I don’t answer immediately.
“That’s not a criticism,” he adds evenly. “I think this version of his life suits him better than the one he had up here.”
That should probably make me feel better. Instead, it plants this sharp, little ugly thought in my head.
Standing in Lance’s kitchen with his older brother looking like he belongs in rooms where every watch costs more than my truck, I can suddenly picture the version of Lance I never really met.
Seattle Lance. Rich-kid parties in high-rise apartments. Friends with trust funds and polished shoes. People who never smelled like motor oil a day in their lives.
Lance never acted above anybody. He fit into my world so easily I stopped thinking about the fact he came from a completely different one.
I unpack the second bag while Marcus just leans against the counter like he’s got nowhere else to be.
“You’ve known each other a long time,” he says.
“Yeah.” I shove the crackers into the pantry. “Met him when he was basically a kid.”
“I know. He’s mentioned you.” Marcus pauses, then adds meaningfully, “A lot,” before taking a slow sip of his coffee.
“You too,” I say, because how do I tell him Lance rarely talks about family? I put a box of crackers in the pantry and don’t say anything else.
Great. Good talk.
Everything I know about Marcus Bradford was whatever Lance told me. That means I got the version Lance wants me to know, not necessarily the one Marcus would’ve chosen for himself.
He’s older by nearly a decade. By the time Lance was still trying to make sense of who he was, Marcus had already moved through the life their family had mapped out for him. Georgetown. Stanford Law. Junior partner now at one of those Seattle firms that handle cases that end up on the news. Close enough to their father’s orbit that the distinction probably only matters to the people billing hours.
I remember the way Lance talked about it.
There’s no resentment—just a clear understanding of what Marcus represented in that family.
Marcus is proof the path worked.
Lance is proof it wasn’t the only one.
Standing here in Lance’s kitchen with his older brother watching me across the counter, I get the feeling he’s spent years carrying both of those truths without dropping either one. He looks like a man who has his shit together, not because everything’s easy, but because he’s decided how to handle it either way.
The front door opens.
Lance drifts in wearing beat-up scrubs, bag slung over one shoulder. He’s staring down at his phone and makes it three steps into the apartment before he finally looks up and sees us both standing in his kitchen.
The color drains from his face.
“Oh, shit.” He looks between us, then at me specifically. “I forgot to mention my brother was coming.”
“It’s fine,” I say.
“I would have said something, I just—”
“Lance.” I cut him off, giving him a tight little smile. He stops. “It’s fine.”
He drags a hand through his hair, exhaustion finally catching up to him now that he’s standing still. He then looks at Marcus and fondness settles on his face.
“You sleep okay?” he asks him. “You should’ve taken the bed.”
“Adequately,” Marcus answers, and there’s perceptible warmth in his voice now. “You look exhausted.”
“If I stop looking exhausted, check my pulse.” Lance drops his bag by the chair and finally notices the groceries. He opens the fridge and looks at me.
