Chương 4
“That’s not the same as it making sense.”
“I know.”
His voice had lost some of its confidence.
That bothered me more than if he had kept arguing.
Mark usually filled silence.
He hated empty space in conversations.
When we were kids, he used to narrate video games while I played them, even when he wasn’t holding a controller.
Now I could hear nothing but the rush of cars behind him.
Finally, he said, “They told me you’d mentioned maybe letting me buy it later.”
“I never said that.”
“I figured.”
“Did you?”
“Not at first.”
I sat up.
“What does that mean?”
“It means they made it sound like you had some plan.”
“What plan?”
“That you bought it partly as an investment.”
I stared at the cubicle wall.
“That doesn’t even make sense.”
“I know that now.”
“Why now?”
“Because you lost your mind when we came over Saturday.”
I almost snapped at him.
Then I heard what he had actually said.
Not because Mom admitted lying.
Not because Dad clarified.
Because my reaction didn’t fit their story.
“So you believed them.”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
The question hit harder than it should have.
Because I’m your brother, I almost said.
Because you could have asked me.
Because I spent ten years saving and you knew that.
Instead, I said, “You could’ve called.”
“You could’ve called me too.”
“For what?”
“I don’t know, Jack.”
His voice sharpened.
“You always act like I’m supposed to know what you’re thinking.”
“I didn’t know there was anything to discuss.”
“Well, apparently everybody else did.”
That stopped both of us.
For one second, it almost sounded funny.
Then Mark said, quieter, “Did they really cancel your dinner?”
“Yes.”
“All of it?”
“Yes.”
“Jesus.”
I looked through the office window at a parking garage across the street.
Two people were arguing beside a white SUV.
One pointed at the other’s bumper.
A normal Monday.
A normal world.
“Were you planning to come?” I asked.
Mark didn’t answer immediately.
“Tessa and I had reservations.”
I swallowed.
“So no.”
“I was going to stop by first.”
“Were you?”
“Yes.”
“Then why didn’t you text when Dad said I canceled?”
“Because I thought you were pissed at me.”
“For what?”
“The house.”
The circle closed so neatly it made me sick.
They had told him I was angry.
They had told me nothing.
They had told everyone else I canceled.
Then they had let all of us interpret the silence.
“Mark,” I said, “what exactly did Mom tell you when I bought the place?”
He breathed out.
“That you knew I’d been looking in that neighborhood.”
“I didn’t.”
“She said you did.”
“I didn’t.”
“She said you’d picked something bigger than you needed because you knew it would get under my skin.”
I gripped the edge of my desk.
“What?”
“I’m telling you what she said.”
“Why would I spend three quarters of a million dollars to irritate you?”
“I don’t know.”
“That is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“I know.”
“No, apparently you didn’t.”
“Okay.”
His tone changed.
There was the old Mark again, defensive and wounded because I had said the part aloud.
“You know what, forget it.”
“No.”
“What?”
“Don’t hang up.”
“Why?”
“Because for once, I want to know what actually happened before everybody decides what I meant.”
He said nothing.
I lowered my voice because Dana was pretending not to listen from three feet away.
“Did Mom tell you I offered you the house before or after I closed?”
“After.”
“How long after?”
“The day you got the keys.”
My stomach tightened.
That was the same day I had sent the family a photo of myself standing on the front porch with the key in my hand.
Mom had responded with three heart emojis.
Dad had written, Proud of you.
Mark had said, Nice.
Within hours, apparently, they had begun rewriting the purchase.
“Did Dad say the same thing?”
“Pretty much.”
“What exactly?”
“That you’d finally done something smart with your money because the place could stay in the family.”
I almost laughed again.
Instead, I rubbed my forehead.
“Stay in the family.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m family.”
“I know.”
The words came softly.
For once, he didn’t add anything.
I ended the call ten minutes later without solving anything.
That mattered.
Normally, when Mark and I fought, one of us surrendered before hanging up.
Usually me.
This time, we simply stopped because neither of us knew what was true enough to keep arguing about.
At five-thirty, I left work and drove home.
There was a cardboard box sitting on my porch.
For half a second, I assumed it was a delivery.
Then I saw Mom’s handwriting on the top.
JACK.
I stood beside it without touching it.
My first absurd thought was that she had returned something from childhood.
Old baseball cards.
School papers.
The ceramic ashtray I made in fourth grade even though nobody in our house smoked.
I carried the box inside and set it on the dining table.
The tape had already been cut and folded back.
Inside were framed photographs.
Family photographs.
My parents at their twenty-fifth anniversary party.
Mark and me at Grandma’s house one Christmas.
A beach picture from South Carolina.
My college graduation.
For a moment, I didn’t understand.
Then I recognized the frames.
They were from my parents’ hallway.
Mom had taken down every photograph that included me.
At the bottom of the box lay a folded sheet of printer paper.
I opened it.
You have made it clear that you do not want to be part of this family unless everything is on your terms.
Your father and I need space.
I read it twice.
Then I sat down at the table.
The cruelty of it was almost childish.
That made it worse.
I picked up the graduation photo.
Mom stood on one side of me.
May you like
Dad on the other.
Mark had shown up forty minutes late because he had gone to the wrong parking garage.
