“They’re my best friends, Johnny,” I said gently. “I already told you they know. And they’re not judging you. Just be yourself. That’s all you need to do.”
He inhaled warily. “’Kay.”
Britta and Marcus showed up carrying a casserole dish and a reusable grocery bag with a bottle poking out of the top.
I intercepted them in the doorway and motioned to the bag. “We should probably skip the mimosas today.”
Britta winked. “It’s sparkling cider.”
I shook my head. “Sorry.”
“No worries. I know this is weird. We’re just excited to finally meet your brother.”
“I already met him once,” Marcus said. “When Cori and I were engaged. Although he might not remember.”
“I suppose that means I was high or passed out.” Johnny entered the main room with a self-deprecating chuckle.
Marcus’s cheeks paled. “Apologies, man. I didn’t mean to imply anything.” He held out his arm, and Johnny stared at it a fraction of a second before shaking his hand.
“No offense taken. I know it wasn’t a shot.”
“Definitely not,” Marcus stated firmly before pulling his hand back. “It’s very nice to see you again, Johnny. This is my wife, Britta.”
Britta pushed the casserole dish into Johnny’s chest. His arms raised instinctively to cradle it. “Lovely to meet you,” she said. “Can you help me take this stuff into the kitchen since my husband and best friend here apparently weren’t going to offer?”
“Uh…of course.”
He walked into the kitchen and deposited the dish on the countertop.
Britta followed, asking him, “Do you know where the plates and a spatula are so I can work on this quiche? I’m not certain where your sister hides those things.”
“Sure.”
After hundreds of brunches, Britta knew perfectly well where everything in my kitchen was. She chatted amiably with Johnny as she kept finding more tasks for him.Would you please unwrap the scones? Don’t you just love orange chocolate? Or are you more of a blueberry man? Let’s get the sausages in the skillet now. I got the links. Do you prefer those or the patties?I sent up a prayer of thanks that Marcus had the good sense to break up with me and bring this amazing woman into our lives. Within five minutes, Britta and Johnny were engrossed in a detailed discussion about a true crime documentary they’d both watched recently, shooing me and Marcus into the living room so they could debate the merits of underwater evidence collection.
“Johnny seems alright,” Marcus said once we were out of earshot. A statement and a question.
“He is,” I agreed. “But unless we can get him into some kind of rehab program, this all feels like a ticking clock, just biding time until his next relapse.” I raised a shoulder at Marcus’s answering frown. “It would be nice to feel differently, but I’ve been down this road too many times not to be pessimistic.”
“But this is the longest he’s been clean in a while, right?”
“He had a few months sober after our friend Eliazar died. But there’s also more at stake now, with his heart and the HIV.” We heard the rumbling sound of a truck pulling into the driveway. “That would be Deck,” I said.
“This is the guy who was Johnny’s friend when you all were kids? The one who’s been helping you at the Center?”
“Mm-hmm,” I replied absently.
Marcus’s gaze sharpened. I hurriedly opened the door.
This was the first time I’d seen Deck in anything other than the worn jeans and gray T-shirts he wore at the Center. His ribbed navy sweater fit his broad chest and lean torso like a glove, gold chains peeking out from the neckline. His dark jeans, a brown belt, and matching brown lace-up boots looked like they’d come straight off a store mannequin, and his haircut was fresh, glossy black curls falling roguishly across his forehead.
A subtle smile played across Marcus’s lips as he looked from Deck to me. I’d been drawn to Marcus in college because he exuded such a safe balance between being attractive and being approachable. He possessed a readable face that put people instantly at ease. The stark contrast between his openness and Deck’s enigmatic expression struck me.
“Thank you for inviting me,” Deck said formally. Holding up a bag, he added, “I brought roasted potatoes.”
“Mamá Decker’s recipe? With the peppers?” I asked hopefully.
He relaxed, grinning. “Yeah.”
