Oliver smiled bleakly. “How would you know?”
Seb went to answer and then snapped his mouth shut. He had a bunch of smartass comments, but Oliver wasn’t wrong. Seb didn’t really know much about his brother’s life at all.
“When?”
“At the end of the summer.”
“Next summer?” Seb asked. Oliver always liked to be the man with the plan, but telling Seb about this almost a year ahead of time was excessive.
“No.” Oliver sighed and hung his head. “I turned in my notice in August. I’m done next week.”
Seb considered this. “What are you going to do after that?”
“I need more balance in my life. No more ninety-hour weeks. I’m starting my own business. Wellness consulting.”
“Wellness what?”
“It’s like life coaching, but with a focus on nutrition and work-life balance.”
Seb snorted. “Sounds like a lot of new-age crap to me.”
“You cut up books and call it art, and people pay you for it.”
“Now you sound like Martin.”
“He seems like my kind of guy.”
“Not really. You like them taller and with a better tan.”
They stared at each other, a few feet apart on the lawn where Oliver told his parents he was gay, and where Seb sucked off his prom date after their high school graduation party. His father nearly found them, and they’d had to hide out in a garden shed.
Evil glee exploded like fireworks as realization hit Seb.
“You haven’t told Dad yet, have you?” The guilty expression on Oliver’s face said Seb had guessed right. “You haven’t! What do you think he’s going to say when you tell him you’re giving up your prestigious law career to tell people they need to eat more yogurt and meditate?”
“Shut up.”
“What do you think he’s going to say?”
“I don’t care.” Oliver scuffed a loafer in the grass.
“I don’t believe that for a second. If you didn’t care, you’d have made him proofread your resignation letter as a giant fuck you.”
“No. That’s what you would have done.”
“Damn right I would. What? You think he won’t notice? When you stop going to the office? When you start coming to the house in socks and sandals?”
“You’re such an ass,” Oliver said, but he was laughing now.
“So what do you want me to do? Soften the blow? Distract him from your earth-shattering news by giving Martin a hand job at the dinner table? You know I’m happy to make Dad squirm. I don’t think Martin’s into exhibitionism, but we’re still getting to know each other.”
Oliver’s hands were in his hair again. “You promised you’d be civil this weekend.”
“This is me being civil. I haven’t told you your business plan sounds like you’re going to be brewing artisanal kombucha for hipsters who can’t afford it. Or that work-life balance is a myth slackers use to justify fucking off the clock at five under the guise of being dedicated to their family.”
Oliver’s eyes narrowed. “Were you always such a cynic?”
“Since the day my father called me a fag, and you didn’t say anything to back me up.”
