Page 18 of Eye Candy

“I might be washing my hair.”

“Joe.”

He stopped running. “All right, Fixy, let’s pretend for one second that I believe you. Pretend someone would go to all that effort just to, what? Read me the riot act in an art gallery? Ooh, nefarious. RealMr. Ripleyshit. If she’s not Teddy, then who is she?”

I was annoyed at myself for not doing this better, for not making the most of rare one-on-one time with my brother, and for not getting him to understand that I was protecting him.

My answer was curt. “I don’t know, some Dollar Tree actor with a Bircher chin.”

“But what’s the point? What does she get out of it?”

“The trustees?—”

Joe groaned. “Chase, I’m sick of hearing about the trustees!” He faced me squarely, his hands balled in fists. “Did I tag you in, Fixy? Did I ask for your help? No. You inserted yourself, as always. Apparently, it’s easier for you to detect identity fraud than say,Hey Joe, want to grab a beer?But go on Chase, let’s hear all your reasons my ex is not my ex. I’m sure you’ve thought it through.” He sat on the bench and crossed his arms, waiting.

I knew this wasn’t really what he wanted, this was a trap, but the information might burst out of me if I didn’t share it.

“She’s charismatic for one.” I started listing on my fingers. “I enjoyed talking to her. She doesn’t have the same temper problem, she acts like she’s never been to a catered event in her life—you saw her deepthroat that fucking cucumber at Sonya’s gallery event—and she was mortally offended when I didn’t know who Hedy Lamarr was.”

“Who?”

“An old film star who invented a new way of using radio frequency. She made it possible to have Wi-Fi and GPS.”

“Huh.”

“She’s pretty interesting. I’ll send you a link. But Joe, listen, she flirted with me?—”

“Hedy Lamarr?”

“No, Joseph. Hedy Lamarr has been dead for over twentyyears. The woman pretending to be your childhood sweetheart—sheflirted with me. At least twice, maybe three times.”

Finally Joe looked surprised. “But Teddy despises you. At our engagement party she called you anti-lube.”

I let the insult roll off. “Exactly. And here’s the nail in the coffin: she doesn’t know how to play chess.”

“Huh,” he said again.

“I beat her in about six moves. Maybe less.”

I lost count for a while because she was topless.

“When did you play chess?”

“That’s not important.”

Joe studied me. I concentrated on a sparrow hopping along the bench to avoid his eye. My brother pretended to be a brainless mass of muscle but that was a misdirect.

“Are you leering at my leftovers, Fixy?” he asked suddenly.

“I’m not leering. I would never leer. And leftovers is a repulsive thing to call a woman?—”

“Right, right. You would never leer or look or laugh or whatever else it is you think Dad would do.”

We sat in silence for a while, haunted by the same paternal ghost.

The sparrow picked at a knot of wood in the bench, dislodging something small and swallowing it. I envied the simplicity of its existence.

Eventually Joe spoke. “It was the same for me, you know.”

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