“Come on,” I say, as we both reach into the fridge and begin rearranging.
Seth pulls out a small plastic container of something and regards it suspiciously, then tosses it into the sink.
“Not bluffing,” he says.
I say nothing.
“How’s Thalia doing?” he asks, ten percent louder than before.
“Don’t.”
“How’s Thalia doing?”
Twenty percent. I close my eyes and tell myself that he’ll knock it off before someone else actually gets interested.
“HOW’S —”
I punch him in the arm, and he breaks off, grinning.
“Ow,” he says.
“She’s fine,” I mutter. “Doing well.”
“How are her grades?”
“Seth.”
“She still getting a D?”
I don’t answer, even though I already know that it won’t work. For all my cleverness and book smarts, I’ve never figured out how to make any of my brothers knock it off when they’re being obnoxious.
“That stands for dick, specifically yours,” he explains.
I keep rearranging the fridge and do not, repeat, do not make eye contact.
“And asking if someone is getting the D is a colloquialism for —”
“We’re not talking about this,” I say.
“Q.E.D., we are, actually.”
I take a deep breath, stand up straight, push one hand through my hair and gather my thoughts. Generally, I’m a fairly calm, unflappable person.
Siblings, though.
“Things are really good, and they’re not supposed to be,” I say, keeping my voice low. “Because she’s my student, and there aren’t supposed to be things at all, which means that no matter how good they are, I don’t want to talk about them because every person who knows is one more who might let something slip, and that could be disastrous.”
Seth’s quiet a moment, his eyes searching my face, his dark hair slightly mussed like always. I think, for a flash, of how much he looks like our dad, even though his hair was always neat and never out of place. A far as I recall, at least.
“But things are really good?” he says, softly. “Despite the fucked-up nature of your relationship?”
I don’t take that last part personally, because I know exactly what he means.
“They are,” I tell him. “I’ve never met anyone like Thalia before. I really like her, and I really want it to work, I just wish…”
“Right,” Seth says, nodding as he pushes a container into the fridge, then frowns. “Is this gonna keep the door from closing?”
“Dunno, try it,” I say, and move the chair holding the fridge door open.
It swings shut, and then Seth and I both jump.
Levi’s standing right there.
“Who’s Thalia?” he asks.
“How long have you been behind that door?” I hiss.
“Ten seconds. Maybe fifteen, I came to see if you needed help. You all right?”
I don’t know why I’ve ever tried to keep a secret in my entire life.
“I’m fine,” I say.
“A relationship with a fucked-up nature sounds less than fine,” my eldest brother points out, folding his arms over his chest.
“Caleb’s dating someone he shouldn’t be,” Seth explains.
Levi shrugs, looking skeptical.
“No, really shouldn’t be,” Seth says, keeping his voice low. “This isn’t my friend is gonna be mad —”
“He punched me,” Levi points out.
“ — This is Caleb’s life is gonna be ruined if people find out,” he finishes.
Levi just turns and looks at me, silently. And looks. And waits.
I lean my head against the cool metal door of the fridge, close my eyes.
“She’s my student,” I finally admit.Chapter Thirty-FiveThaliaBastien looks down at his mocha, then up at me.
“It would be frowned upon to put vodka in this, right?” he asks.
“Did you bring vodka with you?”
“It’s more of a theoretical question,” he says. “In theory, let’s say you’re at your parents’ house for Thanksgiving break, and they’ve barely spoken two words to each other since your dad kicked your ex-junkie brother out of the house while your mom was at work, and also your mom has a cast on her good arm but would literally rather drop a full knife rack on her foot than ask your father for help with something in the kitchen. Vodka in your coffee: yes or no? Also, you’re gay and they don’t know.”
“Thanks, now I want vodka,” I say.
“There’s a liquor store down the street,” Bastien volunteers. “I’ll wait here.”
“This was all a ploy to get me to buy you vodka, wasn’t it?” I ask, taking a sip of my non-alcoholic coffee.
“I don’t need a ploy,” he laughs. “I’d just ask you to buy me liquor. Actually, speaking of which, will you buy me liquor?”
“It’s illegal,” I tease, and Bastien rolls his eyes.
“You’re fucking your math professor, you can —”
I nearly spit out my coffee and kick him under the table.
“Ow,” he says while I cough.
“Don’t,” I hiss, still coughing.
“I’m just saying, on the spectrum of no bigs to big deal, buying your pretty-close-to-legal little brother some booze ranks way below some of your other activities.”
Bastien is utterly and completely delighted that I’m having an affair with my professor. He might be even more delighted than I am, and I’m pretty delighted. He claims it’s because he likes seeing me happy, but I’m not buying it.