During the two hours (not one) my wife takes to get ready for the lunch I’m trying to arrange now, I also think on surveillance. I want to hire it out, but having to speak with random people and make my own arrangements sits as well with me as a hot bucket of spilled coffee on my jeans.
I dislike making arrangements with people I don’t know and have a trust-issue streak a mile long, which is likely why I’m sitting here tapping the laptop, contemplating calling my brother, Blake, and asking him to call his Serbian connection, that one data guy who can sift through the security footage for me.
Ruminating on my feelings about the damn footage, I realize I don’t quite want to know if she had a man over until tomorrow. I choose not to know. I want to spend my day in blissful ignorance. I opt to have this thought of her with another man fester inside me for a while longer.
I also realize my wife mesmerized me within the first five minutes of meeting her.
I remember the moment as clearly as if it’s happening now.
We were at the gala dinner. My brother Blake had just told me he was getting married to a woman I don’t know. Seeing as I have trust issues, I immediately called her out on gold digging and proceeded to threaten her, not giving a rat’s ass that she might actually become my sister-in-law and hang around for the rest of my natural life.
Not that I’d know how they’re doing. I was on a fucking business trip, and Blake and I never discussed his new married life.
I should’ve asked him. I should’ve asked how he is doing.
I pick up the phone and dial Blake, then check the clock. He should be on his lunch break, which is good because he can actually be interrupted now and not at other times. Blake’s the most time-anal person I know.
“Hey,” he answers and opens his camera.
He’s at one of the restaurants we own by the bay.
A pretty brunette woman shows on the screen. Vanessa waves. After the way I behaved when I heard of their engagement, I don’t know why she even greets me. Clearly, she forgives easily. I slide right into the conversation.
“Hey, lovebirds,” I say. “How’s it going?”
Blake wipes his mouth. “As well as a well-tuned clock.”
I bet. Blake’s disciplined streak stretches back to when he was seven and started first grade. Because he and Bishop went to school at the same time, and Blake wakes at the same time every day (holidays, weekends, no matter), he would also impose the same discipline on Bishop, who indulged Blake’s habit of waking at the crack of dawn. But then came one Easter Sunday, and when Blake insisted on getting up at 7:00 a.m., Bishop hurled an alarm clock at Blake’s head.
The nurse stitched the cut, and Blake still has a small scar right above his left eyebrow. The good part about his madness? My brother is a walking timer, and he shows up and executes likea fine Swiss watch. Some say he’s obsessed with time. I say he’s a money-making machine.
“Wanna come down for lunch in an hour?” Blake asks.
I purse my lips. Princess and I have to eat, and I was gonna take her out. Why not spend time with Blake and his wife? “I’ll try to make it in an hour.”
“We’ll wait for you.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “Youwill wait?”
Blake nods. “Sure.”
I bring the phone to my face to be sure it’s Blake and not Bishop. They’re identical. I’ve never had a problem telling them apart, but now I’m questioning my eyesight. “Aren’t you on your lunch hour now?” I check the clock.
“At one thirty.”
“You moved the time?”
“Mmhm.”
“Did you have brain surgery?”
“He got married,” his wife says and comes back into the picture. “So did you. How is Benny doing?”
“She’s well. Thank you.” I clear my throat.
“You want to tell me why you called?” Blake asks.
The fact he knows I didn’t call to shoot the shit bothers me, and it never bothered me before. In fact, I haven’t even called my parents since Blake’s engagement announcement. I never call a single person I care about to ask how they are or to shoot the shit. I call only when I have something important to say.
