The Bride Test (The Kiss Quotient 2)

“What are you doing?” Khai asked.

“Sending a picture of your beard to Vy. You look kinda like Godfrey Gao right now.”

Khai rolled his eyes and scratched at his face. How long had it been since he’d shaved? He couldn’t remember. The past days were a mess of chaos in his mind.

“I’m not joking. Look at you,” Quan said, holding up his phone with the snapshot of Khai on it. As far as Khai was concerned, he looked less like a movie star and more like a drug addict, but what did he know?

Just then, message boxes from Vy flashed on the screen.

Oh momma.

Tell him to keep it.

Rawr.

Khai grimaced and rubbed at the back of his neck. “Not sure if I like my sister rawring at me.”

Quan laughed before his expression went serious. “Only Esme can, right?”

Khai thought that over for a few seconds before nodding once. Attraction, sex, lust, and wanting all orbited around one focal point for him. The focal point was Esme.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said at Michael’s wedding, about how you’re not in love, and I dunno. Maybe you’re not, but this . . .” Quan motioned at the open windows, the cup collecting dust on the table, and Khai’s couch-ridden form before resting his elbows on his knees and leaning toward him. “This is you being sad, Khai.”

He frowned at his brother. What bullshit was this? “I’m not sad. I have the flu.”

Quan stretched his head from side to side until his neck audibly popped. “You know you’ve been like this before, right? It’s a predictable pattern with you.”

“Yes, I’ve had the flu before.”

“I’m talking about being heartbroken,” Quan said, his eyes delving into Khai’s in an uncomfortable way.

Khai’s body stiffened. “I’m not. I—”

“Do you remember when Mom and Dad separated when we were little?” Quan asked quietly.

“A little. They were together, and then one day they weren’t. It was fine.” He shrugged.

“Except you weren’t fine. You stopped talking, and you got so clumsy you had to stay home from school for two weeks.” An ironic smile touched Quan’s mouth. “I remember because there was no one to take care of you, so I had to stay home, too. I made us ramen in the microwave, and you were upset because there was no poached egg like when Mom cooks it.”

“I don’t remember any of that.” And what he did remember was neutral and colorless, flat. He’d been told to give his dad one last hug before he left town for good. He remembered hugging a person who used to be everything and feeling . . . nothing.

“Maybe you were too young. How about . . . after Andy’s funeral. Do you remember that?”

An irritated sensation scratched up Khai’s back, and he kicked his blanket off, suddenly needing to be free. He wanted to brush his teeth and shower, shut all the windows, and maybe put that cup in the dishwasher. Wait, no, he wasn’t ready to put the cup away yet. “Yeah, I remember. I was fine.” Too fine. “Can we not talk about this?”

“Why?”

“There’s no point. I wasn’t heartbroken then, and I’m not now.” Stone hearts didn’t break. They were too hard. “I’m like a Terminator with logic programming and no feelings.” He stretched his lips into a plastic smile.

Quan rolled his eyes. “What a load of shit. Are you going to say you don’t love at all? I know you love me.”

Khai tilted his head to the side. He’d never thought about that before.

“There is literally nothing you can say to make me believe you don’t,” Quan said with absolute confidence. “Go ahead. Try.”

“I hardly ever do things with you, and we don’t have a bunch of similar interests, and—”

“And you never forget my birthday, and you always share your food with me even when it’s your favorite, and I know anytime I need something, I can count on you, no matter what,” Quan finished.