The Search for Juno

Chapter XXIV

"This is unbelievably stupid, Al. Even for you."

Alex gave a final yank on his tie, meeting Conny's eyes in the reflection of the hall mirror. "Well hey to you too, I guess."

"I'm serious." Conny stepped closer, until the lamplight flooded his face, making the disdain in his cold eyes plain and undeniable. "I know you think I hate Remy—"

"Because you do."

Conny rolled his eyes. "Okay, yes, I do. But I'm not saying this because I hate him. I'm saying this because I don't think it's a good idea to tell him anything. I mean, in what universe would that turn out okay? You should have sent him away the second he got here."

"I'm not going to tell him anything," said Alex, passing a few hands over his hair and spinning around, facing his brother. From just down the hall came the faint, eerie tone of the Harry Potter theme; June, terribly hungover, had camped herself out on the living room couch early this morning and had not moved since. "We're just going out for dinner. You know. Like couples do."

"Alex—"

"Conny, for God's sake, take a chill pill. You're starting to make me anxious."

Conny did not at all look like he wanted to take a chill pill, but whatever red-faced outburst that might have ensued was interrupted by the chime of the doorbell.

"Use protection!" June called, quite unhelpfully.

Conny shuddered.

"That's my cue," said Alex, silver key trembling from his ear as he gave a quick nod. He turned for the front door, but Conny stopped him.

"Don't wear a tie, idiot," Conny snapped, deftly pulling it free and tossing it over the banister. "This isn't prom."

Alex had a distinct memory of that night ending in copious amounts of vomit and embarrassment. He said, "Thank goodness."

"Get out of my sight," Conny said, and anyone else might have said that the tilt to his mouth was from anger. Alex, however, knew him better than that.

Remy stood on the doorstep, his curls clean and slick, curving in an elegant wave against the collar of his crisp dress shirt. A silver watch Alex had never seen on him before glinted against the porch light as Remy leaned forward, extending his hand.

"Took you long enough," said Remy, flashing a grin. "Now. Shall we?"

Alex could remember with a brutal clarity the last time he'd set foot in an Italian restaurant, or at least one so substantial.

He'd been younger, four years younger, his eyes darting from the deep, maroon walls to Dolinski's finely-lined face and back again. There was a plate of chicken parm in front of him, but he let it grow cold. It was the night he gave up everything for the syndicate, the night his knack for shooting would become more than just something he practiced in the shed behind the Morganthau house. His destruction, his birth. Even now he still didn't know how to classify it.

Remy's choice was a bit smaller, the lights a dim, atmospheric gold, exposed brick walls gleaming dully underneath it. Black and white photos of old Italian actors and actresses lined the walls, a romantic song with a tumbling guitar riff humming from the speakers.

They sat by the window, at a small, round table with a circle of flickering votive candles in its center. The waitress had barely set their drinks down when a sudden onslaught of rain washed the streets in gray, water slapping against the windows.