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He looks at me, unimpressed. My-Linh likes everyone.
"You can't convince me she's changed. People don't change that much. The core of what they want stays the same."
I wonder if he's speaking from a place of experience or from anger. Because I know that he knows better.
"You changed. Did you ever think you'd be sitting in the bridal suite the day before getting married, worried about some woman crying?"
He flinches at "some woman" just the way I mean him to. Before My-Linh, would he have cared if I referred to any woman he was with as "some woman"? Fuck no.
"I don't know how much I've changed," he sighs. "But I guess deep down, I just always wanted to be loved."
There's nothing to say about that. Of all of us, our mother fucked with his head more than the rest of us put together. And that's just been a hole he's always needed filled.
"I know you did, man. That's why I'm incomparably happy that you found someone who loves you like My-Linh does." I sit down on the bed next to him, taking away the napkin that he's shredded into a pile at his feet. "And Clarissahaschanged. She has. If you saw Malt and how she runs it, you would see just how much she's changed and how hard she's worked. Her staff love her. She makes mistakes, and she holds herself accountable for them, and they respect her for that. You would be so impressed. And proud. I know she's caused so much trouble in your life. In yours more than anyone's. But she was your friend. And I know under all that anger, you still care about her. She made some mistakes. We all have."
He flexes his hands. Over and over and over for a minute. Maybe I shouldn't have taken his comfort tissue away. "Do you love her?" he asks after a long minute.
I don't have an answer.
Not one I'm ready to admit, anyway. Not to him, not to her. And certainly not myself.
"Ah, I guess I have my answer," my brother says.
"What?" I snap.
He tucks his lips over his teeth, trying not to laugh. "I'm just saying you answered my question."
I frown. "No, I didn't. I didn't say a fucking word."
This time he doesn't bother to restrain the laugh. "You did with your face."
"We have the same face, bro!"
He throws his hands up in the air. "That's how I know! That's how I know all of you fucktards. You're my blood and flesh. Literally."
And we laugh. Because what else do you do in a situation like this? I could punch him, but My-Linh will never forgive me if he's got a black eye in all the wedding photos.
Finally, when the laughs fade, I say, "I don't know what I'm doing. I just know that if I don't try, I'm going to regret it for the rest of my life."
He cocks his eyebrow. "So, you thought you'd try it at your brother's wedding, who also just happens to be her ex-fiancé, whom she blackmailed into leaving the bride so he could marry her?"
"Touché."
He sighs, reaches over, and pats me on the back. The simple gesture makes my whole body sag with relief. I haven't wanted to admit how much his silence has stressed me out the last few weeks. I hate fighting with all my brothers. We so rarely do. We've just put so many measures in place, in our personal and business relationships, to help avoid that, that most things can be settled with an open talk.
He lets out a long breath. "I don't trust her. But I don't have to. You do." He searches my eyes for the truth. "Do you?"
"I think so." A part of me niggles, maybe questioning if I can really trust someone after only truly knowing them for a few weeks.
"Find out."
I nod. He's right. And then I ask the question I came here to ask. "Can she come to the wedding? She won't if you don't want her to. She's not a bitch."
Damien snorts.
"Okay, fine, but she's not cruel.Anymore."
He's about to answer when we hear a stampede from the bathroom and look over to see Kingsley and Kylian file into the room, having obviously been eavesdropping and deciding the serious part of the conversation is over.
