Working Title

Let me start off by saying, I don't know what this is or where this story is going. It's been hounding me for months, needling my brain with its insistence to be written down (despite the fact that I have so many other things to do).

I've kept it on my laptop to marinate, but I suppose it's time to give the story wings.

Please don't ask what's going to happen, where it's going, or if there's going to be sex. I can't answer any of those questions because I'm as in the dark as you.

I hope you'll come on this trip with me; it's shaping up to be an interesting one.

Rosi

***

"How do you want it?"

What a question. The waiter didn't mean anything by it, I was sure. Though my Spanx, full face of makeup, and cleavage sitting on the table kinda hoped he did. Hoped he was mentally transmitting images to my date of the cool sheets, head board slamming, knock your socks off sex variety.

"She'll have it medium well, and I'll have the same," Dan—nope that wasn't right and for the life of me I couldn't remember my date's name—delivered smoothly like we'd talked about this. Like we talked AT ALL. So far, all I knew was that he drove a nice, expensive car, dressed to impress, and understood the ostentatious, French menu.

This is such a waste of time. I knew it and he probably knew it too. But decorum dictated we do this dance. So instead of getting up, hailing a cab, and planting myself on my couch with my laptop and reviewing a grant application for next Thursday, I sat and smiled and pretended to like my steak medium-well.

"Medium-well," the waiter said with a hint of surprise. "Is that right?"

Flipping my eyes up to the waiter, I nodded. "Sure."

His eyebrow shot up as he waited and waited and waited. Finally, Derick—or was it David? Dick maybe—cleared his throat. "We're done."

The waiter never took his eyes off me and the longer he stared the more something pushed at me from the back of my memories. I'd known a fair amount of men in my 32 years, a lot of them black, a few of them white, but I couldn't remember any Middle Easterners. Or was he Medaterianan?

Something close to the sea and in the East if the hue of his skin and the tilt of his eyes said anything. The way he was looking at me made it clear that this wasn't our first meeting, but he didn't offer the familiarity of school friends, ex-lovers, or that strange acquaintanceship of a friend-of-a-friend.

"Of course," he said smoothly, just a hint of an accent that let me know he hadn't been born here, or maybe English wasn't the main language at home, coming through. "I'll be back with your drinks."

The niggling in the back of my mind intensified as I reached forward to sip at my cool, lemon water. Maybe that Spanish immersion summer camp? Or what about Michelle's 21st at—

"Do you know him?" David—I was 93% sure his name was David—asked, steepling his fingers.

I shrugged as I set my water back down, trying and failing not to fidget as the liquid hit my constricted stomach. Damn Spanx were too tight. "Not sure. You know when you see a face but can't place it."

"No."

Oh. "So, David, you're with Heather's law firm?" I switched the conversation quickly, trying to salvage this date.

"It's Patrick, actually," he corrected, glancing down at the gold watch on his wrist and then back at me. "And yes, I am. Heather tells me you're a writer."

"Actually a Scientific Review Officer. For the NIH."

"NIH?"

"National Institute of Health."

"Is there a lot of writing in that job?"

"Not like you're thinking."

Instead of responding, he reached for his water and took a sip.

This is just going so well. So freaking well. Might start planning the wedding.

Trying to keep my mental snark in check was a full time job and I was off the clock tonight. This was a shit show that I'd smelled a mile away when Heather had had to practically beg me to go on this blind date. He was everything I didn't like about wealthy men: snobbish, entitled, and elitist. I dealt with his type on a daily basis, and when I got home I didn't want to deal with it. I'd known from her description it wouldn't work, but 32 and single was a desperate age. So I'd thrown concrete reasoning and deduction out the window in favor of "giving it a try."

"Here we are," the waiter, who I was pretty sure I knew but couldn't place, interrupted with practiced ease, setting down my gin and tonic and David—no, Patrick's—old fashioned.

"Thank you," I said automatically, already reaching forward to take a much needed gulp.

"No problem, Stripes."

Stripes? The niggling increased, wiggling to the front of my brain as I snapped my head to look at the man. Had to be at least five years younger than me. But tall. Really tall. Wavy brown hair with a slight curl, just like his mom.

His mom.

"Jor..." I said slowly, seeing if the name fit on my tongue. His smile crinkled the corners of his eyes and brought out the dimple in his right cheek. A dimple I'd poked at incessantly during one of the summer's at my dad's place. Well, not really my dad's; he'd split the time between his house and his new girlfriend, Monika's house. Monika with the three kids: all boys with the youngest being Jordan. Jor.

My body reacted before my mind could: bolting up, wrapping Jor in a tight hug, laughing in shock and delight and maybe just a touch of uncertainty.

For three months, Jor had been my entire world. At twelve, so much had started to change from getting my first period and experiencing all the pitfalls that came with having a uterus to accepting that my parents divorce was permanent as my father introduced me to Monika and kissed her on the lips. I'd felt strange, on the cusp of tween-age with the maturity level of an eight year-old. Jor knocked that right out of me with bubbling laughter, animal crackers, and his obsessive need for me to read him Harry Potter novels.

Jor's arms envelopes him as fast as mine had him: bigger, hairier, and way more muscular than I remember. Gone were the gangly limbs of a toddler-becoming-child, replaced by a man's arms. And height! Jor had barely come to my unusually tall, five foot shoulders. Now, my head just cleared his chest. In two and a half inch wedges. Gone was the little boy who couldn't say his "r"s and insisted on being barefoot everywhere, replaced by a hairy, scruffy, giant of a man.

"Chetorin, azizam?" Jor said softly, pulling me closer and burying his face in my perfectly styled updo.

"Ayanna," Patrick interrupted hesitantly as I finally pulled back from Jor. "Who is this?"

"My brother," I said instantly, my smile nearly breaking my face.

A grimace crossed Jor's face, dimming his smile for all of one second. "It's been awhile, Stripes."

I smiled like a maniac, shaking my head at his childhood nickname for me. I'd completely forgotten about it—even the circumstances that gave me the nickname. Tigger pajamas my mom had bought me for visit to my dad's, a small bribe for a child who didn't want to visit her father and the woman who might be "new mommy." But that's not how it worked between him and Monika. Just one summer. It was always only one summer for any of them.

"Are you going to introduce us?" Patrick prodded, forcing me to finally look at him and the right mask of civility he wore.

Right. I was still on a date. "Patrick, this is Jordan. Jor, Patrick."

He smiled at my use of his nickname before stepping back. "As much as I'd love to catch up, I'm still on the clock."

Of course. I almost conked my head, blushing as I slid back into my seat. "Oh my god. Right. Sorry. It's just—"

"Been forever," he finished with a nod and smile. "Alright, I'm going to check on your food and give you a few minutes." With the easy practice of someone who had waited for years, Jor slipped away.

"So that was your brother?" Patrick questioned around the rim of his drink.

I blinked at him, still stunned and a little off kilter. How he'd even still recognized me after nearly twenty years was crazy. Not that the fundamentals had really changed, but still.

My hand shook as I reached for my water, not trusting myself with the gin and tonic just yet. A calming sip later, I answered, "Yeah."

He nodded slowly, taking another sip. I knew what he wanted to ask: different mother or father? Step?

Jor and I couldn't have looked more different if we'd purposely tried. I'd inherited my mother's darker complexion from her Carribean roots while my father's Panamanian heritage shown in my eyes and hair. College opened the door to meet all types. My father, the exchange student getting his PhD in Electrical Engineering and my mother, the 2nd generation Antiguan sophomore getting her Bachelor's in Mathematics. She'd been the oddity in the STEM buildings, hard to miss as a woman and one of color at that. My father, as mom'd told me, had been exotic, with a killer body acquired through hard work on his grandfather's guava orchard and a whip-smart mind. They'd come together in passion and parted the same way; to say it was a messy divorce was putting it mildly.

"He's the son of my dad's ex-girlfriend. We grew up together," I supplied after a long minute.

Finally, he lowered his glass. "Ah." He opened his mouth to add something else, closed it, and opened it again. "You were really cute just now. Pretty adorable."

I felt the blush spread across my cheeks as I went to push my hair behind my ear, only to remember I'd put it up. My usual three-step beauty routine of moisturizer, coconut flavored chapstick, and a brush dragged hurriedly through my hair had been taken over by the thirty-step first date jitters program.

"Do you, um, have any siblings?"

"Seven."

"You're shitting me!" I gasped before I could stop, slapping a hand over my mouth in the next second.

Patrick let out a low laugh, relaxing enough to lean his elbows on the table. This time the smile he wore was genuine. "I shit you not. It's actually less than my mother wanted."

As Patrick started to tell me more about his family and their antics I started to get why Heather thought he'd be a good match. Sure he was stiff, but there was obvious warmth when it came to his family and hopes about the future.

I just knew that future wouldn't be with me. As we talked and got to know each other it was patently obvious that our ideas of family, relationship, and career didn't match up.

He wanted biological kids. Four of them.

I wanted to adopt one or two.

He eventually wanted to settle into suburbia and run a practice from home.

I couldn't imagine living anywhere without decent public transit, a medley of restaurants, and the animosity cities provided.

That didn't mean the date was a bust. In fact, it was refreshing to go on a date with a man that had goals and plans, that felt comfortable with himself. It was obvious Patrick wasn't looking for a mother figure or house-bunny; he wanted the American dream with all its layers of domesticity and patriarchy.

That wasn't gonna be me.

Dinner passed quickly and amiably, but the entire time I couldn't help but wonder about Jor. Never in a million years had I thought to see him in New York. Houston, sure, maybe. If I ever went back there to mend the rift between my father and I, or vacation (it was anyone's guess), but not here. As a waiter. In a fancy pants French restaurant. What had happened with him these last twenty years? I knew I wasn't the same person, though my cores of loving animal crackers, Harry Potter, and patterns remained the same. Had his love of being barefoot, jumping from trees, and braiding hair remained the same as well?

I snagged another glance at him and the small bun at his nape which looked like it contained enough hair to braid. So it was a maybe then.

"I really enjoyed tonight," Patrick said, buttons undone at his throat, sleeves rolled up. He'd relaxed in increments, a button here, a roll there, until he was just forearms and a light dusting of blond chest hair.

"Me too," I agreed, pleased that the pain of Spanx hadn't been for nothing.

Patrick reaches for the check as it was dropped off. "Let me get this."

I waved him away as I reached in my purse. "We'll split."

"No, really, I'd like—"

I slid my credit card into the sleeve and lightly touched his wrist, making him pause. "Half and half. Even split."

He shook his head with a small smile as if he didn't know what to do before he pulled out some bills and slid them into the folder.

I didn't even notice Jor come back to take the folder or drop it off again. Patrick might not be future material but the forearms were giving me dreams about a very satisfying night.

His eyes warmed as his hand reached across the crisp white linen of the table cloth. "If you want, we could—"

"Are you leaving?" Jor interrupted from my right, making me start. Damn, the man was like a ghost.

"Oh. Uh, yeah."

"I'm actually getting off in a few minutes. Was wondering if you had time to catch up?" His eyes skipped from my face to Patrick's outstretched hand. "But if you have plans..."

I looked to Patrick and could practically feel the orgasms his eyes promised. Nice, sweaty ones. But I didn't know when I'd see Jor again and I had so many questions. Curiosity trumped sex.

Patrick saw the moment I made my decision and easily pulled back with a confident smile. "Go catch up with your brother. I'd love to do this again sometime."

"Me too. Let's text."

He smirked and raised a brow before coming over and giving me a lingering kiss on the cheek. "I'll call you."

Well damn. I stood there for a full minute before Jor put his hand at the small of my back, nodding to the reception area. "I'll meet you out front on the sidewalk in ten. Just let me close out my section."

"Okay. Sure." This whole thing felt surreal. I'd had the random "I wonder what he's up to thought" about Jor on and off for years, but had never taken any initiative to reach out and find him. We'd been close that summer. From joint birthday parties because we were only three weeks apart, to sleeping in the same bed, both cuddling up to tiger, and backyard adventures for bugs, there'd been nothing to separate us. Except time.

I'd had to leave and go back to Austin for the new school year, but Jor hadn't really understood. My everyday occurance in his life has been a given, like the sun rising and setting. Until I'd had to pack. The sun didn't pack. And he'd thrown a tantrum until he wore himself out, and while he slept my mom picked me up and drove us back home.

That was shitty of me. Even at twelve, I knew it was wrong.

Shrugging into the jacket the coat check attendant held out for me, I belted the tartan peacoat and slipped a tip into the attendant's jar. Winter in the Big Apple was no joke and dictated woolen hats, mittens, and a scarf that took over most of your face and muffled your voice beyond recognition.

Stepping out into the cold night air, I regretted my updo as a bit of my earlobes not covered by my hat immediately started to freeze. It was moments like these I wondered why I ever moved from sunny, warm Austin. So sunny. So warm.

"Hey, Stripes," Jor called our, jogging from around a corner. "Sorry to keep you waiting. You could have stayed inside."

I shook my head and offered him a smile realizing a moment later when her frowned that with the scarf her couldn't really see my face. "I had to acclimate to the weather."

"Is that was the bundled babushka look is?" he teased, setting a gloved land on my hip and steering me down the street.

"It's called staying warm. Something you could learn about, Mr. Frostbite Candidate."

He glanced down at his brown, fur-lined coat that fell to his knees than held up his gloved hands and pointed to the black ski cap on his head. "What about this says Frostbite Candidate."

"The face. You're asking for wind burn and red cheeks."

"You could always share that humungus scarf," he drawled, reaching up with the hand not at my hip to give my matching tartan scarf a tug.

I jerked away with a playful swat. "Not on your life. Now where are we going?"

He smiled and turned forward. "Didn't think you were that hungry, but there's a 24-hour coffee shop around the corner. It's pretty quiet when NYUs on break and they haven't switched to their Winter schedule yet."

"Coffee shop works. I need a little caffeine if I'm going to get through the papers anyway."

"Are you in school?"

"No, I'm an SRO."

"SRO?"

Right, I always forgot that the rest of the world didn't live by government acronyms. "Scientific Review Officer. I look at sciency words all day."

"Oh, nice."

We continued to chat in the ten minutes it took to walk to the coffee shop, getting to know the basics of who we had become before diving into the more murky water of who we'd been and family.

I left out a relieved sigh as we entered the warm confines of the shop, already getting a shot of adrenaline with the coffee-lined air. Jor spotted a table with two white egg-shaped chairs that I could just imagine college students curling up in as they lightly napped or typed out assignments.

"Get comfy and I'll grab us something. Anything you want in particular?"

"Decaf latte."

"Thought you wanted the caffeine?"

"I'm getting energized enough with what's in the air."

He chuckled, walking toward the counter before I could reach in my bag and grab my wallet. I thought about going to the counter with him, but didn't want to lose our table. A few minutes later, Jor came back, two paper cups in his hand with packets of super held between his fingers.

"Here we go," he said, setting them cups down before sliding into the seat across from me. "God, I can't believe how random this is."

"Right!" I agreed, ripping open two sugar packets and dumping them in my cup. "Thanks for the coffee, Jor," I added, picking up the stirrer and beginning to blend my drink.

"Don't worry about it. I kind of co-opted your date as it is."

"It's okay. I'll probably see him again."

"You will?" Surprise was evident in his voice even as he tried to hide it behind his cup.

"Maybe."

He took a long sip of his coffee before saying, "So twenty years."

"Crazy how time flies isn't it?"

"Thought it was just yesterday you were reading me Chamber of Secrets and making up pronunciations for all the words you didn't know."

"Hey!" I cried indigently, "I tried my best. Plus you were six; you didn't even know I was saying them wrong."

"You have me there," he laughed, the sound warming me more than the coffee. "How's your dad by the way?"

I was asked this question enough by my mother that I'd perfected the art of giving none of my emotions away. "Wouldn't know. We don't speak. How's your mom?"

"I would hope at peace, but she didn't exactly live her life on the straight and narrow." When I frowned, he elaborated, "She died. Overdose."

Oh God. I reached out by instinct, laying my hand on his knee. "I'm so sorry, Jor."

He gripped my hand, giving it a squeezing. "It was years ago. We weren't exactly on the best terms when it happened."

"Still. She was your mom."

He nodded, "Yeah, she was."

The air was heavy with things he didn't say and I didn't ask. He would tell me if he wanted to, but I didn't feel like I had the right in this tentative reconnection to ask him to open that wound. "Your brothers...?" I was cautious now, not wanting to trigger anymore landmines.

"Not half bad. Neshant got married to his long term boyfriend a few years back and they just adopted a pair of twins. Cutest little babies you ever did see. Boy and girl. Marco joined the military straight outta college when he couldn't find a job and does IT for Navy or Army or something. He's working overseas at one of the embassies right now."