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Chapter Twenty-Seven
Benji
Down the road from Archer’s fancy-pants condo is a community rec center complete with outdoor tennis courts, basketball courts, and a swimming pool with a diving board. His is a wealthy neighborhood, like mine, like Nate’s. We opted to live around people who have healthy bank accounts not because we like rich people better, but because it makes us feel more normal.
Since the Owens built their empire while rearing Archer in his early years, Arch has admitted he doesn’t remember doing without. My parents died when I was starting my fifth-grade year, and even though they didn’t have Owen money, I didn’t do without, either. Mom and Dad were professionals who put plenty of food on the table and lots of presents under the Christmas tree. Alternatively, Nate rode the struggle bus for most of his youth.
Before I lived in opulence, I imagined life as problem-free for the mega-rich. What a load of shit. Even if I only count the last week, my problem-free theory has been blown to smithereens.
I roped Archer into playing one-on-one today to mask my real reason for coming here. I need advice.
I lean on my brothers in a lot of areas. Work, predominately, but I talked to Archer and Nate about girls when I was a teenager. Especially when I was fumbling through first dates, first kisses, first time—condom use is a sensitive topic to bring to a parent. But I can’t talk to Nate about my Cris issue. My Cris nonissue. He is a happy son of a bitch and doesn’t need me weighing him down with my woman problems. And yeah, okay, I’m not totally philanthropical. I don’t know if I can deal with his “up” right now. He asked me to be in his wedding. Archer and I are both best men. He said he’d fistfight either of us if we made him pick. He told us to flip a coin for who stands next to him—he refuses to choose.
Archer and I are smart, so we didn’t fight him. Nate is a tank. Arch and I can hold our own, but neither of us are anxious to cross our Chicago-streets-raised brother. Nate’s a guy you want on your side.
And yes, I did get fucking emotional when he asked me to be his best man. Luckily, we were at Club Nine. I downed a few tequila shots and danced it off. Fog machines are aces at masking tears.
Not that I cried.
Anyway.
Archer sinks a two-pointer without any defense from me whatsoever since I was lost in my head.
“You suck extra hard today,” he tells me.
Nonplussed by being caught off-guard, I nab the basketball and dribble away from my brother, who doesn’t catch me. I shoot. I do not score.
This dance goes on for fifteen minutes until sweat is pouring down our faces. It’s too damn hot to do this today. I make one last attempt, swiping the slick ball from his hand. The ball hits the backboard, bounces off the rim, and… Nope.
Dammit.
Hands on my hips, I catch my breath. Sweat stings my eyes as I squint against the bright noonday sun. I’m considering going back to the office. Sunday or not, I could do the world and myself more good sitting in front of a spreadsheet.
“Seriously. Suckage.” Archer tosses the ball at me and I catch it, cradling it under my arm and following him home like a sad-sack puppy. Rather than go inside, we collapse onto the chairs on his stone patio. It’s cool under here, at least.
“Beer?” he offers.
“Yeah.” I toss the ball onto the cushioned wicker chair next to mine. When an open beer bottle is offered to me, I slug back half of it, taking in the tiny yard behind his three-story condominium.
“Why don’t I live here? It’s fucking gorgeous. I have to mow the lawn today.” On the top floor of his condo are bedrooms and bathrooms and a balcony. On the second, a screened-in porch leading to the kitchen and a living room with a half bath and a large office off to the side. Ground floor, where we are, offers the walk-out patio and a stone path cutting through the middle of a grassy area he doesn’t have to mow. There is a fountain with flower gardens he doesn’t plant or prune.
“You don’t have to. You choose to,” he states. Annoyingly.
I know I choose to. I chose familiarity. One of my favorite memories is Dad mowing our backyard in Idaho. Sometimes he’d let me sit on the riding mower with him. Arguably not the safest thing to do with a seven-year-old, but he was a doctor and good at assessing risk. I am too. I used to be, anyway.
“What gives? You don’t shoot the shit with me on a Sunday. Or ever.”
I rest my beer bottle on my thigh and argue, “Yes I do.”
“Not anymore.” He slugs back half his beer in a few long swallows. Cheeks full, he raises his eyebrows and waits for me to tell him why I’m here.
“Cris and I broke up.” I frown in thought. “Sort of.”
“Sort of?”
“We weren’t actually together, or well, we aren’t actually apart.” I shake my head, confusing myself. “Shit.”
“Spit it out,” my impatient brother snarls.
