“Would you get a studio?” I finally asked.
“That’s probably safest. Less rent to worry about.”
Another huge bite of lamb, and I matched him with a forkful of salad.
“Have you looked anywhere yet?”
“Yeah.”
Something a lot like jealousy lanced through me, even though it had no place. Lincoln saw the writing on the wall, and he was trying to prepare and protect himself for what we both knew the eventual outcome would be. He didn’t know about my hesitation because I hadn’t told him. Not because I’d planned to keep it from him, but because everything still felt so fast and new when I thought about it.
“Do you think it’s too soon for me to move in?” I asked.
“Do you love him?”
“Yes.”
“Does he treat you well?”
I thought of the bruises all over my ass and my legs. Thehickey on my hip. The rules and the expectations. The correction and the reward.
“Of course.”
Lincoln threw me a sideways glance. “And you treat him well?”
Laughing nervously, I moved some lettuce around the takeout container. “Don’t I?”
Lincoln shrugged, unbothered. “It’s not all about you. You have to give him the things he needs in return, right?”
“Of course,” I said, scrubbing a hand down my face. “I’m supposed to meet his brothers on Friday.”
“That sounds serious.”
“What if they don’t like me?”
“Then I imagine I won’t need that studio apartment after all,” he answered, taking the last bite of his lamb before sliding the container toward the middle of the table. My expression must have blanched because Lincoln was quick to smile and smooth back my still-damp hair. “I’m kidding. I’m kidding. Marshall doesn’t seem like the type to let other people sway his decisions.”
“He loves his brothers more than anything.”
“More than you?”
“Different from me. Obviously.”
“He’s a good man, Silas. And so are you.” Lincoln plucked a pickled turnip from my salad and chomped down on it. “Everything is going to work out the way it’s meant to.”
No matter how good the shawarma was, I wasn’t very hungry anymore. I managed to get through half of the salad before giving up and stacking my Styrofoam package on top of Lincoln’s.
“Do you have to get home?” I asked.
He stretched, his slender body taking up all the space the table allowed. “I don’t have to do anything. When is Marshall home?”
“No idea. He’s out with Smith.”
Lincoln’s eyes turned into hearts, and he crawled onto his knees, leaning toward me as I gathered up all our trash and leftovers from the table. I carried everything into the kitchen, rolling my eyes when Lincoln turned toward me, his entire expression one of mischief.
“Smith is cute. Is he gay?”
“I don’t know what Smith is,” I said.
