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“Oh, I didn’t realize you were recording,” Ilan said, feeling like an ass.
“Nah, its cool. We’re just messing around. Crys has this new piece of tech they want to play with, and, apparently, I’m fun to experiment with.”
Ilan rolled his eyes, knowing full well that comment was not meant for him. His brother would flirt with linoleum if he felt it was giving him the right vibe.
“Seriously, man, what’s up?” Ari said again, this time his tone different. He seemed to be paying actual attention now.
“It’s not mom,” Ilan said automatically because if he called out of the blue late-ish at night, it was usually to do with their mother.
“Well, thank fuck for small favors,” Ari said, then said something else to someone in the room.
“She’s still pissed with you, though. Reuben is going to call you later this week about updates to the will,” Ilan said.
Reuben was their middle brother. He was the patient one. Jed was the second middle, then Ari, then Ezra, the baby who could do no wrong.
“She’s going to stay pissed until I visit for at least a week with a wife and two grandkids in tow,” Ari said, sounding both amused and resigned. He wasn’t wrong.
“She would have been less pissed if you’d made it for her birthday,” Ilan pointed out. The fact that Reuben, Ilan, Ezra, and Jed (with his husband Asher and their daughter Tasha) had all been there hadn’t made the slightest difference.
“Listen, ma can get over it. She likes it just fine when she gets to tell all her friends about her son the successful musician.”
Ilan grunted because that wasn’t terribly off base and there was nothing to say about it.
“That’s not why you called, though,” Ari said again. “What’s wrong?”
“You know that woman I’ve been seeing?” Ilan hated that he was asking his baby brother for dating advice, but Ari did have considerable experience in this realm.
Ari snorted. “Hang on, I thought you dumped the mom?”
“I did. Not that she gets it.”
“So, the hate fuck?”
“Ari, she’s not a hate fuck,” Ilan said because that was not how he would describe Abigail Meyer.
“Then how come every time you fuck her you hate it?” Ari said reasonably.
Ilan groaned, shifting on the sofa and eyeing the remains of his dinner. There was a half-eaten pickle next to the bones of the sandwich, but he was full enough that he didn’t want to move to pick it up.
“What about her?” Ari said again.
“I just texted her,” Ilan said, wondering if he should reconsider his life choices.
“And what, she called you a shmuck for bothering her on a Friday night?”
“She hasn’t really responded yet,” Ilan said, feeling again that this conversation was a terrible idea. He wasn’t in high school, and sending his brother screenshots of the exchange felt juvenile. He should be able to have a conversation with a woman without wondering what every little punctuation mark meant.
Ari said nothing, and Ilan rolled his eyes.
“I don’t know. I’m just wondering if I should have a talk with her about things—”
“What exactly do you need to talk to her about?” Ari said, reasonable as ever, “Your thing with this woman is you see each other when one or both of you is pissy, you bone, you leave. Am I missing something?”
It wasn’t far off. But it annoyed him anyway. Ilan got up from the sofa, needing to pace out the energy that was suddenly making his toes itch.
“It’s not the worst arrangement I’ve ever heard of,” Ari said, and then he laughed at something someone else in the room said. Ilan narrowed his eyes, not liking the idea of his brother hashing out his personal details for his friends.
“It wasn’t supposed to be that way, though,” Ilan said because it wasn’t. It just… sort of became that. And he wasn’t proud of it.
