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“No, I never wanted to be perfect,” I said. “And I’m not even close.”
“I don’t think you consciously tried. And I know you don’t think you’re perfect. I just think trying not to be a screw-up like me probably drove you. And still does.”
My eyes filled with tears. “You are not a screw-up. Don’t say that about yourself!”
“You know what I mean. I hate that Mom died with a son who’s an absolute train wreck. And I hate that you have to be the strong, steady one so that I can be a disaster. You pay the rent and buy groceries and I just fuck up and barely get by.”
There was a knock on the door. Ford. I looked at my brother imploringly.
“We’ll finish this conversation later. Get a shower and some sleep. I love you and I’m happy you’re here.”
He nodded. “Love you, too. Have a good night.”
“You, too.”
I walked over to the door and opened it, equal feelings of joy and relief coursing through me. Ford stood there with a single red rose in hand, smiling.
“Hey,” he said, passing me the rose.
I was the worst person in the world. I’d written a column calling his team’s proposed arena “an unneeded Taj Mahal,” and not only had he brought me a rose, he was looking at me like I was a glass of ice-cold water on a scorching hot day.
“Hey,” I said, stepping aside so he could enter.
I brought the rose to up to my nose and sniffed its sweet scent. “Thank you.”
He kissed me gently. “Sorry I’ve been out of touch. Yesterday and today were nuts.”
“It’s okay.”
I closed the door and we went into the living room. Ford sat on one end of the couch and I sat in the middle, a foot separating us.
He scooted over to close the distance, putting his arm around me. “Everything okay with Luke?”
“Yeah, he’s taking a shower and going to bed early.”
I set the rose on the coffee table, wrapping my arms around myself. Ford had seen my column, right?
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Does it feel like there’s an elephant in the room?”
He moved forward so we were side by side. “Just tell me what you’re thinking.”
“My column. Did you read it?”
“I did.”
I looked at him. “And?”
“It was well written. You look damn sexy in those glasses in that photo of you that always runs with your columns.”
He was complimenting me, even now. It was maddening, but also endearing.
“Don’t you…feel something about it?” I asked. “Like frustration or indignation or…something?”
“No. I don’t expect you to stop being opposed to the arena just because of me.”
I just stared at him in disbelief. “It doesn’t bother you that I’m opposed? It has to be making Mila crazy.”
