Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 97151 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 486(@200wpm)___ 389(@250wpm)___ 324(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97151 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 486(@200wpm)___ 389(@250wpm)___ 324(@300wpm)
A smile curls at the corner of his lips. “Good to see you too. Sorry to have dragged you away from your shmoozing for the evening.”
I smile, ignoring the jibe. “It’s good to be here,” I say.
“Okay,” he says with a chuckle. “Can I get you a beer?”
Bray loves a sports bar, so here we are in my idea of a special part of hell, and there’s absolutely no point in asking for a glass of good red wine or a martini. “Sure,” I say. “I’ll have what you’re having.”
He places the order and then we settle next to each other at the bar. There are TVs directly in front of us, behind the bar, and lining the walls. Wherever you look, there are flickering lights of blue screens.
“What’s with you and sports bars?”
Bray shrugs, but I want to know why. We’re brothers. We share the same DNA, yet I barely know him. Is it because of what happened in New York? Because of losing Dad? Because we’re back in the town that ruined our family? I don’t know because we never discuss it. It’s like an enormous elephant is squeezed in between us, and neither of us can see over it to the other.
“Is that since university?” I ask. When did it start?
“Since coming back to New York,” he answers. “I didn’t have cable TV. I didn’t understand all the US sports. It’s so different from the UK. It was cultural research for me.”
I laugh. “Smart.”
“And it was cheap. New York’s an expensive city.”
“Do you still have that flatmate?” I ask. “Joe? Is that his name?”
“Joe Romano? No, of course not.”
“Who’s your flatmate now?”
“I don’t have one.”
“But you’re still in the same place, right? Where was that again?”
“I live on the Upper West Side.”
“You do? I thought you lived in Brooklyn.” I feel kind of embarrassed or ashamed that I don’t even know the borough my brother lives in.
“Not for about four years.”
“Huh. How come I didn’t know that?”
He takes a swig of his beer. “I’m not sure I mentioned it.”
I’m certain he never mentioned it. I would have remembered something like that. Why would he keep something like that from me?
“You should come to dinner at my place sometime,” I say. “I could cook for you.”
He chuckles. “You still love to cook, then?”
“Yeah.” I think back to the papers that Avril printed off for me—culinary school. I’m definitely not loving my job at the moment, but do I really want to go to culinary school?
“I was always surprised that you didn’t go into the restaurant biz,” he says.
“Do you blame me for not following in Dad’s footsteps?”
Silence echoes between us.
We don’t mention Dad.
I can’t remember the last time he came up. We always swap our latest encounters with Mum, but we don’t talk about the past. Nothing about the restaurant closing, about being homeless, about leaving New York for England and never seeing our dad gain. A single, one-syllable word that’s like a cork on our past, keeping it all bottled up.
“Not at all,” he says. “I never expected you to do the same as him. I just thought that you might own restaurants or something. Now.”
“I’ve been thinking about it,” I say, before I realize how much I’m revealing about myself. “I’m definitely feeling like I’m at a turning point in my career.”
“You’ve achieved so much,” he says with a warm smile, like he’s proud of me, and it lifts something in me. I never wanted to be successful to make anyone proud. I know that motivates some people, but not me. I was motivated by fear. Fear of what can happen when you’re poor. Fear of that knock on the car window at two in the morning and a drunken face pressed against the glass. Fear of not knowing what’s going to happen next.
“Thanks,” I say and then I realize I should repay the compliment, but I want it to be authentic, and I’m not sure I know what he’s achieved. I know he works in tech. I settle on asking him how his job is going. “Where are you working again?”
He laughs. “I work for myself. Set up a few years ago.”
“Really?” I ask him. “I didn’t know that.”
He holds my gaze. “No. I never told you.”
“Deliberately?”
He pulls in a breath. “I think so.”
His comment hits me in the stomach like a fist. “Oh,” I say.
He shrugs. “You’re the rich, successful, older brother. I didn’t want to…feel I was competing.”
“You know I’m always happy to help.”
“I know. You always tell me that. Every time we meet.”
Do I? I don’t remember, but I’m pleased he knows I’d help him.
“You never take me up on it,” I say. “I might be able to introduce you to people. Investors, maybe.”
“Yeah,” he says. “But also, it’s good to feel you’ve done it on your own.”