Cameron
The first thingJoey thought when she saw me with my sister was that I was seeing someone else. Fuck. How can I make it any more obvious that I’m into her?
I was just as shocked to see her at the education center, though without the dread she probably felt when she saw me with Claire. After Joey left my apartment this morning, I made plans to meet up with my sister. Luckily, she wasn’t working at the hospital today—a rarity—and fit me in.
The two of us are close. When kids experience tragedy together at a young age, it either bonds or breaks them. Fortunately for us, it tied us together. It could also be attributed to how I took on the caregiver role when our mom was hospitalized.
I’ve never resented being forced to care for her back then. I take pride in being her big brother, and I’m proud of her for pursuing medicine. Though she’s never spoken it aloud, I’ve always assumed her choice has to do with Chloe’s death.
The only point of contention that has come between us was when my parents withheld my inheritance because I didn’t take over the family business. We never argued about it, but for awhile, this unspoken tension lingered between us. Our parents have never held Claire to the standard at which they hold me. She was never expected to be involved, yet she’ll still receive her inheritance.
Regardless, we moved on from the awkwardness quickly. She played no part in the decisions our parents made, so I had no right to hold any of it against her.
Once Claire and Joey get to know each other, they’re going to be thick as thieves. I was tempted to tell her about our plans tonight to get a second opinion, but if I told her I planned to take Joey to Under the Summer Stars,the temporary outdoor theater overlooking the Hudson River near the George Washington Bridge, she would follow us like a puppy seeking adoption.
When I found outThe Parent Trapwas playing tonight, I instantly purchased tickets and made sure to reserve two inflatable chairs. My favorite deli is on the way, so I figure we can grab food to-go.
I planned to pick Joey up tonight and assumed she’d meet me outside her building. At every turn, I have to be patient and give her time to warm up, so I was under no misconception that I’d see the inside of her apartment. Now, I’m sitting on her sofa-slash-bed, and it’s taking every ounce of my willpower not to pull her onto my lap and confiscate another pair of panties.
“Should I change?”
Her question pulls me out of my fantasy. Tilting my head, I give her a once-over. As much as I love the way that dress puts her perky tits on display, she’ll probably get chilly.
“Yeah. The forecast says it’s going to get down into the low sixties tonight.”
“Oh, will we be outside?” she asks, thumbing through the clothes in her laundry basket.
She retrieves a long red dress adorned with tiny white flowers from the pile and excuses herself. When she returns, she’s addeda white T-shirt that saysKind people are my kinda peoplein red letters. The shirt is cinched in a knot at her navel. She’s still wearing her white Chucks, and she has a denim jacket draped over her forearm.
“You look beautiful.” I stand and follow her to the door.
She rummages through the purse hanging on a hook in the entryway until she pulls out a bottle of pink gloss and a black scrunchy, then she steps in front of the small mirror mounted on the wall.
“Wait.” I pull her close. She smells like she did in Greece: citrus shampoo, mixed with her light floral perfume. “Before you put that on,” I capture her chin with my thumb and forefinger and tilt her face so she’s looking at me, “can I kiss you?”
“What? Pink not your color?” she teases, tugging on my bottom lip.
I nip at her thumb, and even though we’re alone in the apartment, I whisper, “Oh, sweetheart, pink is my favorite color. But the only place I want to be marked with it is my cock, when your lips are wrapped around it.” It’s not a joke.
Biting her bottom lip, she pops up on her toes and presses her plush lips to mine. I barely have time to drink in the sweetness of her kiss before it turns feral, like heat on metal, soldering us together. I open my mouth in invitation, and she gladly accepts. Damn, I’ll never tire of this. But her stomach grumbles, and my innate need to take care of people assumes control.
When I step back, she stumbles forward, and a whine escapes her lips, all pink and swollen from my kisses. See? She doesn’t need lipstick after all.
“Hungry?” I ask.
The way her eyes blaze tells me she knows I’m not talking about food.
Once outside, we cross the street and walk the couple of blocks to Bubbe’s Nosh Pit, my favorite delicatessen. The aromaof the place--the combination of chicken broth, potato, and onion--reminds me of Ezra’s mother’s house.
“Joey, my love!” Mark calls from behind the counter as the bell chimes over our heads, and an instant later, he follows it with “Cam? My man!”
She turns around, just as astonished as me. “You know Mark?” we say in unison.
Mark, the owner of the deli, is a middle-aged man with a round belly. Though he’s bald, his arms are covered in a thick layer of dark hair, and the glasses he wears are constantly slipping down his nose.
Before we make it to the counter, he’s holding a black-and-white cookie wrapped in a napkin over the counter to Joey.
Beneath a clear encasement lies a display of traditionally Jewish foods—potato pancakes, potato salad, lox, bagels, several flavors of cream cheese, chopped liver, matzo ball soup, pickles, and so much more.
