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I turn and search the beach.
There is no one as interesting as him in sight.
F.H.
I don’t even know his name.
Yet I can’t help feeling disappointed that I’ll never see him again.
1
FRANKLIN
Two years later…
Every year,Thanksgiving with my family is… interesting. We all come together regardless of how difficult it is since my mother expects us to be a family. Dad takes the opportunity to ask the uncomfortable questions to my younger siblings to keep check on their antics and ensure work outweighs play in the work-slash-play ratio. The longer hours per day you spend in the office, the greater my father’s commendation and respect.
“How was London?” Mom asks while Dad is conversing with my younger brother about the current real estate market.
I take a swig of whiskey before answering, “Cold and wet. The sun didn’t appear at all, not that I could have enjoyed it from inside the office walls.”
Her eyes turn gentle. “I hope you managed to rest some this week.” She places her delicate hand over mine.
“Stop worrying about me.” I pat her hand. “I’ll rest after I close this deal.”
She glances at her husband and then at me. I know what she’s thinking—she doesn’t want me to become my father.
My younger brother, Jobe, is making millions with the real estate company he convinced my father to develop for him. He parties equally as hard as he works, but my father turns a blind eye, allowing Jobe to escape the Thanksgiving interrogation because of the dollars in his bank account.
“In mere months, I assume you’ll take your place alongside your brother.” Dad scrutinizes my youngest brother, Byron. “Your college revelry days are coming to an end.”
Jesus, not this conversation.
Byron stops eating and places his fork on the table.
Mom gives my father a stern look. “Can we at least wait until after dessert to discuss this.” It’s a directive rather than a question.
Byron remains calm. “It’s okay, Mom. This conversation has been a long time coming.”
Mom’s gentle blue eyes narrow at my father. “You better not ruin our meal, Carson.”
My father takes a sip of whiskey from his glass and rolls the ice slowly as though he is pondering his next words.
Byron clears his throat. “I want to go pro.”
Silence falls around the table.
Even my mother’s azure eyes widen.
“I guess it’s a shock as you rarely attend my games, and you refuse to acknowledge the write-ups about us making the finals and how I’m always named as one of the best players.” He straightens his broad shoulders. “We expect to go all the way this year.”
“All the way?” My father places his glass on the table and ogles my brother. “What the hell does that even mean?”
“Finals. Final Four. March Madness. Premierships. Does it mean nothing to you?” my brother scoffs.
“Mind your attitude, son.” The lines between my father’s brows deepen. “What has meaning for me is how basketball will enhance our family businesses?”
“As I said,Iwant to go pro. It’smydream. I can’t see a future as a hedge fund analyst or taking the same path as Franklin.”
