I walk into the giant foyer. Grant went overboard with the marble and crystal, but somehow the place looks homey. Must be Aspen’s touch. It wasn’t this welcoming before.
My brothers are in the breakfast room, grabbing food from an enormous spread Grant has had catered. The scent of strong coffee permeates the air. My brothers are coffee addicts. I prefer Earl Grey, but drink coffee when we’re together.
We sport basic similar features that demonstrate we’re related, even though we have different mothers. It’s the dark coloring and the square jaw we got from Dad. Although my brothers don’t like to think about it, we also got our height and frame from him, too. I thank my lucky stars Dad wasn’t a weak-chinned, hunchbacked midget.
My brothers are casually dressed, except for Emmett, who probably has to go to the office afterward. He’s a workaholic, and although he quit spending so much time at work after he married Amy, he’s still ridiculously busy. Venture capital can be demanding, and Emmett tends to put more things on his plate than is wise.
“Hey, you made it!” Grant grins. “I was wondering if you could come.”
“Wouldn’t miss it.” I grab some scrambled eggs and sausages and take the empty seat next to Noah. Huxley pours a coffee and hands it to me.
“Heard about what happened at your mom’s birthday party,” Grant says, his voice full of sympathy.
I give him a what-can-I-do shrug. “I kind of knew Mom wasn’t going to show,” I say, pretending it didn’t bother me when she opted to fly to Madrid instead. When the same kind of humiliation is heaped upon you over and over again, the pain becomes dull and numbing, rather than sharp and burning. At least none of my brothers have mothers like mine. “But some local kids with cancer got some toys and balloons, so…” I shrug again.
Sebastian sighs. “She’s literally treating you like an experiment pigeon.”
“A what?”
“There was this experiment where pigeons were put in a cage and had to peck a button to get food. At first the pecking always produced food, so the pigeons quit pecking pretty quickly when the scientists changed the setting so food wouldn’t come out anymore. Then the button gave out food every other peck, and then every third one, and when the food was cut off, the pigeons took longer to stop pecking it. But when pecking the button gave out food randomly—so sometimes they got something and sometimes they didn’t—the birds just kept on pecking forever, hoping that maybe this time they’d get fed.”
I exhale roughly. Sebastian is describing the relationship between me and my mom pretty well. And of course it isn’t healthy or normal to have that kind of dynamic. It’s just that this is how it’s always been, and now we’re on a train stuck on a sidetrack in toxic land.
Emmett hands me an extra piece of bacon in solidarity. He has the nicest mom out of all of us—always reliable and always puts him first—and feels terrible for me.
“What’s wrong with your eyes?” Noah says.
“What?”
“They’re red-rimmed.”
I probably spent too much time with the dogs. Got too close. The pictures for the adoption page required that I hug them, and not even my prescription meds could save me.
“Late night,” I mumble, not wanting to tell my brothers what really happened.
“Is that dog hair on you?” Sebastian says from my left. He squints at my shoulder.
“It’s probably mine.” Molly wasn’t close enough to put her hair on me. Unfortunately.
“Your hair isn’t golden.” He picks it off my shirt. “And this is way too long.”
Ah, shit.It must be Cooper’s. The golden retriever sheds like he’s going bald.
My brothers all stare at me like I’ve just put on a thong and jumped into a croc-infested swamp.
“What?” It comes out testy.
“Whatis you’re extremely allergic to dogs and cats.” Huxley sounds like a lawyer cross-examining an uncooperative witness. He should’ve been an attorney, rather than an ad executive. He even has the right credential—a law degree from Harvard.
“It’s just one hair.”
“On your shoulder? What were you doing, giving a dog a piggyback ride?” Emmett looks like he’s worried about my mental health.
“It’d be easier to just stab yourself in the face with a fork if you want to be miserable,” Noah says.
I take a large bite out of a sausage and chew energetically. Hopefully my brothers get the hint that I don’t want to talk about it.
“Oh…” Noah stares at his phone. He’s addicted to social media, and he can’t help checking his phone every other minute. “Look at you, Nicholas. Are you trying to get people to adopt the dog or you?”
