Bernard holds my brother's gaze. "No," he says. “Not really.”
Jason eats another meatball. I watch him chew, and I think about all the meals I've eaten in the background of Jason's life: in arena parking lots, at team dinners where nobody asked my opinion, at family tables where the conversation revolved around his stats. This meal is different. He's listening. And eating food named in my honor.
"I owe you an apology," Jason says, and he's looking at me. "Not just for yesterday. For … a lot of stuff."
"Jason—"
"Let me get this out." He sets down his fork. "I didn't know you were unhappy. Growing up, I mean. I didn't realize you felt like you were just … along for the ride. I thought we were having fun."
"You were having fun. You were the one playing."
He winces. "Yeah. I'm getting that now." He rubs the back of his neck, a gesture so similar to Bernard's that I almost laugh. "I should have been better. I should have noticed."
"You're noticing now. That counts."
He nods. Picks his fork back up. Sets it down again. "I want to do something. And I need you to not argue with me about it."
"That's a big ask, bruh.”
He grins and gestures at me with his fork. “There are units for sale in our building." He pauses to chew and swallow. "I want to buy you your own place. So you have a home that's actually yours."
I stare at him, not comprehending that he wants to buy me a condo. "Jason, that's?—"
"I said don't argue."
"It's too much."
"It's not enough." His voice is rough. “I’m a freaking millionaire, and you had to take out loans for college, and then I didn’t come through with my promise to help you land on your feet in a new city.” He pushes his plate around with one hand, fidgeting. "Let me do this, Ella. I've got more money than I know what to do with, and my sister has been living out of a suitcase in my roommate's bedroom. Please let me buy you an apartment."
I look at Bernard, who is studying his plate with great intensity, clearly determined not to influence this conversation.
"Okay," I say. "Thank you."
Jason exhales. "Good. Okay." He picks up his fork and points it at Bernard. "And you."
Bernard raises his head.
"What I said in the parking lot. About your dad." Jason's jaw tightens. "That was a low blow. You're nothing like him, and I know that. I was pissed, and I went for the worst thing I could think of, and it wasn't fair."
Bernard nods slowly. "I appreciate that."
"I'm not saying I'm cool with all of this yet." Jason waves his fork between us. "But I'm trying."
"That's all I'm asking," Bernard says.
I reach under the table and take Bernard's hand. He threads his fingers through mine. Jason sees, and his face cycles through about four expressions before landing on resigned acceptance.
"Of course you fell for him," Jason mutters, stabbing a meatball. “It had to be a hockey guy.”
"You have awesome taste in friends," I say. "That's really all this is."
Jason chews. Considers. "I can live with that."
The tension at our end of the table eases, and Bernard's thumb traces circles on my palm under the table. I press my knee harder against his thigh.
We eat. We talk. The weight of our secrets falls away, and I feel light.
After a while, I catch Bernard's eye and hold it, craving warmth that has nothing to do with meatball sauce.
