Brothers of Paradise Series

“Her name’s Ivy. She’s awesome, actually. They argue a lot but I think they both enjoy that. She works as a model.”

I nod woodenly. Once, the Marchands spent school vacations travelling to exotic locations. Now they date models and build opera houses and own yacht clubs. I think of my tennis shoes with the hole in the front and my pitiful savings account.

“I know how it sounds,” Parker says, voice almost apologetic. “My siblings are off the rails.”

Not really, I think. They seem like they have it all together.

“I’m glad they’re doing well.”

“Yeah, they are,” he says. “Lily has an art gallery in town.”

“Does she?” I ask, but in truth, I already know. I’ve followed her career online too.

“Yes. It’s doing surprisingly well, for an art gallery, you know. She works with artists from New York and displays them here. It’s a few blocks away from the gelato shop, actually.”

“Oh.”

“I won’t tell her about this either.” Parker gives me a crooked smile. “It feels fun, being secretive.”

“Doesn’t come naturally to you, does it?”

“She strikes again,” he says, grinning. “No, I can’t say that it does. And it’s not like you and I used to work together.”

I look at his hands, now resting on an open ledger. I make out the names of boats. “No, we didn’t. Do you remember that party? At Turner’s?”This belongs to NôvelDrama.Org - ©.

“Which one?”

“When Lily and I came. You were so angry at her.”

He snorts. “Of course I was. She was a minor. You both were.”

“So were you,” I point out, raising an eyebrow.

His smile turns crooked. “Yes, but you two were more minory.”

“Lily left halfway through the party.”

“Yeah, I remember that night. After graduation.”

I shouldn’t say anything. It’s stupid, bringing up the past, and maybe I’m just wasting his time. But something about his gaze draws the words out. I haven’t thought about those years in a very long time. “She had a fight with Hayden.”

“I suspected they did,” he says, “because he was pissed off the rest of the night and left soon after her.”

“I stayed, though.”

“Yeah,” Parker says. “You did.”

The memories are hazy, like childhood memories often are. I’d been dressed up to the nines, which for me was a tight skirt and a black T-shirt with an ironic print of a pop band I didn’t listen to. My short hair had been spiky and lips coated with far too much gloss. I’d been Lily’s friend, who in turn was Parker’s little sister. That was my claim to fame at the party held by seniors.

And of the seniors, Parker had been the coolest.

He had the friends, the girls, the trophies. He was the one jock I couldn’t hate, because while he was often annoying, he was never mean. Not once.

“You were drunk,” I say. “All of you were.”

“It was a sport back then. I remember trying to keep you from drinking, though.”

“A valiant, but failed, effort.”

He chuckles and leans forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. His skin is golden from the sun. “Yeah, you never liked doing what I told you to.”

“I had a problem with authority back then.”

“Oh, that’s solved now?”

“I’ve just become more circumspect,” I say.

He gives me another smile, and just like that, I’m sitting next to him on Turner’s porch at two in the morning again. He’s drunk and pretending not to be, his hair a mess, and giving me his best I’m-superior look. I’d been needling him about all the girls he’d meet in college. Lame, and retroactively transparent, but I’d been young and had a crush I couldn’t even admit to myself.

I’m not a ladies’ man, he’d said, as if there was any doubt that he might be. He was popular, sure, but we were in high school. When I find a girl I want to be my girlfriend, I’ll just… know.

Oh? I’d asked. And what will she look like? Tall, and blonde, with big boobs?

Drunk, teenage Parker had scoffed. No. I like girls with attitude.

Who argue with you?

He’d looked at me, then. Yes. I like them dark-haired, too.

“I walked you home that night,” Parker says. In his gaze I see the same memory. We’d never spoken about the temporary truce we struck up that night. The next time I saw him, visiting Lily’s place later that summer, we’d argued over what to watch on TV with a ferocity that rivaled professional athletes.

“You did,” I say. “We took the long route.”

He laughs, a little self-consciously. “Yeah. Down by the boardwalk.”

“I didn’t think you remembered that night,” I say, and tug at the hem of my skirt. It feels too short, riding up when I’m sitting.

“I remember,” he says. “I think it was the only time we were actually nice to one another. You gave me a compliment.”

“I did?”

“Yes. You said I was a good running back.”

“Oh.”

He laughs, and the sound is warm and deep. It fills the room. “I don’t think you’d watched a single one of our games, James. It was an obvious lie, but I appreciated it regardless.”

“Maybe I fudged the truth a bit.”