Max and Miles are out front, sudsing up the side of my car. They’re not wearing shirts.
“How long have you been watching them?” I ask.
“Umm, the whole time.” Ana says this as though it should be obvious.
“They came to the door and asked if it was okay if they used the hose,” Marissa explains.
“I mean, we can’tnotwatch.” Ana’s eyes are already aimed back out front. “Half the neighborhood is probably watching.”
Ana’s not wrong. The scene is quite compelling, and I get caught up for a moment watching their back muscles shift with every movement. The sun highlights the golden strands in their brown hair, and there are spots of soap bubbles on their bodies that my hands ache to wipe away.
I go back to my room to get dressed, then I head outside. As soon as one of them sees me, he gestures for his brother to look my way.
At first, I have trouble telling them apart, because both of their faces are as lean as Miles’s was when I last saw them. As I get closer, I can somehow tell who is who from something in their expressions, even before I find the birthmark on Max’s neck.
“Callie,” Miles says.
“Hi, Callie.” There’s a hint of Max’s usual grin, but it's nowhere near its usual radiance.
“What are you doing?” I’m not accusatory, just curious.
Max shrugs. “Just trying to be helpful.”
“I didn’t even think my car was dirty.”
He cocks his head, looking surprised. “Really? It looked like you got involved in a battle with a flock of birds who had it out for you.”
“It was not that bad!”
“Okay, but there were a few spots on the hood. Maybe it was just one angry bird who’d had a lot to eat.”
“Now you’re just being gross.”
“Itwasgross.” Max shudders playfully. “But no need to worry. It’s all been cleaned off.”
Miles, who’s been watching the conversation with his usual bemusement, shakes his head as he turns on the hose to spray off the car.
“We’re almost done,” Max says. “Are you going somewhere?”
“No. I just came out to tell you that you don’t need to do this. You can stop the deliveries, too.”
Max watches his brother rinse the car, and waits until the hose is off to ask, “Why?”
I shrug, trying not to notice the droplets of water—or sweat? or both?—that glisten on their chests. I remember what it felt liketo run my hands over them, around their smooth, firm shoulders and down their arms. “You’ve done enough,” I say.
“We’re not trying to meet a quota,” Max says.
I don’t know what to say to that, so I just shrug again.
Miles has hardly said anything, but his eyes have been fixed on me. “Do you have dinner plans?” he asks suddenly, catching me off guard.
“No … um, no, I don’t have plans.”
“Let us take you out to dinner. Please.” The intensity in his expression has me pinned in place. It makes it impossible for me to say no.
“Okay … I guess.”
“Great. We’ll pick you up at seven?”
