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But even his anger is all polished and controlled, with hardly a flicker on his carefully blank face. Then, throwing me a curt nod, “As you wish. But I want you to know that I’m here, if you need me.”
“I won’t,” I tell him. “And ditto. On better ways to kill yourself.”
“Excuse me?”
In response, I tip my chin to the files spread out on the table.
It’s fucking seven o’clock and we’re still at the office, prepping for a meeting tomorrow. Apparently it’s for some big project in Indonesia, because why shouldn’t we have a hotel halfway across the world and why shouldn’t my brother bring me in on a project like that in order to ‘train me.’
A project that’s slowly killing me.
It’s only been a couple of weeks since I started working here and I have to admit, I don’t know how my brother and all these people who work here nine to five haven’t killed themselves out of sheer boredom. Or the fact they all have to wear a fucking tie.
Not me though. I’m very firm about that.
But to each their own.
Homer sighs and shuts the file in front of him. “I guess we could call it a night.”
I shut the file too, springing up to my feet. “Yeah, you guess fucking right.”
I’m fucking starving.
I need a cheeseburger — no, two cheeseburgers — and a large order of fries. And then I’m gonna soak myself in an ice-cold bath so I can at least stand up for my fight later tonight. Best thing about throwing fights, I don’t have to do much. But I do like to put in some effort.
I’m almost out the door when my brother stops me. “Are you free next Saturday?”
I turn. “Are you asking me out on a date again?”
He sighs sharply.
This isn’t the first time he’s asked me to go do something with him. We’ve been working late most nights and he’s always ready with his dinner invitations and whatnot. And again, it pisses me the fuck off that he’s trying so hard.
Trying to be my fucking friend when I’ve told him a thousand times that he doesn’t need to be.
“I’d like to invite you to play soccer with me,” he says then.
“What?”
“We have a little club,” he says, clearing his throat as if bashful. “Just some old school friends and teammates. We play two weekends a month and,” he clears his throat again, “everybody would love to meet you.”
I know about his little soccer club.
They meet up at the Bardstown country club twice a month to throw the ball around recreationally. My brother was the one who started it, probably back when I was a freshman in high school.
And the only reason I know about it is because I remember feeling… jealous.
Of the fact that my brother would go play with his school friends rather than with me.
I know. Iknow, stupid.
My brother and I couldn’t —can’t— stand each other, let alone play soccer together.
And then there’s the little fact that I don’t even like soccer.
But I felt what I felt, and his invitation takes me back to when I was fourteen years old and irrationally wanted my big brother to invite me.
Shoving my hands down into my pockets, I ask tightly, “And why would they love to meet me?”
