Luke smiles, but his eyes go soft. He traces the rim of hissoda cup.
“Must be nice,” he says quietly. “Having a brother to chase you around the house.”
The mood shifts.
“You’ve never talked about your dad,” I say gently. “I know about Mama Ortiz. But Mr. Silva is… absent from the record.”
Luke shrugs. It’s a tight, practiced movement.
“He’s not dead,” Luke says. “He’s just… gone. He was a lot like Alistair, actually. Loud. Charismatic. He loved to gamble. But Alistair has a trust fund. My dad just had the rent money.”
Luke looks out the window at the empty Queens street.
“He’d bet on anything. When I was ten, he bet his paycheck on a Knicks game. They lost. He didn't come home that night. Or the next. My mom waited up for a week.”
“Luke, I’m sorry.”
“It clarified things,” Luke says firmly. “I realized chaos isn't funny when you can’t afford it. Someone had to be the grown-up. So I became the man of the house. I help pay the bills, got a part time job, tried to pay my way as best I could. I made sure my sister did her homework.”
He looks at me.
“That’s why I get so annoyed with you sometimes. When you treat the hospital like a playground. It reminds me of him. The flashy gestures.”
I put my pizza down. My appetite is suddenly gone.
“I get that,” I say softly. “And I know I’m… a lot. I’m the garnish, Luke. Max is the steak. I’m just the parsley. Decorative, but unnecessary.”
Luke reaches across the table. He grabs my hand. His fingers are warm and calloused.
“Hey. Don't do that. You think parsley could have taken down Harrison Vane tonight?”
I blink. “No.”
“Exactly. You didn't just annoy a billionaire, Preston. Youprotectedme. You saw a bully, and you didn't back down. My dad ran away from problems. You? You rantowardthe fire.”
He squeezes my hand.
“You’re not the Spare, Preston. Not to me.”
I swallow hard. I feel a burning sensation behind my eyes. I willnotcry in a pizza place.
“God,” I choke out. “You’re ruining my brand. I’m supposed to be the shallow one.”
“Too late,” Luke says softly. “I see you.”
He stands up, grabbing the velvet jacket.
“Come on,” he says. “Let’s go home.”
Luke lives in a fourth-floor walk-up. I have climbed these stairs twelve times in the last month, and I am convinced the building grows an extra floor every time I visit.
“My glutes are going to be tighter than my mother’s facelift,” I complain as we hit the third landing. “I need oxygen. I need a Sherpa.”
“You need to do more cardio,” Luke says, unlocking his door. “You’re winded and you’re twenty-three. It’s tragic.”
He pushes the door open.
We step inside. The apartment is small, warm, and familiar. It smells like the cedar-wood candle I bought him and the lingering scent of the pepperoni we just consumed.
