I shrug. “It is what it is.”
“I heard that.” He picks up his glass of tea and holds it out to me. I realize what he wants and grab my glass of water. “To a good year,” he says, gently clinking glasses with me.
“To a good year,” I echo.
“Cheers.”
“Cheers,” I reply.
His gaze locks on mine for a long moment. I don’t understand why the intensity I suddenly read there does…something to my insides.
Not in a bad way, either.
I’m straight or I’d label it attraction or desire, anything in that realm.
I sip my water and return my attention to the menu.
* * * *
When Carter finds out I can’t even scramble eggs—and that I survived my freshman year thanks to the meal plan paid for by my scholarship—he decides that’s where we’re going to start my culinary education.
“Most people can eat breakfast at any time of the day,” he says. “If you end up with hungover buddies, you’ll be their hero if you can scramble delicious eggs and make French toast.” He glances my way. “Or if you want to impress your girl when she sleeps over.”
I laugh at that. “You kind of need a girlfriend to make that happen. I haven’t had time for a social life, much less a love life. I can’t afford to let my grades slip.”
“Good. We’ll get along great, then.” He’s leading me through Publix, back to the dairy section to get eggs, milk, cheese. We buy sugar, cinnamon, vanilla extract. Then over to the bakery, to pick up a baguette.
“Is the kitchen equipped?” I ask. I haven’t even looked. Last year’s room was in this same building but on a different floor. We didn’t have a “kitchen,” just a communal fridge, sink, microwave, and two-burner induction cooktop tucked into a tight corner of the common room. I was too busy today futzing around organizing my crap to even look in the kitchen.
“No, but I have what we need. Large blue tote in my closet markedMess. I don’t mind if you borrow stuff from there as long as you make sure you wash and dry it immediately and put it back the way you found it when you’re finished. And don’t loan anything to anyone without asking me first.”
“Sure. Thank you.”
He nods, then pauses. “Youreallyate every meal like that last year?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“What if the dining halls were all closed?”
“I kept some granola bars and beef jerky in my room.”
He literally groans. “Dude. Youseriouslyneed to learn how to take care of yourself better than that.”
“All right,Dad,” I grumble.
When he laughs it sounds genuine, warm. Friendly. He hooks an arm around my neck and pulls me close, scrubbing his knuckles over my scalp. Not painfully, but playfully. Affectionately. He releases me before I barely register he did it. I’m six-four, and Carter’s got to be maybe only five-ten, but he feels…larger.
Not to mention I sense the restrained power in him.
For the first time in my life, I realize what it might feel like to have a big brother, although I never would have wished the emotional hell of my upbringing on anyone else, much less a sibling.
“Come on.” He turns the cart around.
“What?”
“We need more stuff. Basics. I’m going to teach you how to eat like a grown-up.” While his words chafe a little, again, he’s not wrong.
I tuck my hand-basket, which holds a few essentials like shampoo, into the cart. Carter is now grabbing more groceries, like oatmeal, dried fruit, all sorts of stuff I’m trying not to total up in my head.
