yours.

[50] Jasper

The lasagna is delicious. When Miles tells me he made it, it's no surprise.

But his sisters are staring at me from across the table like they know some secret -- like they know -- and it's difficult to really enjoy the food.

"So, Jasper," Miles' mum starts after a while of chewing. "How have you been adjusting to your move?"

I swallow. The interrogation has begun. "Well. The house is nice, and my parents like the area."

"Have you made many friends?"

I beg myself not to blush. "Um, yes. Miles has been very kind to me."

Beside me, Miles grins.

We've kept a careful distance between us, with our arms resting inches apart and our chairs deliberately distant. So far, hiding my feelings for him has been surprisingly difficult, with the urge to hold his hand while I eat gnawing constantly at the back of my skull. All this, and we're only five minutes in. "I haven't exactly had many opportunities to meet others my age, but hopefully I will in the fall, when school starts." I inwardly cringe. This is dinner, Jasper, not a job interview.

"That's great. Are you working?"

I suppress a snort. "No, I'm still just trying to get used to the city first."

"That makes sense."

Miles' younger sister narrows her eyes at me, and I shift in my seat. "What do you and Miles do all day? You guys used to leave me home alone all the time, and I never even knew what you were doing."

"Oh, yes, Miles took me to the aquarium and the wax museum, and just all around town in general. He's been an excellent guide so far."

And on and on the questions go: "Are you excited to start school?" "How long will you live here?" "How long did you live in England?" "How is England?" They keep me busy, so busy that I barely make any progress on my meal, and Miles has to help me out by stealing bites from my plate. Not that I'm very hungry, anyway.

And all throughout dinner, Miles and I can't help slowly, incrementally closing the gap between us. After Lesley asks me a question about my hair, my knuckles brush Miles' forearm. When his mum comments on my house's landscaping, Miles discreetly scoots his chair both closer to the table and to me. And when Chelsea goes on a rant about the richness of British history, I can't stop myself from hooking my ankle around Miles', glancing at him furtively.

Miles and I are sharing a glance just like this when Chelsea asks me, "Do you have any siblings?" and my blood runs cold. I try to find an acceptable response, but just the thought of Max makes my throat close up. I thought I was making progress, talking to Miles about my brother more and more to normalize bringing him up in conversation, but clearly, I didn't. It still hurts to mention him, especially around new people.

Thankfully, Miles speaks up for me. "Nope. It's just him and his parents." But I don't know if his response makes me feel better or worse. It's like Max... never even existed. Which I guess he doesn't, anymore.

I look over at Miles. He still doesn't know the whole truth about Max -- I should probably tell him soon. That he's not just a... distant relative, that he's really dead. And he's not coming back.

Ever.

I'm drowned with the overwhelming urge to run, like I always am, but I know I can't. I don't want Miles' family to think I don't care enough to stay. And besides, my escape path isn't exactly clear, with multiple walls separating me from the front door. So, I remain firmly in my seat, though I can't stop my hands from trembling. Miles is the first to notice.

He nudges one of my shaking hands. "You okay?" he asks softly, and I know his family doesn't hear over Lesley's loud voice, which is now recounting the detailed story of her day. When I only nod, still unable to speak, Miles grazes his fingers against mine, fighting the urge to lock them. "Are you sure?"

"'M fine."

But he knows me better than that. Pushing away from the table, he rises to his feet, then helps me do the same. I notice the caring tenderness in his hands, in the way they hover near me, always there and ready to help. "Jasper has a curfew," he announces to his curious family members. "I want to make sure he gets home on time safe." I say my goodbyes to his mum and sisters, and Miles leads me to the front door, where I pull my shoes back on. Outside, on his front porch, he kisses me again, this time much less restrained than last.

When we break for air, I lean in to him, my palms flat against his chest. "Yay," I say quietly, and he chuckles. I feel the vibrations under my hands.

"See, that wasn't so bad, was it?"

"It kind of was." His brow crinkles in confusion, and I explain, "The last question, the one about Max. It kind of... shook me."

He frowns. "I'm sorry, Jas."

"No, no, it's fine. I should be used to it by now--"

"No, you shouldn't."

"Miles, really, it's fine--"

He squeezes me, cutting me off. "No. No, that's not something you should have to get used to, okay? It never is."

He doesn't even know the entire story, and he's still trying to be here for me. I hug him back, grateful. "Okay."

"Okay." Then he asks, "Do you actually have a curfew?"

"I've never gone out enough to need one."

"Great. I mean, not great, just... whatever. I'll see you tomorrow?" His tone is hopeful, but his words only help to bring my mood even lower. 

"See you tomorrow" just doesn't mean the same thing it used to anymore. Before, it was a promise, an assurance that today wasn't just a dream, that it can all happen again tomorrow. But now, knowing our hours together are limited, it's no more than a hope.

And in most cases -- for me, at least -- hope only leads to disappointment.

"Right," I say to him, my gaze dropping. "See you tomorrow."