thing.
I beat Malachi downstairs, which gave me a minute to wander into that hot, spicy-smelling kitchen and see Michael happily tossing greens in a big wooden bowl. Baby spinach and mandarin oranges, as I’d suspected. He wore a black shirt and black jeans, a silver bolo at his neck, and his pointy black cowboy boots. The blond hair gleamed in a thick mane down his neck, completely unaffected by his illness.
It pierced me to see him looking so normal. He gave me a big grin over his shoulder and held out a cup of the rich, almost thick coffee he made for barbeque sauce. “I heard you moving around.”
I took the cup and drank a grateful sip. “I smelled it. And the wings. How long till dinner is ready?”
“About a half hour, I guess.” Whistling, he turned around to toss the salad some more, and he suddenly seemed so dear, so perfect, so himself, that I set aside the coffee cup and put my arms around his waist, my head against his back. His ribs and shoulder blades were sharply defined, belying the happy good humor of the moment, and the recognition of the fact that I would lose him drove itself home once again, deep and hard and unbearable. I gritted my teeth against revealing it to Michael, but he felt it, and he put his hands over mine, gently lifting one to his mouth.
“Thanks for getting Malachi here,” he said.
“Sure.” I just leaned into him, smelling his particular scent—a hint of grass and spices—for a long time. Against my cheek and my hands, wherever we touched, there was a tingling sensation, not at all sexual. Maybe it was just healing, just love—a strength transfer. He put my hand on his faintly stubbled cheek and pressed it there for a minute, and I let him go.
In the big window by the breakfast bar was a shelf for Saint Anthony. I gave his head a pat as I sat down, remembering when Sylvia would turn his face toward the wall when she was mad at him.
I sipped my coffee. “You never told me your brother was a sex god.”
Michael grinned. “Runs in the family.”
“What does?” Malachi himself appeared in the doorway, much cleaner than last time I’d seen him, dressed in jeans and a turquoise T-shirt printed with a parrot and some Spanish slogan. No shoes. I didn’t look at his feet, naked and white against the worn linoleum of my aunt’s floor, but this time, I couldn’t help but notice his waist. Impossibly narrow beneath those shoulders. And the kind of radiating presence that slams you if you’re within twenty yards. Maybe twenty miles.
Trust Michael to get that mischief in his bright blue eyes. “Being a sex god,” he said.
Malachi looked at me, slightly sleepy, his hair just a little untidy. “Yeah?”
Sex sex sex sex sex. It came off him in waves, reminding me how long it had been since I’d let myself indulge. Such promise in that little quirk of a smile, the edges of his eyes crinkling in a solid fan of sun lines. “Trouble with sex gods,” I said, “is that they’re so damned predictable.”
He laughed. “Too true.” He came in the kitchen, Berlin—traitorous creature—trailing behind, and took the other stool at the breakfast bar.
His eyes said that he didn’t care if my body was a decrepit forty and he was used to twenty-four. They slid with that cheerful familiarity over my neck, my hair, my arms, liking what they saw. He even—shameless creature—touched his lower lip with his tongue, showing it to me like the manifestation of original sin. He saved himself—just—by winking.
I laughed. Overt I could handle. “I should have known he’d have a brother like you.”
Michael laughed, too.
“Where is Shane?” I asked, having finally gathered enough brain cells to notice his absence.
“Your sister Jasmine came by and wanted him to baby-sit so she and Jane could go do something for the wedding,” Michael said. “They should be back any minute.”
Jane, my youngest sister, who was fourteen years younger than Jasmine, which meant sixteen
I beat Malachi downstairs, which gave me a minute to wander into that hot, spicy-smelling kitchen and see Michael happily tossing greens in a big wooden bowl. Baby spinach and mandarin oranges, as I’d suspected. He wore a black shirt and black jeans, a silver bolo at his neck, and his pointy black cowboy boots. The blond hair gleamed in a thick mane down his neck, completely unaffected by his illness.
It pierced me to see him looking so normal. He gave me a big grin over his shoulder and held out a cup of the rich, almost thick coffee he made for barbeque sauce. “I heard you moving around.”
I took the cup and drank a grateful sip. “I smelled it. And the wings. How long till dinner is ready?”
“About a half hour, I guess.” Whistling, he turned around to toss the salad some more, and he suddenly seemed so dear, so perfect, so himself, that I set aside the coffee cup and put my arms around his waist, my head against his back. His ribs and shoulder blades were sharply defined, belying the happy good humor of the moment, and the recognition of the fact that I would lose him drove itself home once again, deep and hard and unbearable. I gritted my teeth against revealing it to Michael, but he felt it, and he put his hands over mine, gently lifting one to his mouth.
“Thanks for getting Malachi here,” he said.
“Sure.” I just leaned into him, smelling his particular scent—a hint of grass and spices—for a long time. Against my cheek and my hands, wherever we touched, there was a tingling sensation, not at all sexual. Maybe it was just healing, just love—a strength transfer. He put my hand on his faintly stubbled cheek and pressed it there for a minute, and I let him go.
In the big window by the breakfast bar was a shelf for Saint Anthony. I gave his head a pat as I sat down, remembering when Sylvia would turn his face toward the wall when she was mad at him.
I sipped my coffee. “You never told me your brother was a sex god.”
Michael grinned. “Runs in the family.”
“What does?” Malachi himself appeared in the doorway, much cleaner than last time I’d seen him, dressed in jeans and a turquoise T-shirt printed with a parrot and some Spanish slogan. No shoes. I didn’t look at his feet, naked and white against the worn linoleum of my aunt’s floor, but this time, I couldn’t help but notice his waist. Impossibly narrow beneath those shoulders. And the kind of radiating presence that slams you if you’re within twenty yards. Maybe twenty miles.
Trust Michael to get that mischief in his bright blue eyes. “Being a sex god,” he said.
Malachi looked at me, slightly sleepy, his hair just a little untidy. “Yeah?”
Sex sex sex sex sex. It came off him in waves, reminding me how long it had been since I’d let myself indulge. Such promise in that little quirk of a smile, the edges of his eyes crinkling in a solid fan of sun lines. “Trouble with sex gods,” I said, “is that they’re so damned predictable.”
He laughed. “Too true.” He came in the kitchen, Berlin—traitorous creature—trailing behind, and took the other stool at the breakfast bar.
His eyes said that he didn’t care if my body was a decrepit forty and he was used to twenty-four. They slid with that cheerful familiarity over my neck, my hair, my arms, liking what they saw. He even—shameless creature—touched his lower lip with his tongue, showing it to me like the manifestation of original sin. He saved himself—just—by winking.
I laughed. Overt I could handle. “I should have known he’d have a brother like you.”
Michael laughed, too.
“Where is Shane?” I asked, having finally gathered enough brain cells to notice his absence.
“Your sister Jasmine came by and wanted him to baby-sit so she and Jane could go do something for the wedding,” Michael said. “They should be back any minute.”
Jane, my youngest sister, who was fourteen years younger than Jasmine, which meant sixteen
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