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“Thanks,” Aaron says. He’s two years older than me biologically but behaves ten years younger than me—considering I’ve had many immature moments, that’s saying something. “Thought I’d need a new one.”
“You don’t need a new car, Aaron.” I wipe my hands on an orange oil-stained towel. “You need to keep this one serviced. Oil changes. Wash it on occasion. Any of this sound familiar?”
“Oil changes cost money.” His face pinches. “I can’t help it I got fired.”
“You were fired for stealing,” I remind him. “You could’ve helped it.”
“It wasn’t stealing. Everyone swipes the ice cream bars.” He was a clerk at a convenience store for four years running—as far as I know, that’s the longest stretch he’s ever held down a job. Then he started lifting snacks during his shifts.
“Just because everyone does it doesn’t mean it’s right.” I’d add the phrase “like mom and dad taught us” but they never taught us that. They always told us to “get while the gettin’s good” and then they’d add that “no one” would give us “nothin’ for free.”
They weren’t the best role models alive and didn’t die the best ones, either. About two years after I signed with Miami, they went out one night to celebrate. They put away countless shots at a local watering hole and ended up wrapping their car around a tree on the way home. They both died on impact.
Aaron then became my responsibility. The folks didn’t have a will, so I let my brother have everything, including the brick ranch located in an okay but affordable part of town. I sent him money. Bought him the car. Bailed him out of jail a few months back when he crashed the car.
“You could’ve helped getting shit-canned, too, Big Time.” Fuck, here he goes. I hate that nickname. “They shouldn’t allow female refs on the field. Their judgment’s impaired by their hormones. You were right.”
“I wasn’t right. I was mad and saying stupid shit I shouldn’t have.” It’s an uphill climb to continue that lesson, so I stay on topic. “Again. Just because I lost my job doesn’t mean you should lose yours. Were you listening to nothing I’ve said?”
“You could’ve handed me cash to get the oil change, Big Time. I’d have gotten it.”
He’d have drunk it, but that’s not a conversation to have right now. I have a date in a few hours. I walk to my car—an older version of the Audi Aaron drives, minus the dents and scratches. She’s a gorgeous cherry red with champagne leather interior.
“Hey, man,” he says as I slide into the driver’s side. “You have any cash on you? It’s for a vacation with my bros.”
“Not sure you should be taking a vacation with your ‘bros’ since you lost your job.” Amazing I have to have this convo with a thirty-one-year-old, isn’t it?
“I knew you’d say that.” He rolls his eyes—green like mom’s. He’s a redhead, too, but I have Dad’s coloring—the ginger softened by sandy, golden brown as opposed to being full-on flame-red like Mom. Aaron has her coloring and about a billion freckles to go along with it. “Can I talk you out of a hundred bucks or so?”
“You expect me to give you one hundred dollars when I changed your oil myself to save you thirty?” He’s always been a leech. First leeching off Mom and Dad and now off me.
Rather than answer me, he straightens his narrow frame and smirks. “I have a date with Carrie Grammar. Remember her? Blonde. Cheerleader. Great rack.”
He holds his hands chest high and gestures like he’s palming a pair of basketballs. I’m not qualifying that statement with a comment.
Aaron leans a hip on my car after I close myself in. “What about you? You go back to Beth for some ex-sex or are you getting it on with a bunch of desperate OSU cheerleaders?”
“Do you have to be such a dick?” Arguably I, at one point, wasn’t much better than my older brother. Thank God I had a great arm and could run fast. A football scholarship might’ve been all that stood in the way of my turning out exactly like him.
Still. He is my brother.
I reach into my wallet and pull out some cash. A fifty-dollar bill and three twenties still leaves me with sixty bucks, but I can use a card if I need more. Tonight’s date is on the Columbus Dispatch anyway. I hold the money out for Aaron to take. As he reaches for it, I pull it back. “Take Carrie somewhere nice. I mean it. And pull her chair out for her.”
“Fuck off.” He swipes the cash. “You worry about your own love life, Big Time.”
“Get the hell off my car.” I rev the engine. He flips me off, and I reverse out of the drive, eyeing the overgrown grass, filthy windows, and dead fern in a planter hanging from the front porch.
I hate this place.
Catarina
La Petit France’s website doesn’t do it justice. There were a few small photos on a black and white background, which hinted at its minimalist style, but when I walk through the door I’m floored by the aggressive elegance of the restaurant.
Jacket required, indeed.
The waitstaff wear white shirts with black bow ties, black pants, and long, black aprons. A sommelier whisks by with a leather-bound wine list, a starched white towel draped over one arm. The host is a beautiful blond woman in a tight, black dress, with a long, gold necklace.
“Reservations for Everhart,” I say as Barrett steps close enough that I can smell his musky cologne. Tonight has become suddenly and accidentally intimate.
