I get it, though. What sixteen-year-old kid wants his older brother micromanaging his social life?
Still, watching him spend hours alone in this penthouse, controller in hand, makes the knife of my guilt twist that much deeper.
He should be out there living. Dating. Getting into the kind of harmless trouble that teenagers are supposed to get into.
Instead, he’s here.
Because ofme.
“Can’t a man just check in on his little brother?” I cross my arms and give him my best unimpressed stare.
Sage, unfortunately, has been on the receiving end of this look since he was in diapers. He’s immune.
“What do you want, Bastian?” He pauses his game and swivels his wheelchair to face me fully. “And don’t say ‘nothing,’ because you wouldn’t come home in the middle of the day unless someone died or the restaurants are on fire. All of them.”
“Neither of those things happened.”
“Then what?”
I should’ve known better than to think I could just show up without an interrogation. Sage might be sixteen, but he’s got the instincts of a goddamn detective.
“I thought I’d take you to lunch before PT,” I say. “Somewhere good. Your choice.”
His eyes narrow. “You’re acting weird.”
“I’m being nice.”
“Exactly. That’s fuckin’ weird.”
“Once again, watch your fucking language. And why can’t I do nice things for my brother?”
Sage studies me for another long moment. I can see the gears turning in his head. He’s weighing whether to push harder or let it go.
Finally, he shrugs. “Fine. Whatever. Let it be noted for the record that I still think you’re being weird. But the sandwich I made sucked anyway.” He wheels toward the door, grabbing his jacket from the hook on his way there. “But if we’re doing this, I want Taqueria El Fuego.”
I groan. “Absolutely not.”
“You said my choice.”
“I meant somewheregood.”
“Itisgood. Best al pastor in the city.”
“It’s a food truck that parks next to a gas station behind a junkyard. The meat sits out in the sun. I’m pretty sure I’ve seen rats.”
“One rat.One. And he was very polite about it.”
“Sage—”
“You offered, Basti. ‘My choice.’ Those were your words. And I choose El Fuego.” He’s already rolling toward the elevator. That smug little grin on his face means he knows he’s won.
Fuck it. Fine. Seeing him smile is worth anything.
Even taco rats.
“That place really is terrible.”
“You mispronounced ‘fucking delicious,’” Sage corrects.
