Chapter 4: Sunday Dinner

Torin read the message over Ansel's shoulder and went still.

"Dane," he said.

"You don't know that."

"Who else has your phone number and a reason to hate me?"

He was already reaching for his jacket.

Ansel caught his sleeve.

"If you go over there angry, you hand him exactly what he wants.

"Sit down, Torin."

For three long seconds Torin stood with his jaw working.

Then he sat on the edge of the bed, and Ansel took the first breath he had taken in a minute.

He did not answer the message.

Sunday dinner was at six on Birch Lane.

Ansel's mother had made a pot roast, and Torin's father had brought a six-pack and a story about a client's leaking roof.

He slid a bottle across the table to Torin.

Torin slid it back.

"I'm driving, sir," he said, and filled his glass with water.

Everyone sat where they always sat, with Ansel across from Torin.

His mother had come off a night shift that morning and still looked bright, laughing at everything.

Under the table, Torin's boot hooked around Ansel's ankle.

Ansel passed the potatoes and kept his face blank.

The boot slid up the inside of his calf, slow, and stopped just under his knee.

"You boys look tired," his mother said.

"Midterms," Ansel said.

"Practice," Torin said at the same moment.

They looked at each other, and Torin's mouth twitched.

"You two are getting along better," his father said, pleased.

"We're working on it," Torin said, and squeezed Ansel's knee hard enough to hurt.

Ansel's fork rattled against the plate.

Afterward they washed dishes side by side, and Torin stood so close that his hip pressed Ansel's.

He didn't say a word, and the heat of him came through two layers of cloth.

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