Untouchable (boyxboy)

Chapter 8

Isaac makes no further mention of his confession, or of the awkward little kiss he'd stolen. I can't tell if he's letting it lie on purpose, or if it's just that he can only focus on one thing at a time—which is whatever happens to have his attention at the moment.

When we finish swimming, what has his attention is procuring sandwiches from a nearby deli, and then ice cream from his favorite shop. Like a ten-year-old with no parental supervision, he chooses the chocolate-peanut-butter-candy-crunch on a chocolate-dipped waffle cone drenched in sprinkles.

Call me boring, but I go with a scoop of coffee-flavored ice-cream in a paper cup.

After a few hours of walking and sight-seeing, we return to his uncle's house, where Reg invites us to watch a movie in his home theater. I decline, saying—honestly—that I'm tired, but Isaac looks disappointed and—oddly—a little concerned.

The following morning, I wake and come downstairs to find Reg's housekeeper-slash-cook in the kitchen, making breakfast.

"Just tell Ana what you want," Reg calls from the dining room. "She's a great chef."

I'm sure she is, but I feel weird having someone else serve me like that, even though I'm sure Reg pays her well.

"I'll just have some toast and coffee," I say, intending to get it myself; but apparently the kitchen is Ana's domain, at least when she's on the clock. In the cheeriest way possible she effectively communicates that I should sit the fuck down and let her make the damn toast.

I obey, and I have to admit that, even though it's just toast, she presents it like it's something special: little squares of soft melting butter on perfectly crisped bread, and homemade orange marmalade on the side.

When I finish eating, Isaac has yet to appear, and I wonder if he's a late riser or just sleeping in. Either way, I decide not to wait for him and head out on my first wedding-related mission: flowers.

After visiting every florist in the area, I've discovered one thing: flowers are fucking expensive.

Isaac had assured me that cost was no issue, so I'm not looking for the best deal—I'm looking for the best flowers.

I think I've found them, too, but there's a problem.

Apparently, most people book services like florists and caterers months—not weeks—in advance of the event. While the owner of Mountain Meadow Flowers has agreed to do Isabelle and Dylan's wedding, we have to pay an extra fee for the short notice. On top of the cost of what Isabelle wants—lilacs—we're looking at over five grand.

It seems insane to me that—in total—a one-day event could cost more than my whole college education—or at the very least a nice new car.

It's afternoon when I return to the house. Isaac is busy going over plans with his uncle, so I make use of the 'music room,' which Reg assured me is at my disposal.

It's really just an extension of the living area—a half-octagon with cushioned window seats, polished wood floors, and a glorious, shiny, black grand piano. Distressingly, Reg told me doesn't play, but he likes 'the vibe' and it's convenient when he hires live music for his parties.

It should be a crime for such an instrument to belong to someone who probably thinks middle C is a kind of vitamin, but it's not my place to judge.

I pull out the cushioned bench, sit down, and open the cover to reveal an expanse of pristine black and white keys.

I'm feeling a little dreamy and lazy, so I start with Debussy's Rêverie. The acoustics in the room are superb, and I feel the notes floating in the air, ringing with pure, clear tones.