“Brant and I have been friends since we were kids, Sy.”
He shakes his head as he tosses the pile of artichokes into the first pot of boiling water. “Brantley’s been using you for a long time.”
“Using me?”
Silas nods. “He tags you and your dads on his social media posts more than he does the official Texas account. When Maya got that fellowship, he started tagging her in everything too.”
“Why didn’t you ever say anything?”
Silas blinks, his eyes finally meeting mine. “I thought you knew. I figured you were using his connections too.”
I stare out over the city, surprised he thinks of me this way.
“He’s my friend.” I scrunch my nose. Silas would never lie to me, nor would he pass along gossip. If he thinks Brant’s a bad guy, he’s almost certainly right. “Wasmy friend, apparently.”
Silas has nothing to add, so he goes quiet again. It reminds me that Silas doesn’t struggle to communicate. He just doesn’t fuck with chit-chat. And while I assumed he came up here to help me with the prep, maybe he also wanted to make sure I’m okay.
This also isn’t the first time he’s pointed out a blind spot.
I check the chicken breasts as I ponder his words. It occurs to me that Sy’s bringing me the information on Brantley in the same way cats bring their humans a dead mouse. Because cats aren’t convinced humans can fend for themselves.
“I guess I seem pretty ridiculous to you.”
Sy shakes his head as he pulls a few more ingredients from the wagon. “You’re just naïve. And the only thing ridiculous about being naïve is choosing to stay that way.”
I give the chicken breasts a few more minutes while the artichokes finish boiling. Sy mixes the lemon-garlic aioli.
“Guess I’ve got a long way to go to not be naïve.”
“Yeah.”
Fucking Sy.
He sets the bowl of aioli in the fridge and shuts the door. “Mind if I ask you a question?”
He appears to be talking to the refrigerator, but I know he’s not. He’s never been great at eye contact and avoids it like the plague when he’s in unfamiliar waters, mostly because he’snot sure if it’s something a “normal” person would already know.
I happen to think normal is overrated and have always—hopefully—made him feel comfortable coming to me with these types of questions.
“Of course,” I say as the concert drummer slams out a familiar rhythm.
“Did it hurt your feelings when Oakley said he gave Valentine a hand job at Mardi Gras?”
I shake my head as I place the cutting boards in the sink and start scrubbing them with hot, soapy water.
“It doesn’t hurt my feelings because it happened a long time ago, and Oakley didn’t know I was interested.” I rinse off the boards and dry them, appreciating the cool breeze accompanying the darker skies. “Was it my favorite new fact? Not particularly, no.”
“If Valentine asked, would you still want to be with him, even after what he and Oak did?”
I wipe down the knives, considering where his question is coming from.
“What he and Oak did wouldn’t be part of my calculation.”
“Why not?”
Still facing away from him, I slip my knives back into their case, then pour the fresh tortellini into the second pot of boiling water.
“People are allowed to have a sexual history, Sy. And besides, it was just a hand job.”
