Dating You / Hating You
Page 6

With three brown Advil and a glass of water in hand, I return to the table and set it all in front of him.
He mumbles his thanks and takes both the drugs and the glass, draining the water in one long drink. “I am rough this morning.”
“How are you surprised?” I sit back down. “You had Red Bull and three different types of marijuana products at your party. I haven’t seen booze and weed in the same place since senior year.”
He looks up, mildly offended. “It was a great party.”
“It was, but it was also a costume party in late September.”
“Halloween is a busy time for Morgan,” he explains. “There are play dates and costume parades and fall carnivals to contend with. That kid is busier than I am. Steph and I had to move our party up.”
I go quiet, hoping the echo of his words sinks in a bit, but he still seems to be falling in love with his coffee.
Finally, I break: “I think the female wearing the most actual clothing was your wife dressed as Miley Cyrus.”
Michael Christopher gets a tiny glint in his eye. “I don’t know about that. Evie seemed to be showing about as much skin as you were. You adorable Hogwartsers, you.”
Here we go.
I bend, taking another sip of my coffee.
In my peripheral vision, I see him try to pull off a casual shrug. “Steph thought you guys might hit it off.”
“I’m taking at least five of your remaining cool points for letting your wife set me up with someone.”
“You didn’t seem to mind last night.”
I set down my cup and do my best to ignore the small surge in my pulse. It’s true that I had more chemistry with Evie in the three hours we were together than I’d had with all my dates in the past year combined.
“I didn’t mind, really,” I tell him. “She’s hot, she’s funny, and that laugh? Amazing.”
He pauses, and I feel him lean in a little across the table. “I’m about to do that thing where I get excited at the prospect of you hooking up with someone we know and us hanging out together as couples. I need a cool couple to hang out with, Carter. Everyone here wants to talk about how going gluten-free has changed their life, or how much they’ve put into their particular SEP IRA.”
“Let’s not get too far ahead of ourselves. I like her enough, but . . . come on.” I lean my elbows on the table. “You live with Steph, you see the hours she works. Imagine Steph dating Steph. No way. It’d be a nightmare and we’d end up hating each other.”
“Why does logic always have to crush all my dreams?” He takes a moment to look behind him to the open doorway before quietly adding, “Never tell my wife I suggested this, but you could just hook up? Have a little fun, see where it goes?”
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea. We traded numbers, at least.” I stand to put my cup in the sink. “She was fun to talk to and the connection might come in handy at some point if I can move into features.”
“This could still work out for me if one of you got fired,” he says with a grin.
“Not exactly where I was going with that, but I like your twisted brand of optimism.”
We look up at the same time at the sound of bass thumping and a car driving too fast down the quiet, sleeping street.
Michael stands and stares out the window overlooking the driveway. “Didn’t you tell me Jonah drives a black Range Rover?”
“Jonah? As in my brother Jonah?” I ask, moving to join him.
Sure enough, we watch as a shiny black Range Rover makes a skidding turn into Michael Christopher’s narrow driveway. The engine abruptly cuts off and the sudden silence makes my ears ring.
I’m already dreading this confrontation. I haven’t seen or spoken to my younger brother in months. I have no idea what he’s doing here now. We watch as the driver-side door opens and a pair of denim-clad legs emerge.
“Well, he looks . . . different,” Michael says, brows raised.
“You haven’t seen him since he was eighteen; of course he looks different.” I push off the counter and head toward the front door.
In fact, most people we grew up with haven’t seen Jonah since he left home right after graduation. He was the artsy kid, the one with the camera around his neck who took photos of power lines and brick walls and depressing candid shots of people who seemed incapable of smiling. It was one of these photos that won him a scholarship to some elite arts academy senior year, but while everyone else was making plans for college, Jonah took his camera and a duffel bag and moved to LA. Just like that. Once here, he got the right guy high at a party and was hired on the spot for a black-and-white candid shoot of one of rock and roll’s biggest guitar legends. The musician died tragically only days later, and overnight Jonah went from starving artist to the cover photographer for a record-selling issue of Rolling Stone and the “it” boy, with more jobs and women and money than he knew what to do with.
My mom never stops talking about him.
It’s strange to be the older brother and still feel like the one who’s so far behind.
“I’m talking about the tattoos and the earrings,” Michael is saying, following me down the hall. “He looks like the purposefully ‘cool guy’ from a boy band.”
I fling open the front door just as Jonah begins stomping up the front steps. “Do you have any idea what time it is?” I whisper-yell, stepping out onto the porch and inwardly cringing because I sound exactly like our mother.
Jonah drops a cigarette onto Michael’s porch, stubs it out with the pointy toe of a boot, and then has the nerve to seem confused. “Huh?”
“Steph and Morgan are in bed,” I explain slowly. “It’s Saturday morning in a quiet neighborhood.” I take in his jeans and T-shirt, the black leather jacket and days’ worth of stubble. “Most people are still in bed and you come tearing down the street like you’ve got your own personal house party going on in that thing.”
“Okay, Dad.” He shoulders past me into the house, giving Michael Christopher the once-over before laughing, a little unkindly. “So this is what married with kids looks like? Rugged.”
Michael opens his mouth to reply before the insult seems to register and he gives Jonah a what the fuck face. Unfortunately, Jonah misses it because he’s already moving past him toward the kitchen.
“Nice place.”
I follow my brother and watch as he pours himself a cup of coffee. “Help yourself, Jones.”
He turns, leaning back against the counter and lifting his cup to his lips. “Mom sent me about two hundred texts asking if I knew where you were.” He sips, swallowing loudly. “Guess she doesn’t know we’ve only seen each other once since you moved here.”
“You’ve been home one time in four years,” I remind him. “So spare me the family bonding lecture.”
“Yes, I’m busy, but I’d make time for my family. Thank God Mom sent me this address or who knows how long before I found out you’re basically homeless and sleeping on your college roommate’s couch.”
“Actually, we have a guest room,” Michael Christopher offers unhelpfully.
“I’m not homeless, dumbass,” I tell Jonah. “I just crashed here last night.”
Michael claps us both on the shoulders with an awkward laugh. “Moving on: How’s work, Jones? I saw that blurb about you in People last year. Fucking People. Amazing, man.”