Page 13 of Brother in Law with Benefits

I turn my hand over, thread my fingers properly through hers instead of letting them just rest there, and something in her breath changes, a small catch I feel more than hear in a steel box six floors above a parking lot.

She turns to face me. I turn to face her. The three months, the brother, the whole careful architecture I've been building since the porch — none of it survives the half-step she takes toward me, or the half-step I take toward her, until there's maybe a foot of recycled hospital air between us and both of us have apparently stopped pretending we're doing anything but exactly this.

Her free hand comes up. Doesn't quite land on my chest. Hovers there like she's still deciding, and I want to tell her she doesn't have to decide anything, that I'll do all the deciding for both of us if that's what it takes, and I don't say any of it because my throat's gone tight in a way it hasn't since I was nineteen.

Her thumb stops moving. "If someone gets in this elevator right now—"

I dip my head, and I am about four inches from finding out exactly what she tastes like when her phone buzzes against her hip, sharp and rude and completely oblivious to the moment it's interrupting.

She flinches. I straighten. Both of us take a step back at the same time, like we'd rehearsed it, like some part of both our bodies has been waiting for permission to remember where we are.

Sophie fumbles the phone out of her pocket and reads the screen. "It's the floor nurse. Mom's awake, vitals are shifting a little — nothing bad, they just want someone up there." Her voice comes out steadier than her hands look. "I have to—"

"Go. I know."

The elevator dings. Third floor. Doors open on an empty hallway, fluorescent and ordinary, like it hasn't just watched something almost happen.

Mom is awake when we return, watching us approach with eyes that are sharp even through the medication fog.

"Long coffee break," she says.

"Big cafeteria," Sophie replies, settling back into her chair like nothing happened.

Like the world didn't just tilt very slightly.

"Mm-hmm." Mom is looking between us with the particular satisfaction of someone who set a scene and watched it play out exactly as she'd hoped.

5

Sophie

Idrove home from the hospital around noon, after we got Patty settled with crackers and ginger ale and instructions to rest. Grant walked me to my car again. We said practical things. We didn't mention the elevator.

My hand is still warm where he held it.

I should go inside, draw the blackout curtains, and crash for the next eight hours. My body is extremely clear on this. My brain, which is evidently not on my body's team, has other ideas.

I sit in my car and stare at my phone.

I could text him something normal. Thanks for this morning. Let me know if Patty needs anything. Clean, professional, appropriate for two people who are coordinating a sick woman's care and definitely not thinking about each other.

Except that's not what I want to say.

I want to say I haven't been able to think straight since the elevator. Or the cafeteria where I got more ballsy than I ever hadin all my life. I want to say five years is a long time to not think about someone and I'm not doing a great job of it.

I don't text him.

***

Inside, I change into pajamas, set my alarm for five, and lie down.

Sleep does not come.

I lie there for two hours thinking about how Grant's hand felt on mine for approximately three seconds in a hospital elevator, which is a completely proportionate use of my time.

When I wake up, it's almost six. I have a missed call from Patty and a voicemail.

"Hi honey, it's me. Feeling better. Grant made soup. He's being very sweet, very attentive — you were right about him being competent. Anyway, I have bridge club tomorrow night, six to nine. Love you."