Total pages in book: 185
Estimated words: 191421 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 957(@200wpm)___ 766(@250wpm)___ 638(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 191421 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 957(@200wpm)___ 766(@250wpm)___ 638(@300wpm)
“That’s very rude. I was born this way.”
“Did you get in a fight?”
“If you have a problem with it though, you should take it up with Mom.”
He stares at me for a few seconds before he deadpans, “She’s in Italy for the summer.”
“Ah, well it shall remain a mystery then.”
His lips twitch for a second or two or at least, it looks like it. But it can’t be true; my brother has zero sense of humor.
“Where’s your helmet?” he asks next.
“Back in New York.”
Disapproval lines his features like I knew it would.
That’s why I lied.
It’s back in my room, somewhere. I’m reckless but I’m not so reckless that I’d forget my helmet in a different city.
“Not exactly a smart choice,” he says then, “when you’re riding that death machine.”
“It’s also the machine that might help remove that stick up your ass. So maybe you should try it sometime.”
He glances at my bike before saying, “No, thank you.”
I shrug. “Fine. Be that way.”
He stares at me for a few moments. Then, “You’re staying at a motel.”
“Should probably ask you how you know that. Or how you knew that I was going to be here, at the gym, and that it’s fucking creepy that my own brother is stalking me, but I guess why bother, yeah? It’s not as if you’re gonna stop.”
“I won’t, no. But it’s not me personally who’s stalking you,” he says. “I have a guy. And from what he told me, these are the only two places you’ve been frequenting since you came back.”
I have.
Actually, these are the only two places I go to whenever I come back. Because this isn’t the first time I’ve been back. Not that I’ve told anyone as to why I come back — it’s not anyone’s business — and I only come back during summer for a few weeks.
So far my brother has never cared, but apparently something’s changed this summer.
“So when you didn’t show up at the motel, I came here,” he finishes. Then, he reaches into his suit’s breast pocket and fishes out a very pristine looking handkerchief. “Although I can’t say that I’ve enjoyed being here.”
First: I can’t believe I’m even saying the word, handkerchief.
Second: my brother always carries one.
With his initials embroidered on them in black: HAD.
Homer Alexander Davidson.
And third: with a flourish, he opens that piece of cloth and wipes his fingers.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I can’t help but ask.
“Wiping my fingers.”
“Why?”
“Because I touched the doorknob when I went into the gym to ask about you.”
“How tragic.”
“Indeed.” He nods. “My car sanitizer is out. So I’m stuck wiping my hand every five seconds. Not that I think it’s going to help, you understand.”
“Of course not.”
“But hope springs eternal.”
My big brother, ladies and gentlemen.
Stuck-up fucking ass.
“Thrilled to see how you haven’t changed,” I say. “Do you mind telling me why you’re here and why the fuck you’ve been blowing up my phone these past couple of weeks?”
He puts back his handkerchief, all neatly folded, and thrusts his hands down into his pockets, watching me silently again. “How are you?”
What the fuck?
Are we exchanging pleasantries now?
We haven’t seen each other in two fucking years, haven’t talked to each other even in two fucking years, and this is what he says to me.
I go to say something derogatory but then I take a moment.
And in that moment, I study him and as I said, he hasn’t changed much.
He looks every inch like our father.
Same face — sharp and stern, devoid of any emotion — same dressing sense, same mannerisms. It’s like our dad is still alive and I bet he is.
Through his first-born son.
“I’m fantastic, thank you. But forgive me if I don’t care enough to ask how you are.”
His eyes — exactly like dad’s but a lighter shade than mine — sweep over my features, my body. “You’ve lost weight.”
“And you’ve got a gut now.” I pat my own. “You sure this is the look you wanna go for? No girl’s ever gonna kiss you.”
I’m lying, of course.
Like so many other things in his life, my big brother excels in fitness as well.
In addition to playing soccer in high school and college and now recreationally, he’s a black belt in karate and does jujitsu for fun. If anything, his muscles look even more honed and stronger under that suit.
And I do know of a girl who’d die to kiss him.
Lucky fucker.
“If you’d picked up any of my calls or bothered to call me yourself, I would’ve…”
“You would’ve what?” I prod when he trails off.
And then I see something on my brother’s face that for a second makes me think that it’s a trick of the light.
But as I said, the lighting in this parking lot is shit, which means that the discomfort that I’m seeing on my brother’s face is real. He actually fidgets before taking in a sharp breath. “I would’ve made arrangements for you at the hotel.”