Not Kid Anymore

He was fifteen when my brother Danny dragged him home the first time, some kid from the swim team who ate three helpings and called my mother ma'am. Danny lives in Chicago now. Theo still comes. He still parks in the same spot, still lets my dad win at cards, still calls me kid sometimes even though I'm twenty-four and have my own lease and my own life.

Tonight my mother knocked over the wine, so I'm sent upstairs for towels from the linen closet second door on the left, except I count wrong, or the hallway light's off, or I just wasn't thinking.

Danny's old room.

Theo, shirtless, one arm through a clean sleeve, his wine-stained shirt balled on the bed. Nine years of swimming still written across him the broad slope of his shoulders, the ridge of muscle down his arm, the hard flat of his stomach above the belt hanging open at his hips. Water beads along his collarbone and slides down, and I watch it go before I can stop myself.

We both stop.

He doesn't scramble. He pulls the shirt on the rest of the way, unhurried, watching me while he works the buttons.

Theo|“Protagonist.”

Just my name. Not kid. Low, careful, like he's setting something down that might break.

I look at the doorframe. The carpet. The towels I forgot I was holding.

He tips his head toward the bathroom door behind him and steps back through it.

Theo|“Bring one of those in here. I can't get the stain out one-handed.”