I popped open the sealed container and helped myself to a couple of cookies. “Cool. I need to talk to Geek Dracula.”
She called my name and waited until I paused in the arched doorway leading to the family room. “Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Just a friendly mom check. That’s all.”
My smile felt tight and phony as hell. I probably hadn’t fooled her, but since she hadn’t called me on my bullshit, I added a thumbs-up and raced up the stairs, skipping the second one from the top out of habit. It creaked loud enough to wake the dead.
This house was almost a hundred years old. It had good bones and if the walls could talk, they’d tell stories of life during the Great Depression, World War II, the groovy sixties, and beyond. My brothers and I were convinced a ghost lived in the attic. In fact, I suspected this house had a lot to do with George’s fascination with all things spooky.
I knocked on his door, noting the ancient array of skull and crossbones stickers plastered to it. My favorite was the Beetlejuice one I bought him for his thirteenth birthday. “I, myself am strange and unusual.” He was indeed.
“Georgie, you there?” I called when he didn’t answer. “I’m coming in.”
“I’m jacking off,” he singsonged as I turned the knob.
I froze. “Are you really?”
He busted up laughing. “No, moron. I’m working. Come in. What do you want? And why are you here? Never mind. I’m glad you’re here. Mom won’t stop feeding me. Or talking to me.”
I huffed as I entered his lair. And yeah, I did mean lair. George’s room would have made the Addams family proud. It was heavily decorated in black damask…from the wallpaper and the duvet on his full-sized bed to the chaise lounge under the window. The bright-pink fuzzy pillows stacked on the floor, Pride flag pinned above his bed, and the posters of nebulas in outer space on the ceiling indicated he wasn’t a truly dark soul. Just a guy who marched to the beat of his own drum.
George swiveled to face me, raking his fingers through his light-pink hair before pointing meaningfully at the chaise.
I sat on the edge of the seat and leaned forward. “I heard you’re moving tomorrow. Why haven’t you started packing?”
“I’m moving across town. Not to Siberia. This is not a life-changing event,” he replied. “So…why are you here?”
“Topher quit.”
George furrowed his brow and crossed his arms over his “Bi Goth Rules” tee. “What’d you do?”
“Nothing!” I threw my hands in the air in exasperation. I’d already decided not to share anything overly personal with my brother. He didn’t need to know about the kiss. He’d just get sidetracked and ask a bunch of questions I couldn’t answer. “He just got a little frazzled.”
“Define frazzled.”
“Fine one second, jumpy the next. I think I make him nervous, but not all the time. Does that make sense?”
He nodded. “Yeah, he has a crush on you.”
I widened my eyes. “What? Me?”
“Don’t get excited. It’s not you per se. Topher has a thing for jocks. I sort of hoped you’d help him get over his anxiety.”
“How? I don’t get it.”
“By being yourself. You’re nice, normal, generally nonthreatening, and people like you,” he replied matter-of-factly.
“Thanks. I think.” I furrowed my brow. “Are you telling me you arranged this as some sort of experiment?”
“Definitely. The only way to conquer fear is to face it. You have a crippling fear of the unknown, and Topher has a puzzling fear having to do with muscular jocks.” He shook his head in bewilderment. “I don’t get it at all. Topher is one of the best guys I know. He shouldn’t waste his time with idiots. He needs to know there are good jocks out there…like you.”
I grinned. “Gee, thanks, bro.”
“Who are as flawed and pigheaded as the rest of us mere mortals,” he continued.
I flipped him off. “Give me a few tips on this guy. How can I get him to stay?”
My brother quirked a brow. “And they say I’m the weird one. Did you really drive all the way from Malibu to ask me about Topher?”
“Well…maybe,” I admitted. “You didn’t pick up your damn phone.”
He pointed at his computer. “I was working, jackweed. You could have left a message. Or maybe you wanted to come by the house. Again.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’re homesick,” he replied in his best “scientist” voice. The one that implied he had irrefutable proof and would like nothing better than to lay it on me.
“I’m not homesick,” I retorted. “I haven’t lived in this house in nine years.”
“Time is relative.”
“Thanks, Einstein.”
“It’s true. You’re in a fragile mindset, and you’re probably feeling nostalgic for the good ol’ days. It’s a natural response to seek comfort when you’re feeling down.”
“I’m not feeling down,” I argued. “I came by to talk to you, see the folks, then meet up with my friends in town. You’re welcome to join me.”