Get a Life, Chloe Brown (The Brown Sisters #1)(52)

He was quiet for a moment and she watched him with a new kind of hunger. A hunger that came from an unfamiliar place, that had nothing to do with his vitality or with his beauty, but with the ordinary things about him that were starting to feel like oxygen. This hunger was urging her to sneak inside his head and devour everything she came across. But that would be a little creepy, possibly violent, and probably illegal, so she settled for asking questions.

“What’s something you want to do but haven’t yet, something that would affect you just as deeply as that trip?” Something like my list?

“Why?” he asked teasingly. “You gonna make it happen? Because my birthday isn’t till June.”

“I have a strict socks-only birthday present policy.”

His eyebrows shot up. “What the hell does that mean?”

“It means the only birthday presents I give to people are socks.”

He snorted. “Sounds like you.” Then, just as she began to think he’d avoid the question, he said, “One day I’m going to MoMA. New York.”

The Museum of Modern Art? She wasn’t surprised. Nor was she surprised that he’d phrased it so decisively. I’m going. It wasn’t a dream: it was a reality he hadn’t gotten around to yet.

Fired up, she said boldly, “I’m going to New York, too. Not for the museum; I just want to go. As part of my list.”

“You’ll love it.” He was wonderfully, achingly earnest, excited for her, not a hint of doubt on his face. He thought she would do it. The confidence he wore like a cloak was covering her, just as surely as his jacket. “Everything’s instant,” he said, his voice a mixture of awe, fondness, and bafflement. “It’s all sharp lines. It’s fucking wild.”

“You’ve already been?”

“Oh, yeah.” His hair fell in front of his eyes as he nodded, and the urge to push it back was so strong, she had to curl her free hand into a fist.

Of course, if she was brave, she’d reach up and do it. He touched her all the time. But he was confident in his way, and she was learning to be confident in hers. She asked another question. “You were there, but you didn’t go to MoMA?”

His easygoing smile turned flat. “I went with my ex. We didn’t get around to it.”

She wondered if that ex was the blonde from the pictures online, the one with the shark eyes. Before she could think of a polite way to ask—or a subtle way to pry his deepest, darkest secrets straight from his head—they were interrupted. Which was probably for the best, since she’d been mentally shopping for futuristic brain scanners like a villain in a superhero film.

A tall, thin man in a black turtleneck came to hover a few meters away from them, huffing loudly and throwing pointed looks like knives. Chloe had noticed more than a few people shooting them suspicious or disapproving glances, but this wasn’t as easy to ignore. Red turned his head, very slowly, toward the man. She couldn’t see the expression on his face, only the long fall of his hair. And, of course, she saw the other man’s reaction to that look. The way he blanched and scurried off like he’d seen a wolf headed his way.

Red turned back to her, rolling his eyes. “Nothing changes.”

“Doesn’t it?”

“You know,” he laughed, “I used to think you were a snob. But when it comes to this stuff, you’re just oblivious, aren’t you?”

“You thought what?” She tried to look horrified. “Gasp, et cetera. I can’t believe you thought I was a snob.”

“Neither can I. You’re just a cute little hermit who hisses at sunlight.”

She laughed, because it was funny, and felt warm, because it was fond. But once her amusement faded, she couldn’t stop herself from pointing something out. Or rather, she didn’t want to stop herself. “I’m not completely oblivious. I am black, you know.”

His eyes widened theatrically. “Shit, are you? I had no idea.”

She snorted.

“Of course I know, Chlo. And I realize you must …” He trailed off, as if he wasn’t sure how to finish that sentence.

Which was fine, because Chloe knew exactly what she wanted to say. “The thing is, Red … some of us have so many marginalizations, we might drown if we let all the little hurts flood in. So there are those, like me, who filter. I think you’ve noticed that I filter a lot. It’s not some inbuilt shield made of money. It’s just something I’m forced to do.” She shrugged. “And that’s not to discount the differences between us that fall in my favor. It’s just an explanation.” The fact that she’d even bothered to tell him this said something dangerous. It said that he might matter a little bit. But, hopefully, he wouldn’t realize that.

His hand came to rest on her shoulder again and stayed there until she looked him in the eyes. His expression was … unexpected. Contrite, gentle, slightly amused. She understood that last part when he said wryly, “I’m an arse, aren’t I?”

“Not especially, but I feel as though I should take any opportunity to call you one.”

He chuckled softly. “Fair. Chloe, you don’t need to explain shit to me. I’d say it’s more the other way around. Though I’m grateful that you did. Listen …” His voice changed, becoming slightly uncertain. “I’ve got, uh, baggage? When it comes to class. And, in my head, I keep putting it all on you. But I’m sorry about that. I’ll stop.”