- Oaklyn -

"It looks like someone attracted a pack of vicious and wild cougars," I teased Boston. There was a quartet of Real Housewives worthy women all older than the age of our age combined. They sat three tables down, eyeing Boston like a piece of meat, wishing to deplete him clean to the bone.

Boston modeled with our beverages and took a seat, backfronting the party of sugar mamas.

"Tell me something I don't know," he starts by handing me my dangerously large iced black tea lemonade and a paper straw. "I could feel their eyes burning the back of my skull. But I can't get too weirded out by it. It's a family curse."

I jammed my straw against the wooden table and asked, "A curse? You can't be serious, right?"

"Deadass serious. My dad's side of the family has a. . . habit of dating and marrying older women or men," he replied, sipping on his freshly brewed French vanilla latte. "Even all my exes were older than me by a year or two."

After our short convo in the park, Boston stranded me alone for a good twenty-something minutes. What I learned while scouring the entire park for him is that when Boston is in a mood—he's in a mood. I'm talking about silent treatment, refusing to stand still, and ignoring everything and anyone around him. It's a fight just trying to get him to communicate. Alexa must have gone through hell and back when he was like this.

I don't know how she does it.

I can't expel his words from my memory: You're the only one who truly listened.

What does that mean? I thought Boston of all the people in the world would have a better support system than what he gives off, but you could never be too pundit and judge a book just by its cover. Even someone as handsome and lavish as him could experience the hardships of a newly engaged couple, and apparently, blackmail by his father-in-law. I've hadn't heard tea this riveting since the wedding I planned earlier last year.

A bride admitting to having an affair with the groom's father right before the wedding vowels was hard to top.

I feel bad for the guy; he's stuck doing the dirty work for his fiancee's dad all while juggling, trying to make himself happy in an engagement that somehow is this same man's idea. Conceivably it's just my undersupply of knowledge but everything makes sense, yet, all at the same time it doesn't. I told Boston to give me a walkthrough of the seasons, but I grope the implication that I'm still down one or two key seasons.

There's a notion in me to slowly bring up the topics again, but I don't want to trigger him in a way if that makes sense. He's slowly opening up to me. I'm not only a wedding planner to him but a therapist. My job is to be both—it's a packaged deal. I don't want to botch his trust and have this wedding tarnished.

Whatever he is going through I'm willing to help him through it.

I study the table of hot grandmas. One particular woman in the group keeps looking at me, scoping me up and down with a mean mug. It makes me uncomfortable. If she only knew that Boston and I were just on business-related terms. I find it hilarious how much of a competition this was to her.

"Sounds more like a fetish to me," I continue.

Boston wipes his mouth and gasps.

"It's not. If I could I'd try to avoid it. My friend back in New Jersey even finds it weird that every person I dated was older than me."

"So, I'm assuming your dad is younger than your mom, is that correct?" If this 'curse' thing is true, Boston must have inherited it and is bound to pass it on to his offspring.

He nods and shakes around his latte, trying to stir a bit of the pump of syrup from the bottom. "Oh, yeah. There's a huge age gap between my parents."

"How big?"

"Thirteen," he exclaims and I nearly choke on my drink.

"Yikes." —I paused— "That's a bit extreme."

The wind picks up when Boston goes silent. I enjoy another slurp of my refresher when a curve forms at the end of each side of his lips. Knowing Boston for a short time, I knew flirting was a way of joy for him—an instinct.

I lean back against the chair and fold my arms.

"What is it, Boston? Spit it out," I urge.

He smiled, showing those precious white fences I like to call teeth.

"You see if we were to. . . you know," he motioned with his hands. I couldn't make it out but surely it wasn't PG-13. "It would make sense. Carry on the tradition."

I frowned. "So it is a fetish?" I ask, skeptically.

"More of a preference is the right way to put it. Quite poetic, if you ask me."

It's amazing how a person could explain one Bitsy thing and completely blow it out of proportion. I don't know what it's going to take for Boston to understand or if he ever will understand. In short, this will never go further than a client-business affinity. I thought he'd get the picture when I carelessly slept with that southern jerk the other day, but I guess it didn't faze Boston—he didn't give a damn.

I guess it's time I put Boston in his place and show him this destined reality: a world where he may or not marry Alexa, and I will move on with my life and the one-night stands will come in time.

I uncapped the top and frowned. "I'm sorry to burst your bubble, Boston, but not in this lifetime will you see a version of us together," I said.

"Never say never," he teased.

Okay, Justin Bieber.

"Oh, but I will. Watch me." In all truthfulness, I propped both elbows on the table, avoiding spilling my entire drink all over me. We're inches away from each other. I'm so close to him, that I can almost imagine his lips pressing against mine (just a thought). He doesn't flinch and flashes another breathtaking smile which I ignore.

With both hands, I cuff the sides of either of his face.

"Listen carefully. I will not explain myself again," I warned. "You and I—"

A gnarly blast of car horns erupted behind me, and I noticed Boston's eyes widen at the sight. In a sharp reaction, he followed protocol, and those around us mirrored his actions. By the time I had a chance to look back, all I could see was a long line of cars braking on a dime.

"Look at this little idiot!" Boston yelled over the orchestra of car sirens. "Who in their right mind skateboards in front of ongoing traffic?!"

Squinting, I investigated closer.

The mob of brown curly hair, fair skin, baggy clothes, and the familiar to-go graphic t-shirt, the run-down Jansport backpack he's had since the eighth grade. I knew him all too well.

I'll tell you who, I say to myself.

This specific person is not the sharpest tool in the family shed.

"That dickhead," I say, watching him do an ollie over the sidewalk curb. "I'm going to kill him."

Boston's head whips in my direction.

"Don't tell me you know this guy?"

"Unfortunately, I do." I pressed my palm to the table for aid as I rose to my feet. "And if he doesn't get himself killed first, I'm going to do it for him."

The group of automobiles are halted at the green light. Like a boisterous goose, the teenager crosses the pedestrian sidewalk, jogging, then dropping his skateboard halfway in the street as if he were invisible to traffic. The boy raises his hands apologetically to the infuriated crowd and kickflips to the coffee shop where we happen to be.

I sail up to the metal fence surrounding the shop. In no time, those identical green eyes that we both inherited from our dad locked with mine.

"Noah Greyson Miller," I communicate sternly.

At the sound of his full name, my younger brother twists in the wrong way causing him to trample over the board and nearly into a lamppost. He finds his balance and mutters a low "fuck" when roaming his way to me.

Noah stands at auspicious seven and a half inches over me in height. When he poses I spot a blotch-sized hickey marring the pale expanse of his neck. The purplish and reddish leech love bites are evil—sinful even.

Whoever did this to him must be a blood, sucking vampire.

I gasp in horror.

"My god, Noah," I gently graze the tips of my fingers across the bruised skin. "What have you gotten yourself into?"

Noah smirks deviously. "I think you mean who have I gotten myself into," he corrects me snickering proudly.

I don't know what's worse: the fact that my sixteen-year-old brother is having sex or the fact that he is so brazenly open and unapologetic about it.

As an older sister, I cannot even imagine Noah, the kid that I used to change diapers for, the one who would come running into my bedroom crying because he was afraid that he summoned the boogie man on a random night in 2012. The same child that threatened to run away from home if mom and dad went through with the divorce (newsflash: we couldn't find him for a good five hours).

My baby brother, the one responsible for all these things, is sexually active.

How?

The bile rushes up my throat and it's hard to process all at once. My first reaction is to yell at him, yet we're out in public and the whole coffee shop is staring at us like a gang of hooligans. So the next valid reaction is to hit him. Not too violent, just to show him that he's a bozo.

My fist collides with his left shoulder.

"Ow!" He clutches his shoulder in pain. "What was that for?!"

"For being an idiot."

He grunted, massaging the sore spot. "That still doesn't give you a reason to hit me," he pouted like a baby.

So he agrees with me. Good to know.

The sidewalk suddenly becomes bombarded by pediatricians and Noah is impersonating a human traffic cone in the worst possible spot. I noticed the gate near where the group of grandmas sat, probably wondering if Noah was old enough to legally date one of them. Physically, he looked at least twenty-one but the second he spoke you could detect the immaturity and the high-school mentality.

"Come over to my table," I directed, gesturing behind me. "Let's talk."

"No, no, no," he chanted like a broken record. "Me and the boys are planning on hitting that new pizza joint on Brickell with a couple of ladies. I don't have time for you to lecture me on something that you stuck your nose into."

I allotted a smug. "Would you prefer me to do it? Or would you much rather like to hear it from mom? I don't mind telling her that you skipped school to see some girl you met at Hooters." I love using classified information against him.

Noah handed me his skateboard.

Thereupon convincing him to use the entrance gate, as usual, he ignores me and shoves his featherlight backpack to my chest along with the weight of the board. In seconds, he's hopping over the black metal fence like a rabbit on cocaine and it meets ne on the other side.

"You know, I was having a really good day until you showed up," Noah argued.

"Well, that's what big sisters do." My brother blames me for everything. I could be living in Japan and he would still blame me for a mess that he created for himself. "Now tell me, why are you not in school right now?"

It's nearly an hour before school lets out, and he's skateboarding in the middle of the street, miles away from school grounds. Noah has a routine: drive to school, attend one or two classes, skip lunch to go who-knows-where with his pothead friends, and end up in detention the next day or days, in most cases. He's so well-known in detention that he has his seat with a name label on the front.

Noah takes a drag from his vape, inhaling the sweet toxins before exhaling a thick plume of smoke through his nostrils. He directs a cloud of watermelon-flavored vapor straight into my face. I don't even blink—I'm all too familiar with his playful torment. His posture stiffens as he casts a long, wary glance at Boston.

With a gentlemanly grace, Boston offers me his chair just as Noah flops into mine.

"Who's this?" Noah asks, not backing down his unwavering stare. He's always been fiercely protective of me around other men.

"Hi," Boston interjects, unfurling his hand.
"I'm Boston."

"Wait, this is Boston? As in Boston, Boston?
The fine-ass journalist you couldn't stop talking about? This is him?" It dawns on me that my brother has been out of the loop for the past month. The last time I filled him in, l was daydreaming about some rather unmentionable scenarios involving Boston.

"Oh," Boston chirps. "Does she now?"

My cheeks redden and I avoid sharing Boston a stare. "That was before. . . everything," I said, wishing the ground would swallow me whole.

"Before everything, huh? Care to explain?" Noah wiggles his eyebrows.

"No, the only explanation should be you telling me why you were not in school."

Noah answers, "Senior ditch day."

Boston and I bottle up a laugh in sync. "You could at least come up with a better excuse," I bash.

"I think it's pretty obvious why I skipped school, Oaklyn." Noah centers his index finger right on the island of a hickey. I still couldn't believe he was walking out in the open with it this freely.

I sighed. "Where's the girl now?"

Noah hummed.

I knew exactly what that meant.

Boston slopes forward. With slow movements, he meets me to my level. On each side, he let his large hands grape my arms. "Like brother like sister," he taunts back at the incident between Kody and I. He'll never let me live that one down.

"Shut up," I whispered, nudging an elbow right in Boston's stomach, obtaining a painful groan from him in return.

I drive back to my brother. "Okay, so where are your friends now?"

"No idea." Noah longevity at my cold tea. "Can I have a sip of that?"

I reel the drink in.

"No."

"Please, Oaklyn," he begs. "I just chugged down a 24 oz water bottle a while ago and I'm still thirsty."

"That doesn't sound normal," I claim,

He snares the drink anyway. "It is if you vape."

"He has a good point," Boston interjects.

I needle over the cup. "Skipping school, having sex, and vaping? Oh, Mom's not going to let this one ride," I say with a daunting snicker.

Our mother is very lenient on certain things, most things, but when it comes to our education and our well-being, she does not play the slightest. In school, I was a straight honor roll student so I never encountered any serious backlash.

However, I did sneak out to a senior party junior year of high school. I don't rigidly remember who got me home or how I got home. The only clear remembrance I have is the lecture I received the next morning about underage drinking. She also scolded Sailor who had absolutely nothing to do with anything because she didn't even drink that night.

"I'll do anything you want, just please don't tell Mom about this. She'll ground me for life," Noah pleaded, his eyes wide with panic.

I swirled the ice cubes in my glass, letting the moment stretch. "And what's in it for me?" I posed, inflating an eyebrow.

Noah bit his lip, glancing around nervously.

"I'll cover for you next time you need a favor," he offered.

I leaned back in my seat. Boston's hands rested near the epicenter of my back. Incline toward an instinct, I hotfoot it forward to ease the touch that was a bit too compelling. I then considered Noah's proposal. "Not bad, but I think you can do better."

"Fine," Noah chimed. "I'll do your chores for a month. At the end of each week, I'll stop by and clean whatever you need me to."

"The kitchen?" I invited.

"Including the kitchen," he agreed. "Just please, don't say anything."

I knew he'd come through

"Pleasure doing business with you."

𓆉 𓆉 𓆉

"Hey, sis." I look up from slot-machining through my emails to find Noah gulping down the last drop of my quencher. "Can you loan me $10?"

Truthfully, I don't care what he'll use the money for or what silly purpose is behind it. Instead of interrogating him about asking me for cash like I would usually do I say, "What is $10 going to get you in this economy? An avocado?"

America has such a high demand for living costs that I'm almost tempted that you'd have to legit be a millionaire just to live comfortably.

"You're right. Can I have 20 instead?" Noah acquiesced, gliding the empty cup back to me, knowing I have an addiction more to ice than I do to the drink itself. Ice was a delicacy and a comfort for me. Something about tiny chucks of frigid cubes could make my day.

I shuffled through my purse-a parcel of freshmint Tic Tacs, a wad of old balled-up receipts, not one but four packets of Texas Pete hot sauce (because who doesn't need emergency spice?), and two lip glosses later, I finally found my overstuffed wallet. I dig through the sleeves and pull out a crunchy bill with Andrew Jackson's face and a slightly crumpled Alexander Hamilton, both looking like they've had a rough night.

"Here's 30." I hand him the bills with a flourish, feeling like a benevolent queen.

Noah immediately shoves the cash into the pockets of his jeans. At the crossroads of my eye, I witness a triad of teen guys—one with dreads, another with a deplorable undercut, and Noah's best friend who looks like he hasn't slept in days. I gesticulate straight ahead, expressing, "There goes the dream team, twelve o'clock."

Like clockwork, Boston appears out of the clear blue, eagerly drawing out his chair. When he sits, it is quite clear to see his flushed cheeks and ears that resemble a fresh tomato. I also couldn't shun the order of cookies he placed on the table.

"You good, bro? You look like you've seen a ghost," Noah questioned, taking the initiative to beat me to it.

"I basically did." Boston pupils travel to the table of old women who have been eye-fucking him.

I reach for the box of cookies.

"I thought you went to the bathroom," I hammer. "What happened?"

"This happened," Boston proclaimed, pointing to the notecard attached to the side of the box. Noah and I squinted at the almost unreadable cursive in black ink. Our lips curl as we spot a very obvious phone number and a short, straightforward message that portends that Granny is more than interested in Boston.

"Granny's old school," I tormentor. "It seems that she wants to pursue more than just cookies."

I vividly remember the exact moment Boston had gotten up after having a very intense discussion about which NBA team would win the championship this year. Not long after Boston excused himself, she had hustled inside with her purse. The entire time, I could hear the chatter of her friends, probably rallied up that she went to shoot her shot for a man young enough to be her grandson.

"So, not only is he good-looking, but he has a stable job, and he can get us food for free? I like him, Oaklyn. You hit the jackpot." Noah laughs, stealing a cookie from the pack. This is a first because, from my knowledge, Noah hates any guy I bring around—friend, boyfriend, friends with benefits—he knew none of them would work out in the long run (he has good people instincts). So it was definitely a shocker to hear him verbally say he likes Boston.

I can't find the courage to tell him the truth about Boston and me.

All well. He'll find out in time.

"Shit, I gotta go," Noah murmured, shoving the cookie in his mouth to gather his things. He plants a sloppy cookie-crumb kiss on the crown of my head. Thanks again, Oaklyn."

I cringed, wiping away the excess saliva.

Noah bids a light-hearted farewell to Boston and that's the last we see of him.

Meanwhile, Boston resorts to the shrubs next to our table. Ostensibly, something about its deep, kale pigment and dense foliage is more striking than a cluster of women pushing their sixties. A smile lights up monitoring the way he observes the leafminers and their veins.

"Why are you still sitting here? Go over there and thank the nice lady for the cookies," I remind him playfully. 

The women point to us.

Boston cleared his throat. "I already expressed my gratitude." I can see Boston's olive skin camouflaging back to the bright shade of red when they call him over. I wave, ushering him to entertain the lovely ladies.

"Go thank her again," I mashed. "Respect your elders and go give grandma some sugar."

Boston thrust from his seat, using the edge of the roundtable to stand.

"I hate you," he hit me one final time.

Giggling, I send, "I hate you more," but the truth is, I don't hate him at all—the opposite.

An odd, conflicted feeling began to blossom in my heart. I was starting to soften for him, and that's what I hated.