“Are you considering it?”
I take another piece of his bacon, faster this time, and he laughs when I get away with it. “It’s my dad’s shop. I’m not selling itto some corporate group that’s going to gut it and turn it into another chain location.”
Lance nods like he expected that answer. He knows me too well. “By the way, Marcus is coming to visit.”
“Who?”
“My brother,” Lance says, like I need the reminder. I’ve never really warmed up to him, and the feeling’s mutual. “He mentioned coming down in a few weeks.”
“Still in Seattle?”
“Yep, still a lawyer, still living the life our parents expected for us both.” There’s no bitterness in his voice, just a mix of resignation and affection. “I saw Dad on the news last week about a senate hearing. Marcus texted me to ask if I’d watched it.”
“Did you?”
“I saw it, but didn’t really listen in.” He takes a bite of toast, chews and swallows. “I don’t follow that world anymore. Marcus does enough for both of us.”
I know enough about Lance’s family to understand the shape of it.
High-profile lawyer parents who expected both sons to follow the same path. An older brother who did and a younger one who didn’t. Marcus ended up in the middle, smoothing things over, carrying expectations that were never really his but somehow always landed on him anyway.
Lance used to orbit their mother’s world. Grew up in her office, listening to legal talk he was too young for, absorbing it anyway until it sounded normal. I can picture Eleanor noticing early, the way he picked things up fast, the way he was meant to become something she could point to and say, “That’s mine.”
Then he left Seattle.
They don’t talk much about it. He doesn’t bring it up, not directly. But every now and then, it slips through anyway.
Lance’s expression softens. “He’d like you, if you ever got to know my brother properly.”
“We’ve met.”
“Once, at my nursing school graduation, for maybe ten minutes.”
Lance goes back to his eggs and talks about being short-staffed at the hospital again, picking up overtime shifts he doesn’t want but can’t get out of because someone has to cover.
I tell him about the ’69 Mustang restoration I’ve been working on, the one that’s been dragging on because the previous owner did some fucked up things to the engine. He listens while he eats, asks the right questions, grunts at the right moments. It’s easy. It always is with him.
Then his phone lights up on the table between us.
I see it first from where I’m sitting. Dark blue compass icon, one I recognize but haven’t used before. The preview reads “You have a new match!” Below it, a message from someone named Elliot.
My grip tightens on the fork. I force it loose.
Lance looks up. “You okay?”
I don’t look at him right away, nodding once, keeping my face even. “Yeah. You’ve got messages.”
He reaches for the phone and sees the screen.
Nothing happens for a second. No joke or comment. He goes pale before setting the phone back face-down on the table, as if it might bite him.
“Oh. Yeah. That.”
I stand up. The chair scrapes louder than it should, and I take my plate to the sink. I turn the water on.
“So, you’re on a gay dating app,” I say, keeping my tone level, but a low, uneasy churn starts in my stomach as soon as the words are out. Then I make it worse. “Anyone interesting yet?”
“I was going to delete it,” he says quickly. “I mean, I am. Just downloaded it last night.”
