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“Wonderful,” Greyson says, running a hand through his coiffed dark hair.
“Oh stop,” Harley says to him, a half-grin showing the gap between her front teeth. Her sandy blonde hair is gathered in two fishtail braids that would look ridiculous on anyone else. “That panda outfit is hilarious.” She cranes up her head so that her chin rests on his shoulder with a knowing smile. “Besides, you’re just grumpy because…” As his scowl grows, she trails off, moving away with a shake of her head. “Forget it.”
“Forget what?” I ask. Tonight is starting to annoy me, and it’s not just that someone went all fruity scented candle-happy with our tables in the two hours I left to go home and veg out. “Seems like everyone’s in on some bad news I don’t know about. Or are you all still pissed that I skipped Dad’s will reading? I told you, batty old Aunt Edna has it in for me.”
I stifle a shudder. Her and most of Dad’s extended family. They being majorly old-fashioned means that one look at my tattooed, long-haired self will send any one of them into a days-long rant about ‘kids these day’. Never mind that I’m thirty-fucking-two.
“Oh, speaking of,” Emerson chimes in, light blond head bowed as he digs through the leather messenger bag he has slung on his chair. “She wanted me to give you these.” He takes out a familiar Barney-purple tin bedecked with gaudy golden lettering and I groan. “You see? Does she give anyone else eons-expired chocolate mints from the ‘70s? No, I think not.”
The others crack up, although I’m not finished yet. I take the tin and give it a shake, suspiciously eyeing its bottom. Most of the lettering is faded and I can’t seem to find a manufacture date, which isn’t necessarily a promising sign.
I pause, my suspicious glance moving on to them. Normally, one of them chimes in to defend the old witch—after all, she usually gives them a crisp hundred-dollar bill on every occasion ranging from Halloween to Hanukkah, despite the fact that we aren’t Jewish, and she does play a mean game of table tennis.
Hell, something’s definitely up.
“OK, no shit,” I tell him. “Spill. What’s this shitty secret of yours?”
Greyson, Landon and Emerson exchange a look.
“Don’t tell me,” I grumble. “Dad had some more surprises in his will.”
Not that I’m overly worried. Our father-son relationship might have been rocky in my teen years, but it ended up OK. I did go into business at Storm Inc. how he wanted, after all. Sure, it was part-time, and sure, I focused more on my comedy career, but still. Plus, Dad was never stingy with us—just a bit strict, that was all.
Even if in business, he was as slippery as an eel.
All things considered, at the end of the day, he was a good dad, and a shitty human being. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think that I missed him.
Who knows, maybe I do. Maybe.
“Now isn’t really the time,” Greyson is saying carefully, his jaw tensed, gesturing to Landon and Kyra. After all, this dinner is to celebrate them.
“Don’t hold back on account of me,” Landon says, taking a sip of his water as he eyes the others. “The sooner Nolan knows, the better.”
“I don’t know….” is all Emerson contributes uncertainly, twiddling his spoon.
I’m about ready to brandish my knife at these doofuses. They know how much I hate being out of the loop, and they pull this?
Instead, I grit my teeth together, place the flat of both palms on the table, and, in a voice so calm motherfucking Buddha would give me props, say, “The sooner Nolan knows what, the better?”
I’ve had about as much of this as I can take. Yes, it’s supposed to be a celebratory dinner for Landon and his perfect relationship with his high school sweetheart, but fuck it, my brothers just need to tell me what’s up and get it over with.
“It’s Dad’s will,” Greyson says, his face already sympathetic. “He’s leaving everything to us equally—but yours has a condition.”
All of a sudden, everyone at the table looks away, as if I have scabby leprosy or some shit.
“Which is?” I say.
I might as well pull this Band-Aid off nice and fast.
But they’re all sitting there speechless, as if saying it is as good as starting a countdown to my demise.
Emerson is carving a chocolaty infinity symbol into the remnants of his chocolate mousse cake. Landon’s hazel-eyed gaze on me is assessing, as if trying to track my response already. Greyson’s sculpted face is blank; he’s probably playing footsie under the table with that wife of his. Meanwhile, my brain churns over what it could be. Some kind of stupid ethics course? A forced visit to clean up that island we always suspected he had? He found out about my casino loss all those years ago and is instating a ban?
