I end up grabbing half the stuff he won’t remember he needed until he opens the fridge later and acts surprised it exists.
Been doing some version of this for years now. Long enough that his habits sit in my head right beside my own.
I park outside his building, grab both bags from the back seat, and go up to his unit with the key I’ve had for a few years now. I used to just walk in whenever. Lately, I’ve been knocking first. Don’t know exactly when that started, but I know why.
Today, I skip it. Figure he’s either still crawling out of a seven-to-seven or halfway dead on the couch after one. Easier to dump the groceries and get out than stand in the hallway waiting for him to answer the damn door.
The lock clicks open. I push inside with my shoulder.
I hear some movement.
There’s a man in Lance’s kitchen.
Late thirties maybe. White dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up neat at the elbows. Dark blond hair, considerably neater than Lance’s would ever manage without serious effort and a mirror. One hand around a coffee mug, the other braced against the counter.
He’s got Lance’s eyes. That’s where the easy resemblance ends.
Lance’s face operates like a live feed and gives everything away in the first two seconds. This man’s eyes take everything in and return nothing until he’s decided what to do with it.
He’s got sharp jaw and good posture. He’s good-looking, and you’d notice him walking into a room. He looks like what Lance would’ve turned into if he’d gone to law school and learned how to iron his shirts.
Noticing my presence, he turns toward me and barely reacts.
“George,” he acknowledges emotionlessly.
“Marcus.” I set the grocery bags on the table. “Didn’t know you were in town.”
“There’s a three-day conference at the San Diego convention center. I’m giving a lecture on the second morning.” His expression doesn’t change a bit. “Lance forgot to mention I was coming, I assume.”
“He forgets what month it is after overnights.” I start unpacking groceries because I’m sure as hell not standing here empty-handed while Marcus Bradford stares me down. “He’s probably not clear on what day it is after a night shift.”
“Sounds like my brother,” Marcus says dryly.
He doesn’t offer to help. He just watches while I move through the kitchen.
Eggs in the fridge. Yogurt on the second shelf. Oranges in the fruit drawer. I open the drawer automatically. Bottom left. Same place it’s always been.
Marcus notices that too.
“You have a key,” he says.
“Yeah.”
“That’s convenient.”
“He locks himself out at least twice a year.” I shut the fridge with my hip. “And I grab groceries sometimes. Easier than coordinating schedules.”
“He has you grocery shopping for him.”
His tone is neutral. Too neutral.
“I offered,” I respond. “Otherwise he gets home from shift work and eats crackers for dinner.”
That almost gets a smile out of him. Almost.
“That reminds me how he’s never great at feeding himself,” Marcus says. “Back in Seattle, he’d disappear for sixteen hours at a time and survive entirely on cold brew and whatever overpriced salad his friends dragged him out for.”
Marcus studies me over the rim of his mug. “Different world around him now, though.”
