Just Like This (Albin Academy #2) - Cole McCade Page 0,24
the cutting board, then went back again with a bit more confidence, tucking his trailing hair behind his ear before going after the carton of fresh snow peas and a little rustling plastic bag full of red and yellow and green bell peppers.
Damon thought Rian might just ignore what he’d said, when he seemed completely puzzled by the bag of bell peppers, staring down at them. “Do we really need all of these?”
“Nah,” Damon said. “For just the two of us, one red and one yellow will do. We’ll have the snow peas and broccoli for a little green.”
“I wasn’t aware the color aesthetics and balance of stir-fry were so important,” Rian said wryly, and started plucking the knot on the plastic bag open with slim fingertips. With his head lowered, his eyes on his hands, and his voice muffled... Damon almost didn’t catch when he murmured, “... I didn’t earn any of it.”
Ah.
Yeah.
Damon could understand that.
But Rian seemed to almost be flinching away from Damon’s scrutiny—so Damon managed to mind his manners and look away, shutting off the hot water in the sink and fishing out the beef, pressing at it with his thumbs. Defrosted enough on the surface, he thought, and if he cut the strips thin enough the wok should be enough to cook them through and through without leaving any frozen raw spots in the center.
The only sound between them was the crinkle of plastic as Damon started unwrapping the beef, and the quiet shushing of the faucet turning on again as Rian flicked on the cold water and started washing one of the yellow peppers. Damon watched him surreptitiously from the corner of his eye; Rian handled the vegetable like he was handling some kind of exobotanical organism, holding it gingerly and looking so intently focused on making sure he rinsed every last crevice and bulge in its surface.
“So what do you think you have earned?” Damon asked carefully.
Rian started, glancing at him wide-eyed, before looking away once more. He tucked his hair back again, and this time delicate fingertips left diamond-spangled droplets clinging to the ripples of his black hair; rosettes bloomed against pale cheeks.
“This,” he answered, just as quietly, his gaze shifting sidelong to drift over the room—but it wasn’t hard to tell he was looking at the room as part of the school, especially when he said, “This place, here.” Then he smiled—that bitter crease that seemed so much more honest than his artificial ones, and yet still a sad echo of that singular bright, genuine smile he’d flashed as he’d taken in Damon’s apartment. “Well...maybe...maybe not wholly earned. You know. The whole whisper network around this place.”
“Have to know someone who knows someone. Yeah.” Damon dumped the hunk of beef out onto the cutting board and reached across the sink to fish out a second knife; for a moment his body brushed against the faint, wispy warmth of Rian’s, his body heat as thin and ephemeral as smoke, before Damon jerked back, carefully angling the blade away from Rian as he drew it close. Swallowing, he focused on his hands. “We all got hired that way. That’s not the same as having things handed to you.”
“You too...?”
“Yeah. That Hemlock guy.”
“Iseya,” Rian corrected.
“Right. Iseya. The counselor? Forgot he married the psych teacher. But I’m talking about the other Hemlock guy. His father.” Damon kept his gaze down, rather than letting the curiosity in Rian’s voice draw him to meet hazel eyes; instead he watched his fingers as he started slicing the beef into thin, precise strips of white-veined red. “His dad was some kind of bigshot here, before he died when Hemlock was just a kid. Did a lot of local work. My parents knew him. Involved with a lot of charity stuff together. When I was looking for a job after burning out on football in college and giving up on the Navy...” He shrugged. “A few people here remembered that. Easier to work here when you’re hometown, anyway.”
“Are you from Omen...?”
“Mostly,” Damon said tightly. “As much as I can remember. Though my parents moved from Omen up to Vermont to retire.”
In his peripheral vision, he caught white hands moving delicately, replacing the yellow pepper with a red one, washing it just as meticulously. “I don’t understand...as much as you can remember?”
“I mean I don’t know where I’m from,” Damon threw out, more harshly than he intended. “I’m adopted.”
Rian’s breath sucked in. “...oh.” Then, “I’m sorry.”