The whole world except me.
Can I hold your head?
A low sound escapes me.
Sol’s eyes flare with concern. “All right?”
“Yeah, I’m just thinking about shit I shouldn’t be thinking about.”
“Like what?”
“Like, how obsessed I am with blowjobs when I can’t remember being that bothered about them before.”
“Maybe you weren’t,” Sol says, before pursing his lips together, as if his words are careless and he regrets them.
I lean in, my mouth so close to his I’d kiss him if I trusted myself to stop. “You think I didn’t like blowjobs?”
Sol takes a breath and exhales slowly through his nose.
I rub his bottom lip with my thumb. “Tell me.”
“What makes you think I know?”
“If anyone does, it’s you.”
“Why?”
“Because I didn’t need to crack my skull to trust you. You’re my best friend.”
Sol’s gaze is unreadable, and trying is a bridge too far when I really do need a fucking nap.
Have I upset him?
I search my scrambled thoughts, trying to recall what nonsense I’ve said in the last ten minutes, and all I land on is the economical truth I’ve given him, when maybe he needs more from me.
I told him I’m obsessed with blowjobs.
I haven’t told him that obsession is all abouthim.
“We never talked about any blowjobs you were getting from whoever,” Sol says eventually. “You never seemed to enjoy random hookups, but you didn’t have the time or headspace for much else and I think that bothered you.”
It tallies with what I know of my brother’s love life over the past decade. What little I remember about the men I served with who didn’t marry young and have a bunch of kids they never saw. But as hard as I try to make it make sense, as ever, a lifetime feels missing from the process. Did I like going down on women as much as I love blowing Sol? Did we talk about that instead of blowjobs?
The half-formed thought catches, and I put the cracked wheels in motion to ask him, but he speaks first, saying my name with a heaviness that alarms me. Like he’s carrying something sharp and he’s scared to drop it.
“Jack—”
Movement breaks the moment. Beyond my open bedroom door, Skylar crosses the flat with purpose, his footsteps carrying the weight of grim focus.
He reaches the hallway.
Keys.
Shoes.
I hear the creak of the bench as he sits to lace them and my heart feels cracked down the middle. Torn between the promise I made Mal, and the man who deserves so much more than the swift exit I need to make to catch Skylar before he leaves. The man already rising from the bed to help me up. Because he knows I’m tired enough that I might stumble and lurch if I move too fast on my own.
Sol finds my feet before I do.