Silence. Not the kind I was enjoying before my brother, who is only older than me by two minutes, polluted the kitchen where we used to play gin rummy every Friday night while our mom froze that night's casserole for the future.
He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Look, I didn’t come down here to fight.”
“Then what did you come down for?”
“Tea.”
“Mom made some. Help yourself.”
He does, rummaging through the cabinet for a mug. When he turns back, I can’t help noticing how he’s changed. More lines around his mouth and more tension in his shoulders. His voice even sounds different, like he’s been practicing in front of a mirror for an audition. I miss when he made a dumb face before guffawing like a hyena from one of his equally dumb buddy’s jokes. Can you believe this guy was the class clown our junior year at Marshfield High?
He’s lost whatever humanity he used to have.
“Mom said Edie’s coming tomorrow,” he says casually, stirring his tea.
“Yeah.”
“Thought she might not show.”
“Why? You dumped her, remember?”
He flinches, but covers it with a smirk. “We weren’t right for each other.”
“That right?”
“She’s a nice girl. But she’s not… what I need for my plans.”
I lean back in my chair. “And what do you need, Nick? Someone photogenic? Someone who won’t embarrass you when the papers start printing campaign photos?”
His jaw tightens. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“Oh, try me.”
He sets the spoon down. “It’s complicated, okay? I have a future to think about. A reputation. The people I work with pay attention to things like that. Who you’re seen with. What kind of life you lead.”
I guffaw, but it’s not because he’sfunny. “So, you dumped a woman because she was too real for your imaginary campaign?”
“Because she wasn’t right for me,” he snaps.
“Right for your image, you mean.” I stand, too angry to sit still. The kitchen feels smaller with him in it, and you know what? I resent that. This place is small enough without his ego filling every cabinet and taking up every chair at the table. “You know, you used to be decent. You used to actually like people. What the hell happened to you?”
“I grew up,” he says.
“No. You sold out.”
“Don’t lecture me about growing up. You’re a college dropout living above a garage.”
“At least I’m not ashamed of who I am.”
He laughs again, but there’s no mirth in any part of him. “You think being a mechanic makes you noble?”
“No. I think being a decent person does. Which is something you have forgotten.”
“Christ, you’re dramatic.”
“Maybe. But you know what’s more dramatic? Dumping the best woman you’ll ever meet because you think her hips won’t photograph well.”
“Watch it.”
