The Same Place (The Lamb and the Lion #2) - Gregory Ashe Page 0,79
her hair, and Jem couldn’t tell if the flower was real or fake. Then, after a while, he couldn’t tell if the crying was fake either. At first he’d thought the guys were her sons—they were young, and he guessed they were Latino. One of them had light brown skin the exact same shade as Tean’s. Both of the guys had neck tattoos. Mom—if she was Mom—was white. She had a neck tattoo too. Then one of the guys gave her a kiss that was sixty percent tongue, and Jem figured she probably wasn’t their mom after all.
“You beat me,” Tean said. The doc’s wild hair was pushed straight back again, looking a little bit like a mushroom cloud. The poor guy was worried. It was easy to tell with him; all the signs were right on the surface. Good, Jem thought. Let him worry.
“Glasses,” Jem said.
Tean caught them right before they fell off his face.
Standing, Jem said, “I guess we’d better get in there.”
“Hold on. I want to know what happened today. You said it was a weird day. You don’t . . .”
“I don’t what?”
“I don’t know,” Tean said. “You’re giving me a weird vibe. I know you’re mad at me, but it’s more than that.”
“I’m not mad at you.”
“Of course you are, but you also seem like you’re upset or hurt or sad about something else, and I—”
“I think I’d know if I was mad at you. Don’t you think? If one of us would know, don’t you think it’d be me?”
The doc pushed his hair back with both hands.
Jem turned and went inside, and Tean followed. They gave their names to a woman and explained that they were there to see Detective Ammon Young. She nodded and promised to let him know. Then there wasn’t anything else for them to do. The lobby continued the glass-and-steel amoeba theme, and it was full of echoes. A pair of kids—a boy who was probably four, and a girl who was probably six—were playing tag, their shoes squeaking on the concrete floor. A young guy, probably not yet twenty, was sitting in a molded-plastic chair and holding an ice pack to his face. Down a small corridor, a middle-aged woman was having an argument on a payphone.
“I know that, Dad. I understand that, Dad. Oh my God, you never even listen to me.”
Jem dropped onto an empty bench, and Tean sat at the other end. Then, after a minute, Tean slid along the bench until his hip bumped against Jem’s. Jem scooted away. Another minute passed. Then Tean set his jaw and slid along the bench again. Jem scooted a few more inches. Tean started to slide.
“Just stop,” Jem said. “Jesus Christ, I’m half-cheeking it as it is.”
“Well, quit trying to get away.”
“I don’t want to sit next to you. You’re the one who hates being touched and always squirms away. Give me a few fucking inches.”
“No.”
“Excuse me?”
Tean shoved his glasses back up; the gesture looked reckless and almost made Jem smile. “You heard me.”
“What the hell has gotten into you?”
“Get back on this bench, mister. Right now.”
From the short hallway came the sound of the middle-aged woman’s voice: “Jeez, Dad. You’re so unfair! You’re ruining my life!”
“Mister?” Jem said.
“I think she got in my head,” Tean said, waving at the hallway, “you know, channeling her inner sixteen-year-old. I’m literally hearing echoes of my dad right now. Is it too late for me to retract that?”
Jem scooted back onto the bench until his hip and thigh and knee were pressed against Tean’s. After a moment, the doc screwed up his face and put an arm around Jem.
Burying his face in his hands, Jem laughed.
“What?” Tean sounded both outraged and embarrassed. “Am I doing it wrong?”
“No.”
“I am.”
“No, you’re doing fine.”
“Then what?”
“Nothing,” Jem said. “Maybe just don’t make a face like you’re about to kiss a cobra the next time you put your arm around a guy.”
“Oh.”
“Definitely don’t do it on your date with Orion.”
“Ok.”
“You hate this. I know you hate this. You don’t have to do it.”
“I don’t hate it,” Tean said. He gave a little pull, and Jem leaned into him, his head resting on Tean’s shoulder. “I’m just not very good at it.”
“You’re doing all right,” Jem said. He barely heard himself. He was focused on the warmth of Tean’s body, the smell of range grass and pine, the feather-light uncertainty of the doc’s arm around his shoulders.