Yeah. Needless to say, I haven’t told Val that part.
There’s alotI haven’t told him. It’s probably why there’s still this wall up between us, even after reconnecting over a year ago, and why I unintentionally always seem to say the wrong thing to him.
“Val.”
He glares at me across the table. “What.”
“I’m sorry. Truly. I wasn’t trying to imply that Roman isn’t important to you.”
He looks away. “I know you don’t like it, though. Us, I mean.”
“Jesus, Val.” I frown. “I couldn’t give less of a fuck who you love, guy or girl.”
He rolls his eyes. “I don’t mean you’re homophobic, dickhead. We both know you're not. I mean you disapprove because of Roman’s last name.”
I very purposefully keep my mouth shut.
“See?”
“What?” I finally growl. “Want me to lie? You’re right. I don’t like that you’re quiteliterallyin bed with the bratva.”
“Says the man who leads a fucking global criminal empire!” he tosses back.
I want to flip the table and scream that I dideverythingI could to keep him away from that life. That I never wanted him to end up anywhere near the life our parents lived, or I later chose.
But if I do that, I lose him. And as much as we sometimes drive each other nuts, he’s still my kid brother.
I hold up my hands. “Okay, truce. Please.”
“Fine,” Val grunts. Then he flashes me a small smile. “But only because you showed tonight. Seriously, thank you. I know you still have your differences?—”
“Let’s just drop it, okay?”
Like I said, I liked Morgan Bancroft much better when I thought he’d ODed on heroin with our mom twelve years ago.
Then, four months ago, he came back from the dead.
It turns out that while our momhadODed, Morgan managed to get a shot of Naloxone into him before the drugs could finish him off.
Since he assumed that Val and I had both died after running away years before, he left McKeesport and spent the next twelve years finding himself in Alaska.
Himself and,allegedly, sobriety.
That is, until he saw Val’s name and photo in aNew York Magazinearticle about masculinity and the arts, and reached out.
My brother thinks it’s nothing short of a fucking Hallmark movie miracle.
I vehemently disagree.
“He’s fuckinglate,” I growl, glaring at my watch.
Val sighs. “It’s fine.”
“You only get the table for ninety minutes,” I say flatly. “This place has two Michelin stars, Val.”
He shoots me a look. “Didn’t you tell me youownthe joint?”
“Part owner,” I mutter. “But it’s the principle of the thing. You’d think after being a top five contender for world’s shittiest father, he'd make the effort toshow the fuck upon time.”
