At least he was mostly just old, and nothungoverand old.
Jem rolled out of bed just after River brought in breakfast, either roused by the door buzzer or through some very convenient internal clock. Unlike River, he wasn’t moving like he could hear his own joints squeak when they bent, though his eyes were sleep-hazy and his hair looked like it had lost a fight with an electrical socket.
“Hmm. Morning,” he said, and slid onto a kitchen stool.
River kissed his cheek and set a mug and plate in front of him. “Morning. No swim today?”
Jem squinted at the clock. His glasses, which he only wore at home, were smudged to hell. “No time.”
It was ten thirty. They’d managed about six hours of sleep. “Oh yeah?” He filled the mugs, rummaged in a drawer for some decent forks. “Big plans?”
Jem rooted around in the paper bag and made a happy noise when he encountered the box of hash browns. “Notbig.” He stuck a fork through two patties and passed River the carton.
River went right in with his fingers, like the heathen he was.
“Just… lunch.”
From the way he was filling up his plate, he wasn’t going to have much appetite later. “You need to save some room?”
Jem snorted. “Rather be able to make a quick escape.”
“Sounds ominous.” River glanced at him between piling bacon and sausage on his plate. “You need backup?”
Finally Jem looked up long enough to flash him a smile. “No. But I promise I’ll call if it starts looking rough.”
Whatever this meeting was, he didn’t seem to want to talk about it, and at the moment, River didn’t have the energy to drag it out of him. Besides, he had pancakes to eat. “Deal.”
They finished breakfast together and put the dishes in the dishwasher, and then Jem smacked a syrup-sticky kiss on River’s cheek and went to shower off the remainders of last night.
Jem parkedthe Subaru in a garage a few blocks down from the bistro and made himself take a few deep breaths before he reached for the door handle. It was just Andrew. Jem had known him his entire life.
Well. Maybe he hadn’t really known him these past ten years or so. But that didn’t count since it had definitely been on purpose.
He knew he had to get out of the car or he’d chicken out entirely, so he pocketed his phone, ran a hand through his hair, and started walking.
Fuck, he should’ve brought River with him for moral support. Or Tori; Tori gave the cold shoulder like a goddamn Yeti. Even Ivy would’ve been kind of fun. She was mean when she wanted to be, and no one could say shit to a woman who was going to pop like a balloon any minute.
But in the end, this was Jem’s family shit, and he didn’t think going into it with backup would set the right tone. Now if he got there and dear old Dad was waiting too—
The worrying took him all the way to the patio at the bistro, where a host took his name and informed him the rest of his party had not yet arrived. She showed him to a table near the corner, which part of Jem noted was convenient. If Andrew pissed him off, he could just hop the little fence and escape. Easy peasy.
To kill time, he pulled out his phone. TikTok was always a good distraction, and he’d brought his earbuds. But he didn’t even get that far; sometime between the walk from the car and sitting down at the table, he’d missed a text from Tori.
Don’t look now but you’re famous!She’d sent him a screenshot from some celebrity gossip website with a photo that showed Jem in the box with Beca and Amy. Somehow they’d taken it when the words on his shirt were visible.
The headline readFlat Tires Guitarist Makes It T-Shirt Official. Not the most inspired, Jem thought. But they had identified him by name this time—he didn’t know if Amanda had released that information or if someone had recognized him from the school or what. Not that it mattered.
Jesus, he hoped Andrew didn’t read celebrity gossip blogs. Monday at work was going to be interesting enough. He wouldn’t put it past Janice the admin to print out this dumb article and post it in the teachers’ lounge. She loved giving him crap.
He flipped back to the text thread.At least they got my good side.
And then a shadow fell over the table, and Jem put his phone down and looked up.
Jem expected a suit or some egregious business casual fit, something their father would’ve worn. Instead Andrew wore jeans and a plain white V-neck, the only flourish on the outfit the fancy orthopedic sneakers. Though Jem figured his forearm crutches probably cost more.
He looked—older, but not as much older as Jem worried he might. No premature wrinkles or gray hair, but no more puppy fat either. He hadn’t shaved that morning. The last time Jem had seen him, Andrew couldn’t grow a beard on a Chia Pet.
Shit. Should Jem stand up? Should he get Andrew’s chair?
