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I’m not sure who’s blushing more, me or Miles.
“This is Barrett,” he says. “Barrett, Max. She’s a friend from school.”
On the drive here, Miles explained in a calm, collected voice that today his brother is finishing his program. I didn’t want to pry, didn’t know what questions to ask. Rehab could mean a hundred different things.
But here we are, in front of the addiction recovery center of a Ballard hospital.
“Barrett. Good to meet you.” Max drags a hand through his hair, which is nearly to his shoulders. “I’m starving. I’ve been having dreams about Zippy’s burgers—that’s how badly I miss them. Can we grab some on the way home?”
Home.
“Of course.”
Max prods his brother with an elbow. “And your girlfriend can come too.”
The tips of Miles’s ears redden. “We—we’re not—” he stammers, just as Max starts cackling.
“Couldn’t resist,” he says with a rough laugh, leaving me to wonder whether it’s because I’m not a viable girlfriend, or because Max knows the extent of Miles’s inexperience.
I let Max take the passenger seat next to his brother, and he scrunches his face at the station playing the biggest hits of the eighties, nineties, and today. “This is what you’ve been listening to?”
“It’s a rental,” Miles says, his eyes firmly on the road. All of a sudden he’s morphed back to the stiff, serious Miles he was when I met him.
Max drums his hands on the dashboard, playing around with the stereo when he realizes there’s no hookup for his phone. I can’t help cataloging the differences between the two of them. They’re both fidgety, but Max’s posture is less harsh. Max seems immediately comfortable, whereas Miles almost never is. In the span of ten minutes, Max’s face has gone through about a hundred more expressions than Miles’s does on a daily basis.
“I’ve never been to Zippy’s,” I offer, trying to lighten the mood.
Max twists in the seat to face me. “You’re gonna love it. They have this special sauce that’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted. They used to sell it by the jar, but they couldn’t keep it in stock.”
Zippy’s is an old-timey burger joint with red-checked tablecloths and a jukebox in one corner. Once we order and grab a booth, Miles starts to soften, his shoulders no longer touching his ears. And yet the whole time we’re here, I’m wondering why their parents aren’t.
“Remember when we tried to build a replica of the Space Needle out of fries?” Max says, gesturing with his chocolate shake. “That was right here. In this booth.”
Across from me, Miles allows a grin, a welcome crack in his exterior. “We kept saying we needed to go to the bathroom and then came back with another cup of sauce to glue them together. Mom and Dad were so pissed.”
“I thought they would never let us eat fries ever again.”
I slurp some of my strawberry shake. “I can’t imagine Miles doing something like that.”
“This kid? Miles Per Hour was a regular rebel back in the day.” Max gives his shoulder a nudge, and Miles almost glows under his attention.
And it’s there, in that moment, that I see a fragment of what their relationship might have looked like once upon a time. A boy who idolized his brother.
Our food arrives, and Max is 100 percent right about the special sauce, which is a perfect mix of sweet and savory, so delicious I could swim in it. But Max isn’t eating yet, instead eyeing me with a half frown.
“What?” I ask, worried I have special sauce on my face.
“Nothing.” His mouth quirks into a grin. “I’m just trying to figure out how this happened.” He flicks an index finger between the two of us, and now he is every bit the embarrassing older brother.
Miles has turned so red, his gaze could probably incinerate his burger. “Like I said, we’re not—”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, no need to jump to conclusions. I was referring to this friendship,” Max says, throwing an exaggerated wink at me.
“We have physics together, and we’re in the same dorm,” I say.
“Mom’s class?”
Miles nods. At that, a look of genuine worry passes over Max’s face. “Do you think… It’s going to be okay with them at home, right?”
