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“I can’t believe you grew up living like this,” I tell Burke when we’re eating. “You’re like that Eloise girl in those books, living in some fancy hotel. Only you own the hotel, and you don’t have to share your home with strangers. And it’s not a hotel, it’s a private freaking island. Insane.”
“Your Nebraska is showing,” he teases. “You’ve got to get out more.”
“Why do you think I moved to New York after college?”
“Because that’s what every midwesterner does when they want to look like they did something significant with their postuniversity life?”
“Okay, first of all . . . ouch.” I point my fork at him. “But you’re not that far off. It’s cliché. But it’s also the best thing I’ve ever done. No regrets.”
“Yet.”
“Yet,” I echo, agreeing with him. “But don’t jinx me.”
I’ll never forget going to my ten-year reunion a couple of years ago. Everyone wanted to know what it was like living in Manhattan and if it was as cool as it looked in the movies. I told them it was cooler; then I told them about the rat problem, how much rent is for a decent apartment, and the pure touristy chaos that is midtown 99 percent of the time. The twenty-four-karat luster in their eyes faded pretty quickly—until I told them about the food, shopping, nightlife, shows, concerts, and abundance of other things to do.
“Tell me about your brother,” I say.
Burke stops chewing to shoot me a look. “Random.”
“You told me about Audrina. Now tell me about Dorian. And don’t worry, I’m going to pick your brain about everyone over these next two months,” I say. “So has he always had a chip on his shoulder, or what’s his deal?”
Burke sips his broth, contemplating his answer.
“Not always, no,” he says. “And I’m not sure.”
“That’s all you’re going to give me? No elaboration?”
Burke shrugs. “What else do you need to know about him? He manages some band, basically lives on the road, does his own thing. We’re not that close. Not these days.”
“So he is a band manager . . .”
Lines spread across his forehead.
“Your sister said he was dressed like a roadie at dinner yesterday,” I clarify. “I thought she was implying he was a roadie. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. I was just unsure about what he does.”
“Oh. Right. That was just Nicola being Nicola. He manages a band, and it’s pretty much the only thing he cares about. Everything—and everyone else—is chopped liver. Kind of sad, honestly. That band’s his entire life.”
I’m sure someone could say the same thing about Burke and his firm, but that someone won’t be me.
“Which band?” I ask. I already know the answer, but I want to see if Burke does. That, and I want to make sure Dorian wasn’t lying. Not that I take him for a liar, but you never know.
“I don’t know . . . some pop band . . . Symphony something.” The scrunched look on Burke’s face leads me to believe he knows exactly which band it is, but he’s pretending not to.
Is he jealous of his brother’s success?
“Phantom Symphony?” I ask.
His expression remains hardened. “Sounds about right.”
“If he loves what he does, it’s not sad at all. You should be happy for him.” I imagine Dorian could say the same thing about Burke and his investment firm, but I don’t tell him that. I also don’t tell him that, from what I’ve experienced so far, the two of them are alternate sides of the exact same coin—broody, closed off, and career addicted.
He picks at his plain white rice with a shiny fork. “Guess I’ve never thought of it that way. We’re not one of those happy-for-each-other kind of families.”
“It’s not too late to try. You obviously care enough about each other to drop everything and spend eight weeks of your summer together. There’s got to be some love somewhere in there.”
“I wish it were that simple,” Burke says under his breath.
“It’s never too late to try,” I say. “I saw him handing out band T-shirts to some of the staff. Maybe you could wear one of them? Show some support?”
Burke chuffs. “He’d think I was making fun of him.”
“Really? I doubt that. I think he’d be thrilled his big brother is proud of him.”
“You clearly don’t know my brother.”
If he only knew . . .
Then again, what would Burke stand to lose by knowing I hooked up with his brother a year ago?
It would change nothing for him.
Absolutely nothing.
And it might feel good to get it off my chest.
Before the words have a chance to cross my tongue, Burke pushes his tray off his lap and hightails it to the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.
Two seconds later, the sound of him retching officially ruins my appetite for what remains of this beautiful masterpiece of a dinner.
