I look down at my celery, trying to ignore how captivating I find this newly revealed side of him.
“Almost ready,” Noah announces, pulling something from the oven. “Pierce, grab those wine glasses, please? Thatcher, stop stealing tastes when you think we’re not looking. Lior, baby…you can just sit there looking like my next meal. Lift up your shirt a little?” He looks at Lior, who, to my surprise, does as he’s told before snaking his hand behind Noah’s neck and pulling him in for a quick kiss.
I try not to look at them, or examine too hard why, instead of feeling bothered by the open display of affection, like I used to, something else has replaced it.
Lior catches my eye as we begin clearing the table for dinner, his expression soft with understanding. “It’s nice,” he says quietly enough that only I can hear, pulling at the sleeve of my sweater, “seeing you like this.”
Before I can ask what he means, Thatcher appears between us with a platter of something that smells divine. “Less talking, more moving,” he directs, all authority and domestic grace. “This masterpiece deserves proper presentation.”
I follow his command without question, and as I watch him arrange dishes with artistic precision, his sweaterslipping off one shoulder and his hair curling wildly from the steamy kitchen, I find I don’t really mind at all.
The aroma of garlic and herbs fills the air as we settle around the table and take turns filling our plates. I take a bite of the perfectly cooked pasta. “This is incredible,” I say, looking at Lior. “What’s the occasion for this special dinner?”
All I’d gotten from him yesterday was a short message telling me to be at his place for dinner today. No other details. For a moment, I’d wondered if my brother had gotten to him, but it seems I was wrong.
Lior shares a smile with Noah before answering. “No occasion. Just a casual dinner with friends.” He takes a sip of wine before continuing, “And while I try to keep work separate from home, I have to say I’m pleased with how well Thatcher is settling in at VSE. It feels worth celebrating.”
Thatcher ducks his head at the praise, but I catch the happy smile that crosses his face.
As we tuck into our meal, I turn to Thatcher. “Tell me more about your drawings.”
“I’ve been drawing since I could hold a crayon,” he says. “Mom used to say I saw stories everywhere, in everything. I guess I just got bored easily and started doodling on every piece of paper I could get hold of. It started with shopping receipts as I waited for her to get gas after we went grocery shopping. I always carried a pen or pencil with me, and at some point, I got better and drew things I saw, like the way people looked at each other, or when I saw a fun pattern on the road after a rain shower.”
The way he talks about art transforms him. His hands move as he speaks, and I find myself leaning forward, wine glass forgotten, drawn in by the light in his eyes.
“Tell him about the book concept,” Lior prompts.
“It’s still in development,” Thatcher hedges, but hisfingers drum an excited pattern on the table. “But basically, it’s about this very serious business fish who runs the reef like a corporation. He’s all about proper procedures and protocols until this chaotic little seahorse comes along and teaches him that sometimes the best systems aren’t systems at all.”
The parallel isn’t subtle, but his slight blush and the way he won’t quite meet my eyes send warmth unfurling through my chest.
“How does the fish learn?” I ask.
Thatcher’s whole face lights up at my question. “Through small things at first. The seahorse leaves little presents that make him smile, organizes his coral desk in ways that shouldn’t work but do. And gradually, he realizes that all his rules were really just a way to keep the world at fin’s length.”
“Fin’s length?” I repeat, unable to hold back my smile.
“Well, he is a fish,” Thatcher points out seriously, but his eyes dance with mischief. “I can show you some of the sketches sometime. If you want…”
“I’d like that,” I say softly, and the smile he gives me in return makes the lights in the room seem dim in comparison.
Lior and Noah exchange glances that I pretend not to notice, so I stand and announce that I’ll do the dishes since I didn’t cook.
“No way,” Lior says. “You two go out to the patio while we clean up and bring out dessert.”
I can tell there’s no point arguing with Lior, so I grab my wine glass and do as I’m told. The warm night air wraps around us with a comfortable breeze. Thatcher leans against the railing.
“So,” he says softly, breaking the silence that’s settled between us. “You know something about me. Can I find out something about you?”
“What do you want to know?”
“Tell me about your brother.”
“We have a complicated relationship,” I start, falling back on my usual defense, but Thatcher’s raised eyebrow makes me reconsider.
“Everything’s complicated if you look at it closely enough,” he says, turning to face me. His sweater catches on the railing, sliding farther off his shoulder and exposing creamy pale skin, making it increasingly difficult to focus on the conversation. “But sometimes complicated just means we’re afraid to make it simple.”
I move to stand beside him, careful to leave appropriate space between us, despite every instinct urging me closer. “My parents adopted me as a baby,” I explain, the words feeling strange after years of rarely saying them aloud. “They’d been trying for children for years and thought they couldn’t conceive. Then James came along naturally when I was three, and suddenly, everything became a competition.”
