“I don’t hate you.” His tone is less mean. I lean into him, put my head on his shoulder, believing him. He tilts his head against mine. It’s quiet. Just the sound of the shower and Paco snoring in the pit of my brother’s dirty shorts.
“And Sofia doesn’t hate you,” he adds, like he’s trying to believe it himself. “She just needs space.”
Space.
I hate space. Space sucks. Space is where friendship and relationships go to die. He knows that. I know that. Paco knows that.
“So, what do we do?” I mutter, scratching my chest.
Mas lifts his head from mine. I straighten up. Roll my shoulders back. My post come bliss is gone as fuck. And the source of it wants fucking space.
“We give her room to think. We stop ambushing her emotionally and sexually. We stop overwhelming her with us, with everything we want.”
“You mean I stop being me?” I mumble, scratching at the plaster even though I know I can’t get to the itch underneath. My stomach hurts. My chest feels weird. I don’t like any of this. “Is this how you felt with Cecilia? All hot and weird. Worried and wanting to say just fuck it. Let her go. We were fine without her. But then that sucks and makes it hurt right in here.”
I stab my chest, rub the area that feels not right.
“I don’t want it to hurt in here, Mas. I don’t want to be like you. Crying over a girl who doesn’t want me. Is this how it felt? Make it go away, bro.”
I look at him. Like staring into a mirror, except the tats that he got for himself.
“I wish I could, brother. I wish I could.”
That makes it all worse. Mas is the fixer. The one who fixes stuff so I don’t have to. I depend on him for everything. Everyone knows that. It’s just how it’s always been. He was born first. Technically, I’m the baby, and babies are always taken care of. But if he doesn’t know what to do. How to fix this, then we’re both fucked.
A scary thought pops into my brain. I’m thinking way too fucking much, and I hate it. I want to go back to the clear emptiness that my head held. But I have to ask Mas because it makes my heart beat faster and faster.
“What if she only wants you?” I squeak, voice cracking upward like a thirteen-year-old.
My body gets way hotter. For a minute, I’d blame the sex, but that high is long gone. This is more like panic or fear. Like when the Sox have bases loaded, and the batters keep striking out. When I’m yelling at the screen, ‘two out rally,’ and they still fuck it up.
Before he can answer, or maybe lie to me, the bathroom door opens. Steam spills out. My angel, wrapped in a towel, hair dripping in dark curls over her shoulders. She looks softer and more beautiful. Not harsh with her curls scraped up into that work bun. Her DSLs aren’t glossy, and it makes me want to bite that pillowy softness.
Her eyes widen a fraction when she sees us. Two giant idiots sitting on the edge of the bed waiting for a woman we both like and one of us loves.
“Oh,” she jumps back, surprised. “You’re both right there. Were you waiting on me?”
“No!”
“Yes.”
The word seeps out of my brother’s mouth like a damn confession. He was never really good at lying. Older brothers usually aren’t. They are too busy covering up for the shit we baby brothers do.
Massimo stands but doesn’t get any closer. He scoops some shirt off the floor and throws it over my cock. As if embarrassed. Which he shouldn’t be. It was buried in her not ten minutes ago.
“Sofia—”
“I’m going home.”
The words hit harder than the punch my brother tried to throw. My throat clogs. My ears ring. My cast suddenly feels like it outweighs me, dragging me to the floor.
“H-home?” I stutter, trying to hobble upright while keeping my dick covered for whatever weird reason Mas has going through his head. “Home as in. Like, your home? Not . . . not our . . . not here home?”
“Yes. Home.”
She moves toward the dresser, still wrapped in the towel. Her voice is calm and distant in a way that makes my ribs ache. This is not her. She is loud, bossy, and feisty. My fiery Latina. Not practical and quiet. This is so wrong.
“Where did you put my bag and clothes, Massimo?”
