But his experience with the opposite sex started and stopped there—those three not-really-serious relationships, and then Aliesha. In all, four first dates.

He wasn’t sure the first date with Giselle really counted as a date since they’d bumped into each other at a club—literally—and she’d wrapped her arms around him and pulled him onto a dance floor. From there, they’d ended up in her flat, a place that wasn’t much bigger than the bathroom he had now. In that flat, he’d learned more about the female body than he had ever dreamed it was possible to learn.

Because they had totally sucked, Trey decided not to count the first disastrous dates he’d had since Aliesha’s death.

It wasn’t a lot of experience. Trey realized that. Maybe that was why he was almost as nervous now as he had been the day he’d shown up to take Marisol Hammonds to the junior prom—she’d been girlfriend number one and they’d been together from sophomore up until right before their senior year. That was when she realized she was more into jocks and she’d broken up with him by way of leaving a message on the answering machine. His brothers had ragged him something awful about that.

Actually, he thought he was more nervous now. Back then, he hadn’t stood and stared stupidly at his clothes for ten minutes before finally deciding that absolutely, it was just fine to wear a button-down shirt and a nice pair of trousers.

When he realized he was second-guessing the choices again, he scowled at his reflection. Enough already, man. Keep this up and you’ll never make it out the door.

Clayton had poked his head into the bedroom, eying him with wide, puzzled eyes. “Why are you wearing your dress-up stuff? We can’t go to church. It’s Friday. Did somebody die? Nobody died, did they?”

“Nobody died.” The rush of questions had Trey smiling. “And no, we’re not going to church, although Grandma Mona wants us to come with her to church soon. She’s been asking—I just keep forgetting.”

“Okay.” Clayton slid inside the room and took a running leap to land on Trey’s bed. “Why you wearing nice clothes?”

“Remember what I told you earlier?”

Clayton’s forehead wrinkled. “The date thing. Oh, yeah. You and Miss Ressa are going out on a date.” For a minute, just a minute, he forgot his concern over the dress clothes. “I knew you thought she was pretty.”

“You never miss a thing, do you, pal?”

“Why you gotta wear nice clothes if you’re just going to take a girl to a restaurant? Is she going to be your girlfriend? Like Keelie is Uncle Zane’s girlfriend? Are you going to—”

“Let’s try one question at a time,” Trey suggested. Tucking his shirt in, he moved back to the closet and studied his belts. Before he could start the deliberation thing, he just grabbed one at random. It was black. His shirt was some kind of grayish blue, pants were black. The belt would work. No deliberation needed.

Turning away before he could think about it another second, he eyed Clayton. “I’m wearing nice clothes because I bet Miss Ressa will wear them and I want to do the same thing.”

“Why?” Clayton crossed his legs and focused his attention on Trey. These questions—and the answers—were serious stuff, in Clayton’s mind. Of course, all questions were serious in Clayton’s mind. Even the very silly, and very strange ones.

“If she goes to the trouble of looking nice, I should do the same.”

Clayton shrugged. “You should just tell her to wear jeans, then you could, too.”

“Well. . . .” Trey pretended to think that over. “I guess I could, but I think Ressa would rather wear what she wants to wear.”

“But then you have to wear stupid dress clothes.”

“I bet Ressa won’t think they are stupid.” He moved to the bed and caught Clayton’s nose, tugged it. “Your aunt Abby loves seeing Zach dressed up. And think about how all those magazines and TV shows go on and on about Uncle Sebastian when he gets all dressed up.”

“Those are goofy.” Clayton rolled his eyes. Then he looked down, plucked at a loose thread on his shirt. “A boy at school called me a dumb liar. I saw a poster with Uncle Sebastian on it and I said who he was and the boy said I was lying.”

Trey sighed and crouched down in front of him. “You might hear that some. You know you’re not lying.”

“Everybody was going on and on about how awesome he was. I really know him. He’s my uncle. And they laughed at me.” Clayton’s lip poked out.

“I’m sorry.” He hugged Clayton closer, brooding. “You need to remember, though. Sebastian is your uncle—he’s not a prize to brag about or anything.”

“I wasn’t bragging.” Clayton’s thin shoulders rose and fell. “There was one girl who said her sister likes to kiss his poster—that’s weird. Isn’t that weird?”

“Very.” Easing back, Trey ruffled his hair. “You should have seen some of the girls I went to school with and how they acted about Uncle Zach. I bet they were just as weird.”

“Girls are weird.” Clayton sniffled. Then he said, “Neeci isn’t, though. Neeci is just Neeci. She believes me. She said she’s never seen any of his movies, but she believes me.” At that, Clayton slid Trey a sly look. “I told her I hadn’t seen too many of them, either. It’s not fair. He’s my uncle. I should be able to see more.”

“Nice try.” Trey grinned. “When you’re older. Besides, there’s that one coming out on Blu-ray soon—you were too little to see it in the theater last summer, but we can watch it together now.”

“But—”

Clayton’s would-be argument was interrupted by the sound of a chime—the alarm system Travis had nagged him into installing years ago—its computerized little voice announcing. Front door—

“Anybody here?”

Clayton’s eyes rounded and he bounced up off the bed and ran down the hall. “Uncle Travis!”

“Sounds like,” Trey said. As Clayton pounded down the stairs, Trey grabbed his shoes, a pair of black leather ones—again, not giving himself any chance to deliberate.

He was halfway down the steps when he caught sight of his brother, and the worry punched a hole in him. Too thin. Too pale. Travis was even skinner than Trey was.

And if he asked what was wrong, Travis would lie through his teeth.

As though he’d heard his thoughts, Travis turned his head, met his gaze.

“Well. Look at you,” Travis mused.

“Look at you.” Trey told himself to ignore it. That was what he should do. Travis knew how to take care of himself. He’d been doing it for a long time, and Trey knew that. But right now, he looked like death warmed over. “Travis, hope you don’t mind me saying, but you look like . . .”

Travis lifted a brow and glanced at Clayton who was tearing into a bag.

“Yeah.” Travis shrugged. “Rough few days at work.”

What in the hell are they doing? Feeding you to the lions when you don’t crunch numbers fast enough?

A taut silence passed between them, as things Travis wouldn’t tell, and Trey wouldn’t ask, hummed in the air.

That silence was shattered by a shriek from Clayton.

“Cool!” Clayton yanked something out of the bag—it looked like a new video game. He flashed it at Trey and then tossed it down and ripped into the bag again.

Still staring at his brother, Trey moved the rest of the way down the stairs. If he let himself focus, he could catch the faintest edge, no matter how hard Travis tried to keep him out. Yeah, there it was . . . exhaustion, irritation . . . and a lingering pain. With a caustic smile, Trey asked, “So what are they making you do at work these days? Lay down on the road and let your clients drive trucks over you or what? That’s about the only thing I can think of that might make you look that run-down.”

“I’m fine.” Travis’s voice was short, almost brusque.

The hell you are. He glared at his twin and watched as Travis narrowed his eyes, glaring back. Then, because they didn’t have time for it now, he shrugged. “We can talk about it later, though. You in town long?”