Chapter 17

Who was in his underwear, fighting with a white dress shirt.

“I thought you were a big boy who could dress himself.”

“Shut up.”

Julian had the shirt mostly on, though unbuttoned; what seemed to have stymied him were the cuff buttons. He was scrabbling and twisting at his wrist in a way that reminded Rafi of a dog chasing his tail. Rafi leaned against the doorway and watched in open amusement as Julian swore under his breath with mounting viciousness—then turned and thrust his hand out at Rafi. “You do it, then, if you’re so much more competent!”

“Oh.” Rafi felt oddly uncertain as he stepped closer; all he could think of, for a moment, was Bo. Helping her dress for big events, doing up zippers and clasping necklaces—a sweet note of intimacy, domesticity, in the midst of high glamour.

Julian’s hand was palm-up, fingers lightly curled; the pose was lazy and elegant, beckoning and mocking in equal measure. Delicate veins showed blue through the pale skin of his wrist.