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“It’s not really a family reunion,” Constance points out. “Nobody is related.”
“Hey,” Kate and Milligan say as one, from opposite ends of the table. Constance shrugs at them.
“Come on, Constance,” Reynie says, “you should know by now family isn’t blood.”
Nicholas beams at Reynie. “Well said, Reynie, well said! But, Constance, I also see the point you are trying to make, and, anticipating this, we’ve decided to call it—”
Number Two and Rhonda unfurl the banner between them, BENEDICT EXTENDED FAMLY REUNION proudly stitched across it. The banner is…very long.
“I realized later that I perhaps should have stacked the words, rather than line them all up,” Number Two calls from the far end of the room, holding one corner of the banner.
Rhonda, at the opposite end of the room, shakes her head. “I like it,” she declares. “Much like family, bigger is better.”
“There’s no I in family,” Constance says. Nicholas looks down at her, surprised.
“That’s a very astute observation, Constance,” he says, and puts an arm around her shoulder. “For much like no person is an island, it is the togetherness—”
“Hey, she’s right,” Kate interrupts, peering at the banner. She points at the third word. “There’s no I.”
“What are you talking about?” Number Two hollers.
“A typo!” Rhonda shouts back.
“Hot dough?”
“Ah—” Nicholas holds up a hand imploringly, holding Rhonda off from bellowing back, “why don’t we just roll it back up?”
“This bodes well for the day,” Constance says drily.
“Oh, it will be splendid,” Nicholas says. “A chance to see everyone again, spend some quality time together—”
“Everybody lives here. We all see each other every day,” Constance says.
Nicholas’s shoulders slump a bit. He had wondered if perhaps it was a bit of a ridiculous idea…
Kate, seeing this, scoffs and says, “Come on, Constance, it’s an excuse to eat junk food and not do any schoolwork all day; why would you argue against that?”
Constance frowns at Kate and crosses her arms. “I suppose when you put it like that.”
“Put it like what?” Number Two asks, perspiring slightly from rolling up and heaving her half of the massive banner.
Nicholas claps his hands together. “Like it’s time to plan a family reunion!”
Nicholas presents the paper with a flourish. “The guest list,” he says, a tad dramatically. He casually keeps a finger placed just so on the page while he holds the paper up in front of the gathered group. “As you can see, it’s quite an extensive—”
“Whose name are you hiding?” Number Two interrupts.
“Hmm?” Damn her observational skills; here he’d thought he was doing a better job at playing casual.
Rhonda gasps. “You invited your brother, didn’t you?”
“No!” Nicholas cries, holding the paper against his chest. “I haven’t sent them out yet,” he mutters.
“I do not see the harm in it,” Milligan says, nodding at Nicholas when he looks his way.
“Uh—” Number Two begins.
“He’s done his time,” Rhonda says, giving Number Two a pointed look.
“Except for the community service,” Nicholas points out, in the interest of being fair. “But that’s okay because…well, in all honesty he wouldn’t show up anyway.” Nicholas shrugs and drops the list to the table for the three of them to peruse. He’s suddenly realizing that of course Nath— Curtain wouldn’t show up. It had been foolish to even entertain the thought. “I was being ridic—”
“Invite him,” Milligan says. “He may surprise you.”
“Respectfully pointing out that Ledroptha Curtain’s surprises usually result in enslavement or abject misery for all involved,” Number Two says with a raised hand. Nicholas winces.
“Oh, Number Two, I didn’t even think— of course, I shouldn’t risk his presence here, this is your home and after—” Nicholas falters, swallowing hard. His and Number Two’s capture and detainment at the hands of his brother last year had done nothing for her regard of him, and to think Nicholas had been prepared to welcome her tormentor into their home—
Number Two sighs. “Don’t beat yourself up over it, sir. I’m far from some wilting wallflower afraid of something I’ve already bested; or in this case, someone.” She gives him a determined nod. “If you want to invite him, you won’t hear anything from me on the matter, whether in support or against. That’s all I can offer, as I still find him to be a most deplorable man.”
Nicholas nods, fighting back an overwhelming wave of emotion. “That’s more than I should have asked for—”
“Oh, leave off,” Rhonda tells him. “You never ask for anything for yourself, like you think you shouldn’t want anything, eh? But you bend over backward to see our every need met.” She reaches forward and squeezes his hand, smiling at him. “Do something for yourself, Mr. Benedict. For once, be selfish.”
A great swell of love pulls Nicholas under, feeling very warm and content in his sudden sleep. When he wakes up that feeling continues as he sees the three people that he knows best gathered around him.
“I didn’t—”
“We know,” Number Two says. “It was barely long enough for Milligan to settle you in your chair before you woke up again.”
“It just— it means so much to me that you would entertain this silly notion—”
“Wanting to make a new connection with someone from your past is no ‘silly notion,’” Milligan interrupts gently. Nicholas can tell he’s thinking of Kate by the softening lines of his mouth, stern even when he’s relaxed, but at the thought of his daughter, the foundations for a kind, compassionate smile show themselves.
“You’re right,” Nicholas says. “Thank you, Milligan—all of you, really. And if that’s settled I—” he stops and groans, dropping his head into his hands.
“What is it?” Rhonda asks.
“How am I going to tell the children about this? They’ve been treated to his brand of ‘hospitality’ before.” Nicholas sighs. “Perhaps it is a bad idea after all, there’s no way they could feel safe with him here.”
“Why don’t you let them tell you for themselves?” Rhonda says. “You can’t just assume their reaction either way.”
Nicholas shakes his head grimly. “I can’t imagine what it might take for them to accept the idea.”
Reynie frowns up at Nicholas, who tries very hard to stop fidgeting with his bowtie under the boy’s gaze.
“Will he bring S.Q.?”
Nicholas gapes at Reynie, the question totally unexpected and taking him off guard. “I—well, yes, I would—that is, S.Q. would be invited, of course.”
Sticky shrugs. “Fine by me.”
“Yeah, I’m cool with it,” Kate says. “Besides, Madge will be on the roof; if he tries anything funny she’ll be on him like that chipmunk last week—”
Sticky shudders. “Please don’t talk about that. I fed that guy peanuts a couple days before she…well.”
“Don’t try to use me as an excuse not to invite him,” Constance says to Nicholas when she catches him looking at her. “I can melt his brain out his ears if he thinks he’s going to pull something.”
Nicholas blinks at the children, unconsciously sitting back in his chair with his feet planted in front of him, an ideal position to avoid toppling forward in case of a sudden nap. “How are all of you so open to the idea of him being here? Not that I want to imply I’m ungrateful or anything, it’s just…odd.”
Kate scoffs, giving him an are you serious? look. “Mr. Benedict, every adult in our lives is going to be here, and I mean, that includes Milligan! Dr. Curtain is one guy; he’s not going to try anything when he’s here. I mean, it’s not like he has a travel-sized brainsweeper, right?”
Everyone is very quiet because that sounds like exactly the kind of thing Curtain would have. Kate clears her throat.
“So, yeah; he’s not a threat, so I don’t see what the big deal is,” she says. “And it’s not like we have to talk to him.”
“No,” Nicholas agrees, “none of you have to interact with him. I just wanted to make sure you would still be comfortable even with him here.”
“Okay,” Reynie says, while Sticky nods and Constance rolls her eyes. “As long as S.Q. is invited, too.”
The four of them turn back to their board game, instantly picking up the argument over Constance cheating where they left off.
“They never stop surprising me,” Nicholas says to Number Two as she walks past him with a tray of sandwiches. She pauses, looking at the children squabble.
“I doubt either of us will live long enough to see the day they do.” She sets the tray down, swiftly replacing the cinnamon bun in Constance’s hand with half a sandwich while simultaneously filling four glasses from a pitcher of lemonade.
“Uh, Dad?”
Ledroptha Curtain smothers the exasperated sigh that threatens when he’s interrupted yet again this morning. “Yes, S.Q.”
“I think you got a letter.” S.Q. shuts the front door and brings Curtain a small square envelope.
“Well, if it has my name on it, then yes, I suppose I did, as that’s how the postal system works,” Curtain says, reluctantly shutting his notebook and holding an expectant hand out. S.Q.’s shoulders stiffen.
“Sorry,” he mutters, handing over the envelope.
“Don’t mumble,” Curtain says, when what he means is No, I am. Even now, with his son the one person to still stand beside him in this world, he’s cruel. It’s just so hard to break away from the familiar. He reads the front of the envelope and abruptly he whites out. He comes to with S.Q. kneeling in front of him, face pinched with worry.
“Dad? Are you okay?”
“Yes,” Curtain says through gritted teeth. He sits up from his slumped position in his desk chair. Had he actually fallen asleep? That hasn’t happened in…
“I couldn’t wake you up,” S.Q. says, still looking worried. “Should I call—”
“No!” Curtain snaps, then, seeing the look on his son’s face, forces a deep breath through his nose, exhaling slowly through his mouth. “Look at me.” S.Q. does. “I’m fine. I’m sorry if I scared you.”
Thinking about other people’s feelings, that’s still a new one for him. The therapist he’d had assigned to him in prison had focused on empathy. Even now it makes him uncomfortable; he tells himself it’s because emotions are best kept to one’s self, but it isn’t always enough to drown out the thought that it’s actually because he starts to feel guilty when he thinks of his past actions.
For S.Q., however, it’s worth it. It’s just hard to remember that when staring at an envelope openly mocking him.
“Who’s Nathaniel Benedict?” S.Q. asks quietly, still kneeling in front of his father.
Curtain shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter, he doesn’t exist anymore.”
“Dad.”
Curtain forces himself to meet S.Q.’s gaze, hating himself for finding it difficult.
“When I had a brother—” Curtain stops. He’s never felt so unsteady before. He looks down and opens the letter, managing a weak sneer at the contents.
“What is it?” S.Q. asks. Curtain pushes it into his hands.
“A joke.”
“A barbeque?” S.Q. says excitedly. “He invited us to a— I’ve never been to a barbeque before.”
“Well, continue with that perfect record, because we aren’t going,” Curtain snaps. S.Q. gives him a wounded look.
“Why not?”
Curtain sees red, a familiar rage flaring to life and he stands, forcing S.Q. to scramble backwards. “What do you mean, why not? He’s dedicated his life to ruining mine, standing in my way at every junction, meddling where he had no right—”
“Because you wanted to hurt people!”
The silence that follows is deafening. S.Q. stares at him, chest heaving, eyes wide.
“He was just trying to help,” S.Q. says in a shaky voice.
“Not me,” Curtain hisses. He advances on his son. “He always wanted to help everyone but me—"
S.Q. flinches and Curtain freezes. His right hand has curled into a fist, an unconscious action on his part, but S.Q. had noticed and he—
He flinched away. Like he actually expected to be hit. Curtain turns, trying to swallow down the rising nausea. He’s been on edge as of late, by which he means about the last twenty-five years or so, but to sink to this? He takes a deep breath, forcing his fingers straight, closing his eyes in an effort to remember what he’d been taught about breathing calmly, to give himself a chance to rein in his emotions. He’s never struck his son. He’s not about to start now.
His gaze falls on the letter and his lip curls. This is all your fault, he thinks viciously. This stupid, unassuming piece of paper that slipped through his mail slot and laid waste to his entire—
Curtain stops, taking a deep breath through his nose. He’s also been making an effort to tone down the dramatics, a nearly impossible task when what he considers dramatic differs greatly from the next person. He tends to use S.Q. as a midpoint.
“No, you know what?” Curtain says, turning to smile at his son. “It would be rude to ignore an invitation after one has been so thoughtfully extended.”
“You mean we’re going?” S.Q. asks.
“Oh, yes,” Curtain says, staring at the neatly inked letters on the envelope. “I think it’s high time we put the past to rest.”
He tosses the letter and envelope into the fireplace, watching as the corners curl inward before catching on fire. Nathaniel Benedict, C/O Ledroptha Curtain is eaten away in charred, flaming pieces.
“Um,” S.Q. says, watching them burn, “wasn’t the address on that?”
Curtain blinks at him, then looks back at the papers, now burned to a crisp.
“Hmm,” is all he says.
The house is quiet tonight.
Nicholas sits at the kitchen table, absently stirring his hot chocolate and filling out this morning’s crossword. As a narcoleptic, insomnia feels like a particularly pointed insult. An appropriate time for sleep? Stay awake instead!
The clock over the doorway happily ticks its way past midnight. Nicholas’s hot chocolate has been cold for some time, his pen hovering over 7 across. Its been as long as his hot chocolate has gone cold that he’s moved his pen, lost in thought. He startles when a shadow fills the doorway, broad and looming, then resolving into Milligan, still broad and looming but with good intentions.
“Ah, Milligan,” Nicholas says, smiling up at him. “What are you doing up so late?”
“Kate is sick,” Milligan says, crossing the kitchen to rummage in a drawer. “She needs aspirin.”
“Oh, is she— what’s wrong with her? Oh, not there, sorry, I moved them—” Nicholas gets to his feet to successfully retrieve the aspirin for Milligan. “Is it serious? Can I help with anything?”
“Just a fever,” Milligan says, nodding his thanks for the medicine, then pauses. “Perhaps some water.”
“I’ll get it,” Nicholas says, eager for any distraction for the loop his brain is stuck in. “What about a cloth for her head, help her cool down?”
“That…would be a good idea,” Milligan says slowly. Nicholas glances at him as he fills a glass; Milligan’s brow is furrowed, which for him speaks of great distress.
“Milligan?” Nicholas asks, setting the water on the counter and closing the fridge. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, I…physically, I am,” Milligan says, and looks at Nicholas. “Mentally I find myself in great turmoil.”
“Over what?”
Milligan looks down at the aspirin bottle in his hand. “All of the times she was sick and I wasn’t there for her—” he cuts himself off with a sigh. Nicholas’s heart aches.
“Oh, my friend,” he says, and rests a hand on Milligan’s shoulder, “I know you feel guilty. I wish I could take that away from you, because you have no reason to; that being said, I do understand.”
Milligan looks up and Nicholas gives him a small smile.
“It’s the things we cannot change that eat at us the most.”
Milligan’s gaze travels, and he nods at the abandoned drink and crossword on the table. “Is that why you’ve been sitting in here every night this week?”
Nicholas smiles. “Can’t hide anything from you, hmm? No,” he says as he turns away, “just haven’t been able to sleep.”
Milligan nods, watching Nicholas retreat to sit at the table. “Have you heard from your brother yet?”
“I—” Nicholas knows it’s no use to try to hide the truth from Milligan. He sighs. “No. But I didn’t expect to.”
“He may just show up without any warning,” Milligan says. “He’s…known for that.”
Nicholas chuckles mirthlessly. “Yes, well, that’s at his leisure.” He shakes his head. “No matter. I asked; that was all I wanted.” He’s never been able to lie well, not even to himself. “You’d better get back to Kate.”
Milligan studies him a moment longer before nodding. “Yes, I suppose I should.” He turns then pauses, looking back at Nicholas. “You always do the crossword in pen.”
Nicholas looks down at the grid before him, black and white with blue inked letters in his own hand scattered about. “Uh, yes, yes, I suppose I do?”
“Most people do it in pencil, so they can—” Milligan makes a back-and-forth motion with his hand—“erase their mistakes.”
“I’ve noticed, yes,” Nicholas says, unsure of where they’re going. Milligan nods again before picking up the glass of water and the cloth folded neatly next to it.
“Don’t doubt yourself where your brother is concerned, Mr. Benedict.”
“Pardon?”
“You use ink, because you’re sure of yourself, your words,” Milligan says. “I’ve never seen you make a mistake.”
Nicholas hums. “Yes, well, a crossword is a bit less risky. No decisions to be made that affect the quality of someone’s life.”
“I don’t just mean the crossword, sir,” Milligan says, then nods. “Goodnight.”
He takes his leave, leaving Nicholas alone at the kitchen table, thoughts no more settled than before, but perhaps a touch more positive.
The day of the party dawns bright and chilly, on the last Saturday of September. The children eat their breakfast separately, “to add to the whole reunion bit,” Kate had explained the night before, and the dining room is quiet with only Nicholas, Reynie and Mrs. Perumal eating.
“It’s going to be a beautiful day for this,” Mrs. Perumal says, smiling as she watches her daughter help Rhonda try to pull apart two stacked chairs. “The backyard looks so warm and inviting.”
“Oh, thank you,” Nicholas says, smiling as Reynie nods, mouth full of toast. “Yes, we had an early start and besides a few errant chairs, I believe it’s all set up.”
“I wonder if S.Q. has ever played with a pinata before,” Reynie says, watching through the window as Milligan hangs a colourful figure from a tree branch. Reynie squints. “Wait, is that a—”
“It was all they had,” Nicholas says. “It was an impulse buy.”
Reynie shrugs and goes back to his breakfast. “I know what Constance would say.”
Nicholas smiles. “What?”
“Candy is candy,” Constance says, arms crossed as she considers the pinata dangling over her head. “Though if it is filled with chocolate, this may give me pause.”
Kate snickers every time she looks at the pinata. Sticky has been eyeing it dubiously ever since everyone met in the yard moments ago.
“Why did it have to be a turd?” he asks, wrinkling his nose as he watches it sway in the breeze. “Why couldn’t it have just been nothing? I would rather have nothing.”
“Oh, come on,” Kate groans, pulling at her hat. “Is it really gonna have to be me to make a dingleberry joke?”
“What’s a—”
“Kate!”
They all turn at Milligan’s call, and then Kate gasps and tears off towards a man who can only be described as the love child of a mountain and an ox.
“Moocho!”
Handlebar mustache quivering, Moocho Brazos sets down the crates stacked on his left shoulder and the barrel under his right arm. “How wonderful to see you again, Kate.” She hugs him tightly then steps back, beaming at him and Milligan, who’s now working open the topmost crate.
“I didn’t know you were coming, Moocho! Madge sure will be glad to see you.” Indeed, at that moment there was a piercing cry, and suddenly Her Majesty was swooping down to Moocho, landing on his already-gloved arm.
“I learned from last time,” he says to Kate with a grin, feeding the falcon a strip of meat. She settles in on her perch, eyes closing as Moocho strokes her feathers. He smiles as the rest of the children approach, all looking hungrily at the crates.
“Is that what I think it is?” Reynie asks hopefully. Moocho laughs.
“If ‘crates of pie’ is what you think, then yes, Reynie, they are all exactly what you think they are.”
“But they’re for after lunch,” Mr. Benedict says, appearing suddenly behind them, making Sticky and Reynie jump. “Moocho, so lovely to have you here again. I hope your trip here was agreeable.”
Moocho grins. “What can I say, Mr. Benedict? It was easy as pie.”
1:30.
Nicholas checks his watch with a sigh, trying not to show it outwardly. Half an hour past the scheduled start time and still no sign of his brother. He knows it was foolish to even consider in the first place, because all inviting his brother had done was get his hopes up, and now they’re sinking back into the pit in his stomach, sour and resentful. Again? they seem to mutter amongst themselves.
He looks over when he hears Number Two; she’s trying to convince Constance to put down the entire apple pie she’s holding, face like thunder. Nicholas can agree; Moocho’s pies are delicious. He goes over to try to mediate, forcing a smile. He could use a distraction.
1:37.
“Are we gonna go in?”
“In a minute,” Curtain snaps. He’s furious with himself, for how quickly his heart pounds in his chest. His palms had attempted to get sweaty but he’d berated them viciously and they had thought better of it.
Why is he nervous? This is stupid. It’s unacceptable. It’s—
“It’s okay,” S.Q. says quietly. “I’m nervous, too.”
Curtain flushes and opens his mouth to snap back, to refute that vehemently, but finds he can’t.
“We’ll go in together,” S.Q. says, watching the house down the street. There are yellow and orange balloons tied to a post at the end of the driveway. “And if we don’t like it, we can leave.”
Jesus fu— is he actually trying to comfort him? His son, thinking his father in distress and offering a hand like he’s some helpless child?
“Get out of the car,” Curtain grits out, unbuckling his seatbelt and throwing his door open. “Let’s get this over with.”
S.Q. hurries along behind him, faltering when they come to the end of the driveway. This close they can hear voices emanating from the backyard, lots of them, and varied. Curtain can feel S.Q.’s gaze on him but he refuses to acknowledge it, too busy looking up at the grand house before them, stopping himself from wondering if it was Nicholas’s family home or one he had acquired on his own. It doesn’t matter.
S.Q. starts up the driveway and Curtain catches up, refusing to be seen as anything but certain and sure. There’s a sign staked in the grass, pointing them to a gate at the side of the house, and the source of all the noise.
Curtain leads the way, S.Q. close, and doesn’t blink when the animated chattering dies a sudden death.
“Mr. Benedict,” Curtain hears someone hiss.
“Hey, S.Q.!” Reynard Muldoon struts his traitorous way across the lawn, grinning widely at S.Q. His steps and grin falter as he draws near, under Curtain’s flat stare. “Um, how are you? I’m really glad you could come.”
S.Q.’s response is drowned out by the abrupt rush in Curtain’s head as Nicholas suddenly steps out of the crowd that’s begun to try to pretend to be engaged in conversation, either out of politeness or as a cover for eavesdropping.
Nicholas stops a few feet away, giving him a tremulous smile. Curtain has that same ridiculous notion that first plagued him two years ago, when he’d been face-to-face with Nicholas for the first time in thirty years: that if Nicholas were to call him Nathaniel, things could go back to how they were. He quashes it and gives Nicholas the barest hint of a nod.
“I’m so happy you came,” Nicholas says, his smile growing more relaxed as he looks at S.Q. “Hello, S.Q., it’s nice to see you again.”
S.Q. looks between his father and Nicholas, and, getting no cue from either party, manages a small smile back. “Thanks, Mr. Benedict.” Kate, Sticky and Constance approach, and S.Q. looks to Reynie who gives him a reassuring smile.
As the children begin to talk, Nicholas looks back at his brother, then for the first time fully sees what he’s holding.
“Did you bring dessert?”
Nathaniel sniffs and looks away. “Of course, I did. I’m not a monster.”
“You tried to take over everyone’s subconscious!” Kate blurts. He gives her a dismissive look.
“And yet, here you all stand, independently thinking and wasting your lives.”
Kate digs around in her bucket without looking away from him. She pulls on her glove, blows on her whistle, and holds out a strip of meat perfectly in time for Madge to rocket down from her perch on one of the house’s peaks and land on Kate’s gloved arm, eagerly snapping up the meat. She eyes him as she eats.
“If you try anything funny, we’ll take you out.”
Nathaniel sneers. “No thanks, I don’t like poultry.”
“Kate!” Reynie calls. “Come on, we’re going to play bocce.”
“I thought we were going to play lawn darts,” Kate protests, as Madge takes to the sky. “Guys, come on, I said I wouldn’t try to catch them again—"
Nicholas is left alone with his brother bearing a covered tray of trembling jello.
“Would you like to come sit down?” Awkward, why is this so awkward, they’re brothers for heaven’s sake! The jello tray is pushed into Nicholas’s arms.
“I wanted to let my son mingle with the herd today; he’s up-to-date on all of his shots, though I doubt yours are.” He turns. “I’ll be back at six.”
“Wait,” Nicholas calls, taking a hesitant step after him, nearly dropping the jello. He trips over his words, too many trying to come out all at once. “Just—will you stay? Please?”
Nathaniel stops. “Why should I?” he asks without turning around. Nicholas swallows hard.
“Because I don’t think you came all this way just to drop him off.” He takes a startled step forward when Nathaniel sways alarmingly, but stops when he settles.
He looks at Nicholas, and past him to the house, the yard, eyes flicking over everything and staying away from Nicholas’s own. “For an hour,” he decides, and walks past Nicholas, giving him a wide berth. “Just to make sure no one tries to bite my son.”
Nicholas deposits the tray on one of the tables and watches his brother casually stroll along the far side of the yard farthest from everyone else where the fence stretches out, bearing Number Two’s banner.
Nathaniel is staring at the banner as Nicholas approaches. “You spelled family wrong.”
Nicholas smiles. “Didn’t you know? There’s no I in family.”
“Yes, there is,” Nathaniel says. “F-a-m-i-l-y. Between the M and L.”
“No, it’s—well, I suppose it’s meant to be symbolic in a way—”
Nathaniel blinks. “A spelling error is meant to be meaningful?”
“Yes! Because, in this case, it eliminates the idea of an individual in a family unit,” Nicholas says. His brother stares at him.
“Isn’t that the plot of Human Centipede?”
Nicholas frowns, then it clicks, and he giggles and crumples, fast asleep for the next forty-one seconds. When he wakes up, he smells expensive cologne and feels the wicker of a chair underneath him. Nathaniel is standing a few feet away, back to Nicholas, who takes a moment to duck his head and inhale the unfamiliar scent now pressed into his collar. He looks up at Nathaniel, turned to watch him with an unreadable expression. Had he…caught Nicholas?
“If this is your family reunion, your parents must be here,” Nathaniel says, watching S.Q. roll a ball across the grass. Ah; so they won’t be mentioning it. Nicholas is unsurprised, and perhaps the tiniest bit grateful that some things remain the same.
Nicholas shakes his head. “They’re dead,” he says simply, neither expecting nor receiving any sympathy from his brother. Nathaniel stays silent, looking over the group congregated closer to the house.
“I can introduce you to some people,” Nicholas says tentatively, because he recognizes that look on his brother’s face from their childhood: longing. It’s much less blatant now; Nicholas doubts anyone in the world but him would be able to identify it. Nathaniel sniffs and looks away, ignoring the offer, sidestepping a rogue ball and Wetherall charging after it.
Nathaniel is looking up at the tree the pinata hangs from. “I take it you grew this from a dingleberry seed?”
Kate cackles loudly, then glares at Nathaniel.
“Aw,” she groans to herself as she stomps back to the group. “Why’d it have to be him?”
Nicholas can’t help but hover at the grill, to the exasperation of Number Two.
“Sir, you invited him so you could talk to him,” she says as she expertly oversees the hamburgers. “How will you do that if you avoid him?”
“I didn’t think he would actually show up!” Nicholas hisses. “I have no idea how to talk to him, not anymore! Do we just skip over the past few years of hostility and outright sabotage or should I lead with a ‘while you were in prison’ story?”
“You calm down,” Rhonda says, appearing from nowhere to direct Nicholas into a nearby chair. “And realize that you don’t have to repair your entire relationship in one go, eh?”
Nicholas sighs. “I know that, but what if is this my only chance? I have to make it count.”
“I won’t pretend to know him,” Number Two says, eyes narrowed at Nathaniel sitting stiffly at a table alone, “but the fact that he showed up tells me that he doesn’t think it’s a lost cause, either.” She shrugs and starts dropping thick slices of fresh cheese onto a few of the sizzling patties.
“All you can do is keep trying,” Rhonda tells Nicholas, giving his shoulders a squeeze. “But look after yourself too, hmm?”
Nicholas has just set the platter of hamburgers and hot dogs on one of the tables in the yard when he catches sight of his brother sitting with Mrs. Perumal, looking very stiff in his suit as he perches on a plastic chair. Nicholas casually works his way around the table in pretense of needing more napkins, and hovers near the end, ears straining to pick up the conversation.
“…a pair of tan gloves, now those I would keep, or maybe a crushed velvet coat; I’ve never been able to justify the cost of one before, but a blue beret—” she shakes her head, picking her way through a fruit salad. “Not everyone has the head for it, you know. My cousin’s sister’s husband has three children, and bless them but their ears get laid flat in any hat; soft cartilage, runs in the family, and then they have to spend a couple of days working their ears back to proper form. Maybe something that could be pinned to a shirt, that might make it more convenient for all of the many body types on this earth.”
“Yes, comfort was definitely high on my list of priorities at the time,” Nathaniel says dryly. Mrs. Perumal flicks a grape at him, thunking him between the eyes.
“No need to be glib, doctor,” she says, ignoring his surprised splutter. “Now, next time, I really think you should be more aware of the season’s fashions. I’ve always had an eye for that sort of thing so when you’re ready you give me a call.”
“Ah, Mrs. Perumal, Moocho’s barrel of lemonade has just been cracked open,” Nicholas says, not liking the narrow-eyed look his brother is directing her way. “Perhaps you’d care for a drink and maybe an immediate cessation of encouraging criminal activities?”
She finishes her salad and pulls a flask from under her chair. “You can just say you want to talk to him alone, I’m not offended.” She takes a swig from her flask, offers both brothers some then, once they’ve declined, stands and goes to sit with her daughter and Milligan.
“She’s a spitfire,” Nicholas says in the ensuing silence. He toys with the back of the chair in front of him. “You wouldn’t think it to look at her but—”
“Will you sit down already?” Nathaniel snaps. “You always hover—”
Nicholas drops in the chair as his brother falters. They tend not to dwell on the way they used to be, in their limited interactions over the last couple years; it’s a little hard to wander down memory lane in moments of volatile confrontation.
“Are you hungry? There’s plenty,” Nicholas says. Nathaniel is watching S.Q. sit with the rest of the children, grinning ear-to-ear as he takes a huge bite from a cheeseburger.
“No.”
“How have you been?” Nicholas tries next. Nathaniel glances at him.
“Living the dream,” he says. “Having every moment tracked and reported on has done wonders for my quality of life.”
“I saw the article about the community centre,” Nicholas says. “It looks like a wonderful facility.” He falters when his brother just gives him a blank look. “I knew you were helping with that; it looks nice,” he trails off.
Nathaniel scoffs. “That’s a nice way of saying the city wasted twenty-four million dollars.”
“Wasted?”
“They built it in the northern sector, which is the least accessible by public transit. It has two basketball courts, an outdoor pool, and is right next to the waterfront in a predominantly senior neighbourhood where the residents consider a walk around the block brisk exercise.” Nathaniel’s mouth snaps shut and he glares furiously at the yard. Nicholas blinks.
“I didn’t realize you felt so strongly about the suitability of the community centre.”
“I don’t,” Nathaniel says. “It amazes me, how spectacularly stupid the people are who run this town. They may as well have just shit in their hands and thrown it at the lot.”
Nicholas chuckles and faceplants onto the table, enjoying an involuntary nap. He wakes up to his nose smarting from its abrupt meeting with the tabletop and Nathaniel pointedly not looking at him.
“You’ve never gotten any better at controlling that,” Nathaniel says, studying the yard.
“No,” Nicholas agrees. “I’ve never found a way to.”
“You gave up too easily,” Nathaniel says, finally looking at Nicholas. “I did it.”
“Yes, well,” Nicholas says, “the only way I could control it is if I just didn’t let myself feel what it is that triggers it, and what is life without joy or humour?”
“So you would rather enjoy a joke than stop being instantly helpless?” Nathaniel asks incredulously. Nicholas frowns.
“I suppose its been a long time since I’ve thought of myself as helpless, even after an attack,” he says. He gestures to the people spread out in the yard. “Whenever I’m down for the count as it were, I have help, people to watch over me.” He smiles at Milligan, sitting with Kate; watches Number Two hissing a threat at the food on the grill while Rhonda walks past balancing an enormous tray loaded with hot corn-on-the-cob.
“Yes, your family,” Nathaniel says sarcastically. “And what an admirable bunch of misfits to entrust your life to.”
His words are less than charitable, but the look on Nathaniel’s face is at odds with them. He’s been watching S.Q., watching as his son is accepted easily among the others. When they were younger, it was the same: Nicholas had found it easy to make friends while Nathaniel was used to being on the outside. Nicholas was easygoing and agreeable; Nathaniel liked to be in charge. Nicholas hated confrontation and never picked fights; Nathaniel was brash and bullheaded, annoyed about being questioned.
I never wanted other friends, Nicholas wishes he could say. You were all I needed. He realizes with a jolt that he can say now what he never did when he was younger. He looks at his brother.
“They’re not a replacement for you,” he says. “No one could ever take your place.”
Nathaniel looks at him. “I know that,” he says, an edge to his voice.
“I never wanted to leave you behind, you know that, don’t you?” Nicholas asks. “I wish—”
“What?” Nathaniel asks impatiently. “What do you waste time wishing for? That you had never been adopted, maybe? Because that’s what I wish, that you could have been the one to be stuck in that orphanage, alone—” he cuts himself off, looking frustrated.
Nicholas shakes his head. “I wish we could have gone together, like we were meant to. I…I always wondered about you, after you ran away. When I couldn’t find you, no matter how hard I looked, I feared you were dead.”
“Well then, it’s a good thing you had your parents and your mansion to take some of the sting away,” Nathaniel says angrily. “Living like a prince, never having to lift a finger or wonder about where your next meal is coming from, what bridge you’ll sleep under that night.” He scoffs, watches as S.Q. lopes over to the pinata with the others, hefting a foam baseball bat.
Nicholas’s stomach flips at his brother’s words. “I didn’t know you—”
“No, you didn’t,” Nathaniel agrees. “You wouldn’t have cared even if you did.”
“How can you say that?” Nicholas demands, a bit too loudly judging by the looks cast their way. He tugs his chair in closer, knees nearly brushing Nathaniel’s under the table. “There wasn’t a single day went by that I wasn’t worried about you, having horrible thoughts about what you were going through. And now you’re telling me, what, you were homeless? How did you—”
“Not all of us need a silver spoon to thrive,” Nathaniel interrupts.
“No,” Nicholas agrees after a moment, trying to calm the tremble in his voice. “You did very well for yourself.” He jumps when Nathaniel slams a fist on the table.
“Don’t mock me!” he snarls. “Bad enough you taunt me with the past, but you have no right to judge the way I’ve lived my life to my liking.”
“I wasn’t,” Nicholas says, subtly waving Milligan and Moocho back from where they’ve begun to approach. “The few tidbits I’ve been able to find on my own have been impressive. The Hiroki Grant at age twenty-one?”
“So?” Nathaniel demands, hackles still raised.
“So, I applied for that myself,” Nicholas says. “I just think it’s funny that we both pursued somewhat related interests, however tangentially.”
“You never won it, though.”
Nicholas shakes his head. “No.”
Nathaniel sniffs. “Your reasoning was flawed. On your second application.”
Nicholas frowns. “No, it wasn’t! I spent four mon— wait, did you read it?”
“Yes. As a previous winner, I was allowed to read incoming applications for the following year. As I said, yours was subpar.”
“You said it was flawed,” Nicholas argues faintly, with a sinking feeling in his stomach. “You…you read it?”
“Are you deaf? Yes,” Nathaniel says impatiently.
“Then why didn’t you reach out?” Nicholas cries. “You-you had every opportunity to re-establish contact, my address was on it, I—”
“I wasn’t ready,” Nathaniel says. “I was still furious with you. Still am,” he adds.
Nicholas nods, trying to tamp down the hurt in his heart. “I understand. That’s why you being here today means so much—”
“I’m still not ready,” Nathaniel interrupts. He looks Nicholas in the eye, challenging. “I may never be, so why don’t you stop wasting your time and mine?”
“Any effort expended on you will never be a waste,” Nicholas replies, meeting his brother’s gaze, “even if it’s for nothing.”
Nathaniel looks away first, gritting his teeth, chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. His voice cracks when he speaks.
“Why do you care so much?”
“Because—” Nicholas is interrupted by a loud cry. He looks over and see the children crowding S.Q., then Nathaniel is on his feet and striding across the grass.
“Shepherd?”
Nicholas follows. S.Q.’s nose is streaming blood, Sticky looks guilty, and the candy from the pinata is strewn across the lawn.
“I’m so sorry, S.Q., it was an accident!” Sticky says.
“It was a pretty wicked swing,” Constance says through a mouthful of taffy. “I did not know you had it in you, George.”
Nathaniel has a hand on S.Q.’s shoulder and is glaring at Sticky.
“You clumsy idio—”
“Dad!” S.Q. says, napkins pressed to his nose. His voice is thick and nasally, eyes watering. “He didn’t do it on purpose.”
Nathaniel looks angry. “Thanks so much for the hospitality,” he spits at Nicholas. “We’ll be going now.”
“Oh, please, let us tend to him before you go,” Nicholas protests. “At least wait until the blood stops, we can get some ice—”
“No, thanks,” Nathaniel says, trying to steer S.Q. from the yard, but his son pulls away. “Shepherd!”
“I’d really appreciate the ice,” S.Q. says to Nicholas.
“Of course, dear boy, of course,” Nicholas says, and—ah, bless her, Number Two is striding over to them with an ice pack wrapped in a paisley cloth.
“And some aspirin, assuming you aren’t allergic,” she says, thrusting the bottle and ice pack at S.Q. She gestures to her own face. “For the swelling.”
“Come on, S.Q.,” Reynie says, “I’ll get you a drink and you can get cleaned up in my room.”
“S.Q.!” Nathaniel is staring at his son, an odd look on his face, one that Nicholas has a hard time guessing.
“I’ll be right back, Dad.”
Reynie leads S.Q. towards the house, Sticky trotting after them. Nathaniel watches him go, face set in a tight expression. All at once it comes to Nicholas in a flash, the one and only other time he’d seen that look on his brother’s face: the night Nicholas left the orphanage.
“You can go with him,” he tells Nathaniel softly. His brother’s gaze snaps to Nicholas.
“It’s just a bloody nose,” Nathaniel says. “He doesn’t need me to coddle him; he’s almost eighteen.”
Nicholas sighs to himself. “Suit yourself. The house is open to you if you change your mind.” He turns and makes his way to the house. It isn’t until he’s on the patio and nearly in the open back door that he hears footsteps behind him. He doesn’t turn around, instead going to the kitchen where Moocho stands icing an enormous cake.
“No, you cannot sneak a piece,” Moocho says without looking up, expertly decorating the cake with a montage of red buckets and grey radios.
Nicholas chuckles. “No, I know you’re unmoved by even the most tempting of bribes or desperate of pleas. It was Milligan’s birthday a few days ago, hence the cake,” Nicholas adds to Nathaniel, hovering in the doorway, wearing the polite expression of someone who finds their current surroundings abhorrent.
“It’s so homey,” Nathaniel says.
Nicholas rolls his eyes and takes a closer look at the decorations on the cake. “The piping on the radio speaker is so fine—”
Moocho shrugs as he steps back to examine his work. “I know he has a podcast, but how do I draw that? So, a radio.”
“Milligan has a podcast,” Nicholas explains to Nathaniel.
“I gathered.”
“He has a very soothing voice, doesn’t he, Moocho?”
“Sweet and terrible, like a madman’s lullaby,” Moocho says absently, demolishing and reforming a line of piping with one finger.
“It’s children’s stories,” Nicholas says. Nathaniel looks uninterested, his default setting, until there’s a thump from the floor above. Nicholas walks to the hallway and calls up. “Reynie?”
“Nothing! I mean—” a door upstairs shuts hard and Reynie appears at the banister, cheeks flushed. “Everything’s fine. I was just…showing S.Q. my bowling ball.”
“Your bowling ball?” Nicholas repeats. “I…see. Reynie, wait—”
Reynie pauses from pulling back. “Yes?”
“Is S.Q.—”
“Oh, he’s fine,” Reynie assures him. “His nose stopped bleeding anyway. And his foot will be okay.”
“What happened to his foot?” Nathaniel demands, joining Nicholas in the hallway.
“Nothing!” Reynie says. He’s looking between the brothers with wide eyes.
“All right,” Nicholas says, nudging Nathaniel when he starts to protest. “Moocho will be bringing the cake out—”
“Eight minutes for it to settle!” Moocho calls from the kitchen.
“Got it,” Reynie nods, and disappears, the door opening and a brief burst of hushed laughter escaping before it’s hurriedly closed again.
“They clearly dropped a bowling ball on him,” Nathaniel says to Nicholas.
“At least it was just his foot?”
“It was just…your dad and Mr. Benedict were both looking up at me like—” Reynie cocks his head to the side in the same manner as the twins. “It was sort of creepy.”
S.Q. grins. “You two ever see The Shining?”
“Once,” Sticky says. “But I don’t really remember it. What’s so funny?” he asks Reynie, who’s laughing.
“The twins,” he gasps to S.Q., still grinning.
“When I was younger I used to think how creepy it would be if there were two of him.”
Reynie stops laughing. “S.Q… that’s kind of sad.”
“What? Oh, no, I meant like in that situation, you know, the whole ‘haunted hotel’ thing,” S.Q. says. “But…he did used to do this thing sometimes where he’d talk to himself in the mirror.” He shrugs. “I don’t remember much, he hasn’t done it in a long time.”
“Like, pep talks?” Sticky asks, glancing at Reynie. S.Q. shakes his head.
“No, like arguments. And,” S.Q. hesitates, looking between the two of them before focusing on the woven rug at Reynie’s bedside, “he’d call himself Nicholas.”
“Did you know about—”
“Mr. Benedict?” S.Q. scoffs. “Uncle Nicholas? No. Not until, you know.”
Reynie nods. “Why don’t you call him uncle?”
S.Q. stares at him. “Why would I?”
“Because he’s your uncle,” Sticky says. S.Q. shakes his head.
“No, I mean, we don’t really have that kind of relationship. I’ve only talked to him like, five times.”
“I’m really glad you came today,” Reynie says, “and I know Mr. Benedict is, too. Maybe you could come over more often and, who knows? One day you could have that kind of relationship.”
S.Q. stares at Reynie. “I think its been eight minutes.”
Reynie nods. “You’re probably right. Come on.” He turns to leave then stops. “Do you think anyone will notice the hole?”
The three of them all look down at the deep indent in Reynie’s floor.
“Not if you cover it up,” Sticky says, “and next time, maybe take a few more juggling lessons from Kate before you try that.”
“At least I used my five-pound ball,” Reynie says, valiantly trying to find a brighter side. He looks at S.Q. guiltily. “Is your foot okay?”
“I told you, you missed me,” S.Q. says. “We better go, I don’t want to leave my dad alone for too long.”
“Its been ten minutes,” Sticky says, raising a brow. “That’s not very long.”
“No, I know, but I turn eighteen in a couple weeks and I think he’s afraid I’m going to move out, so he’s been kind of antsy every time I leave.”
“Are you?” Reynie asks.
S.Q. shakes his head. “At least, not right away. I know I’m going to be eighteen, but I don’t think I’m ready for it.”
“I get that,” Reynie says. “When I think about living on my own in five years, it seems impossible. Mostly because I don’t want to leave Amma or Pati, not that soon.”
They both look at Sticky, who shrugs.
“If I could move out tomorrow, I would.”
“So,” Nicholas says in the quiet of the hall, “S.Q. is soon to be eighteen, hmm? That’s a milestone year.”
“Yep,” Nathaniel says, and then the hall is quiet again.
“Gosh, I remember being eighteen, barely,” Nicholas says with a faint smile. “Freshman year at King’s University. I was terribly homesick, spent the first few weeks falling asleep left, right, and centre.” He glances at his brother, standing with his hands clasped behind his back as he takes in the portraits hung on the wall. “Was that the same for you, starting university at eighteen?”
“I was in my junior year,” Nathaniel replies.
“You—oh. So, you were—”
“I was sixteen when I started.”
“S-sixteen?” Nicholas repeats. “You must have been an exceptional student, to be admitted so young.”
“Education was the only way I was going to make anything of my life,” Nathaniel replies, still with his back turned. “I was tired of being treated second-rate, so I…” He trails off, as if realizing how much he’s sharing.
“So you?” Nicholas prompts gently. Nathaniel turns around.
“Why did you address the invitation the way you did?”
“The—oh,” Nicholas says, cheeks flushing. “Upon reflection, I realized I should have just used your name, I suppose I was feeling a bit—pedantic, or—”
“I know you still think of me as Nathaniel,” he says, facing Nicholas, who slumps.
“I’m sorry, I know you don’t want me to, I-I just—”
“You are the reason I live the way I do now,” Nathaniel says, taking a step closer. “You have done your level best to piss me off at every turn for the last three years; you try to turn my son against me, and all this after you left me to rot in the orphanage. I have loathed you for thirty years—” He stops, a mere step away from Nicholas, wild-eyed—“but I have always thought of you as my brother. Even when I changed—”
Long-ago reflexes kick in and Nicholas finds himself with an armful of Nathaniel, warm and firm, fast asleep.
“Oh, dear,” Nicholas whispers, heart twisting at the sight, even as he drops to his butt on the floor, so he only has the fall back to weather when he promptly falls asleep.
Number Two sighs as she swiftly kicks a well-timed pillow to slide under his head. Beside her, Rhonda raises a camera and snaps a photo of the piled twins.
“How good are you with photoshop?” she asks.
Number Two smiles.
Nicholas wakes up surrounded by small orange pylons. Moocho is sitting nearby, darning socks, and looks up when Nicholas stirs.
“Mr. Benedict,” he says, setting the socks aside, “perfect timing as always; the icing has set and we’re ready to serve.”
“Were the pylons your idea?” Nicholas asks, reaching up for the hand Moocho offers.
“Yes! I was wary of hallway traffic, and you resisted any attempts to rouse.” He pulls Nicholas to his feet with one hand, in the same matter-of-fact way Nicholas would lift a book from a table, and with as much effort. Moocho steadies him.
“I do hope I didn’t hold anybody up,” Nicholas says, instead of asking where Nathaniel went.
“Not at all!” Moocho says cheerfully. “Everybody is outside, playing with some interactive game of Number Two’s, I’m not sure.”
They go through the kitchen, Nicholas holding the door outside for Moocho to slide through with the cake.
“Hooligans! Miscreants! Come, for there is cake!” Moocho sets the cake down on a table on the lawn.
“Ballroom dancing,” Miss Perumal is saying from where she looks over Number Two’s shoulder.
“Oh, very classy, I like it,” Number Two says, playing with something on her tablet. She holds it up and Miss Perumal giggles.
“Oh, you’re so good at that!”
“Good at what?” Nicholas asks, glancing around. S.Q. is with Reynie, but where’s—
“Nothing,” Number Two says as quickly as Miss Perumal says, “Everything!”
The two exchange a glance.
“I mean, what isn’t she good at?” Miss Perumal chuckles.
“Don’t worry, sir,” Number Two says, turning to shepherd everyone over to the cake, “you’ll receive a copy.”
“Of what?” Nicholas asks, bewildered.
“Shh,” Number Two admonishes, “Milligan’s about to go.”
Milligan is looking at the cake, Kate and Moocho grinning on either side of him.
“My birthday was Tuesday,” he says.
“That’s why today is a surprise,” Kate says.
“And look—” Moocho points—“the radios. For your podcast.”
“And I’m the buckets!” Kate says brightly.
“It is a wonderful-looking cake,” Milligan says. “Thank you.”
Kate starts to sing, “Happy birth—” when Milligan gently but firmly places a hand over her mouth.
“No,” he says, and she winks and slobbers all over his palm.
“I’ll cut the cake!” Kate says. “I’ve been getting good at the slice’n’dice, just let me clean my knives—”
“I have brought the Brazos family cake knife, and only a Brazos may use it,” Moocho says, producing a beautiful silver blade set in a turquoise handle.
“Mr. Benedict?”
Nicholas turns to S.Q. His face is cleaned of bright red blood, but his nose is noticeably swollen. “Yes, S.Q?”
“Can I talk to you for a minute? Alone?”
“Of course,” Nicholas says. He follows S.Q. to the table at the end of the yard, after Moocho pushed two plates with cake and forks at him. He sits across from S.Q., sliding one of the plates over to him. “Is there something in particular you wanted to discuss?”
S.Q. clears his throat, glancing around as if to check for any eavesdroppers. “Yeah, um, don’t tell my dad I told you, okay?”
“Told me what?” Nicholas asks.
“He misses you, too,” S.Q. says quietly. “He hasn’t said it, but…” S.Q. shrugs, “I can tell.” S.Q. looks him in the eye. “Do you think you could invite him over again? Not right away, I get that, but maybe in a couple—”
“S.Q., if I could convince him to come over for dinner every Sunday, I would,” Nicholas says. “And that goes for you, too. You are welcome here anytime you wish, whether or not Reynie or any of the others are home. But I will not stop trying. And, not just for his sake.” Nicholas smiles at S.Q. “I want to get to know my nephew much better.”
S.Q. looks at him as if not believing what he heard. “Really?”
“Yes,” Nicholas says, trying to sound as convincing as he can, “I am very fond of you, S.Q., and l should very much like to spend more time with you. I know our interactions have been limited and often in rather stressful situations, but I do believe we have a lot in common.”
S.Q. looks like he may start crying at any moment. “Oh,” he says thickly, and quickly looks down and shoves a bite of cake in his mouth, trying to sniff quietly.
It was inevitable that Nicholas would love any child of his brother’s sight unseen, but in the years Nicholas has known S.Q., he’s repeatedly been knocked flat by the idea of being an uncle, of having someone else to call family, of meeting the little person who must bring his brother so much joy.
Nathaniel loves S.Q., cares for him deeply; Nicholas sees it in the same way he used to love Nicholas, when they were young: trying to make them better, trying to improve quirks and mold them, for their own good. So they’ll be picked, brought along, instead of left behind. Nathaniel always hated being left behind.
Nathaniel walks up to both Nicholas and S.Q. fighting off tears as they eat their cake. He sighs at them.
“Is it really that bad?” Nathaniel looks down at his own plate. “Perhaps I should leave this for the overgrown pigeon.”
“She’s a falcon,” Nicholas says.
“I meant Mrs. Perumal.”
S.Q. chokes, while Nicholas stares open-mouthed for five seconds before he giggles hysterically then faceplants in his cake. Nathaniel thumps S.Q. on the back, and he coughs up the piece of cake.
“Dad!” S.Q says, sounding scandalized. “I can’t believe you said that.”
“I can. It was funny,” Nathaniel says, then sits next to him. He watches Nicholas for a moment, then prods him with the end of a fork.
Nicholas sits up with a snort. “I’m back,” he says, staring blearily ahead. He blinks. “What—” He wipes a glob of icing from his eyebrow, then sticks his finger in his mouth. “Mmm.”
“Don’t eat things off of your face,” Nathaniel sighs, and for a moment it’s thirty years ago and Nathaniel is admonishing him at the rickety table in the orphanage. They look at each other across the table.
“Nathaniel—” Nicholas stops; no, he doesn’t know if he has that permission—
“What?” his brother asks.
Nicholas smiles. “Would you like to come over for dinner tomorrow night?” He nods at S.Q. “Both of you.”
“No.”
Nicholas’s hopes fizzle out. “Oh, of course—”
“Next week, though,” Nathaniel says. “Next week works.”
“Oh,” Nicholas says, and looks at S.Q., who’s grinning back. “Yes, yes it does.”
Nicholas takes another bite of cake, and he thinks it’s the best cake he’s ever tasted.