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I watched him shift in his seat, looking uncomfortable for the first time since the interview started.
“So things are still rocky between the two of you?”
“Not at all,” he lied. “We’re great. He’s just busy with his own stuff.”
“Like what?” she asked. “I’m sure our viewers would love to know what he’s up to.”
My brother’s jaw clenched. “Last I heard he was training to climb Everest.”
Motherfucker.
“Think he’s going to run a few marathons first, get back in shape, and then go for it.”
I sat back on my heels wondering where he came up with this stuff. Didn’t he know how easily checked that was? I’d rather chew gum I scraped off the sidewalk than run a fucking marathon. What the hell was wrong with him? Then again, the more I stayed out of the spotlight, the easier it was for him to imagine bolder and bolder explanations for why I was too busy to write songs for him anymore.
Last year he said I was planning to sail the world. The year before that I was supposedly volunteering in South Africa. I was starting to think he was genuinely embarrassed by the life I was actually living.
Fucking Everest. Asshole knows I hate the cold. And that get back in shape comment? I was never out of shape. That was him. He was the one who got addicted to pain meds and spent two years in rehab trying to hide the fact that he was the fat twin all of a sudden.
Back in shape. Unbelievable. I hoped my parents were watching this horseshit. Maybe then they’d understand why my visits were so few and far between.
It wasn’t just Max, though. I couldn’t stand L.A. Sure, the weather was great, but it was so hard to be real with people. Everyone either wants something from you or wants you to want something from them, and no one ever says what they mean, much less anything of substance. And having been in the spotlight before, it’s impossible to go unrecognized there.
But that fame? It's not real. If anything, it masks anything that is real. Which is why I couldn’t bring myself to be madder at my brother for inventing his own reality. After all, why shouldn’t he? He lived in a place where you were only as legit as the rumors you started about yourself.
I grabbed the small towel next to my mat and wiped it down before patting the beads of sweat off my brow. Then I slapped the towel over my bare shoulder and turned the TV up a few notches so I could hear his new single, which apparently launched last week.
Of course, you’d have to listen to the radio to know that, an activity I avoided since I found most of the songs littering today’s pop charts were exactly that: trash.
“How about that?” I asked Otis, pointing at the TV. “He’s playing the guitar.” Not very convincingly, but I was proud of him for trying instead of relying on his voice like he’d done in the past. Shame he hadn’t started sooner. He wasn’t half bad. Good enough to fool someone who didn’t know those four chords, anyway.
I listened to the song, genuinely hoping I’d like it, but the more I listened, the more forgettable it became. Even the bridge lacked punch. But that was only my opinion.
Sarah seemed to like it. So did the studio audience.
And I found myself hoping I was wrong, hoping it would be a hit. Hoping it would make him as famous and rich as he always wanted to be.
