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Even if that’s what he was expecting—hoping—by coming here. Crew probably showed up so he could sleep off the whiskey in silence, not for an amateur therapy session.
I focus my gaze on the windows, which boast a twenty-million-dollar view of Central Park. The lights of the city twinkle around the rectangle of greenery that’s currently just brown grass and the skeletal outlines of trees, representing a hundred places I’d rather be than hearing my little brother complain about his happy life.
Ever since he fell for the heiress our father arranged for him to marry—because in our world, billionaires marry billionaires, or at the very least multi-millionaires—Crew has changed. He starts conversations about feelings and family. He mentions our mother, Elizabeth, who he named his one-year-old daughter after. And he talks about his relationship with his wife, Scarlett, as if I have insight to offer or will make restaurant recommendations for their weekly date night.
My romantic past is boring at best and scandalous at worst. Each “relationship” has ended with tears, yelling, or my father punching me in the face.
In a word, I’mreplaceable. Usually by the guy who inherited the same genes yet somehow turned out better, currently half falling off of my sofa, grumbling something about being home by eight and unreasonable expectations. Since he’s obviously not talking to me, I don’t even pretend to be paying attention.
Saying my life has ever been hard is a stretch. I’m a Kensington. Everything has always been handed to me on a platinum platter.
In theory, the easy deliverance sounds wonderful.
In reality, it means I work twice as hard for everything I accomplish, and it’s written off as nepotism or purchased achievements anyway.
That I’m always reaching for something while already having everything.
As the second son, Crew was supposed to be the spare. My supporting act. He’s always been the relaxed, charming brother. Devil may care. Rather than resent all he’s been handed already, everyone wants to pass him more.
More praise, more admiration, more attention, justmore.
That’s not to say he doesn’t deserve recognition. Crew is smart and driven. People underestimated him as a cocky playboy and are lulled into a false sense of complacency now that he’s the wholesome family man.
But it stings—being constantly upstaged by yourbabybrother. I tried to set a good example for him. I tried to show my father I was strong enough to survive losing my mother. And all those good intentions turned into expectations I can’t seem to shake.
Crew’s reputation has changed and shifted over the years. Mine has remained constant. I’m the serious, responsible oldest child. The Kensington you can always rely upon. The dependable brother who does exactly what’s expected. The few times I’ve attempted to escape that predictability have ended horribly and have never managed to make me any happier. They’ve always turned into regrets.
So I’ve accepted my role, the same way I watched as Crew was handed the CEO position and the billionaire bride.
I didn’t want to marry Scarlett Ellsworth. Iwouldhave, but I didn’twantto.
I expected to be my father’s successor at Kensington Consolidated.
Worse,everyone elseexpected it.
And the depressing kicker is, Ididwant the coveted title. Still do, even knowing it’s forever out of my reach.
I don’t really care what people think of me. It doesn’t bother me that they whisper about why my father skipped over me. It’s my own dissatisfaction that makes it burn, not what anyone else says or thinks. They’re not the ones waking up every morning to work at a company they’ll never lead.
“How long were you planning on staying?” I ask the sprawled figure that hasn’t moved for the past few minutes.
Crew raises his arm again, this time to glare at me. “Am I inconveniencing you?”
Yes. “I figured you’d go to Asher’s.”
The arm drops. “He’s busy tonight,” Crew says.
I don’twantCrew camped out in my living room, pouting. But it stings a little, knowing I was his second choice, even if it isn’t surprising. His best friend would undoubtedly be better equipped to handle this situation.
Asher would have jokes ready or bring Crew to a club to get his mind off everything. I’ve been repeatedly told I have no sense of humor, and the last time I went clubbing was to celebrate graduating business school.
I stand and walk over to the metal bar cart, filling two glasses with the same expensive whiskey my father drinks. Even when he’s not here, he is. And it’s not just the alcohol that evokes his presence. He’s also here in the awkwardness that always hovers between Crew and me, evidence we never learned how to act naturally around each other the way most siblings do.
I set one tumbler of whiskey on the coffee table in front of Crew and then retreat to my uncomfortable armchair, downing most of the smoky alcohol in one gulp.
“What happened with Scarlett?” I ask.
Crew and Scarlett arguing is nothing new. But Crew going out to a bar and then showing up hereisnew. And concerning.
