’m not sure why I’m defending the honor of a sweatshirt, but it’s been a day, so I’ll cut myself some slack.
“Nope,” he says, a smirk on his lips. “Mine’s better. Look in the bags, Jos. Don’t you want to see what I brought over?”
“No, I want to know why you think your shirt is superior to its twin brother,” I say with more force than is required.
Van’s not put off by my mood. He presses a kiss to my forehead before striking a pose. “You don’t recognize this shirt?”
I shake my head. “Not as anything other than a copy of mine.”
Van’s cheeks heat. “It’s from that night, at the hockey house. Freshman year. In my room—well, Friedline’s room. We couldn’t wait, so I laid my hoodie down and?—”
“You kept that shirt?” I’m as horrified as I am charmed. “But you washed it, right?”
