Page 8 of Fake It 'til You Make It

TED

With a handful of junk mail and a couple of other envelopes that look like they could be fan mail, I let myself into apartment 8B. After setting down the mail on the sideboard, I turn on the air-conditioning – a necessity given the apartment is one of two penthouses in the building and it doesn’t have reflective glass windows.

I kick off my sneakers and move into the spacious lounge area, slipping down onto my brother’s extremely comfy but needlessly large sofa. It’s Monday morning and for the millionth time in the last forty-eight hours since I arrived here from San Francisco, I ask the empty room, ‘What am I doing here?’

Resting my head back against the soft leather cushions, I drag my hands through my hair, staring at the spotlights in the roof.

Should I have fought harder? Or was it always a losing battle trying to keep my own fiancée?

Three days ago, I thought I had it all. A beautiful wife-to-be, a partnership that is making serious tracks in Silicon Valley, and a best friend who I could also rely on as my greatest business ally.

I was wrong on all counts.

My cell phone vibrates in my pocket, and then the noise of its ringtone is surrounding me through every wall speaker in the apartment. I take the phone from my pocket and swipe the screen.

‘T bird!’ My brother’s voice echoes in the vast square footage.

I boot my troubles out of my head and my voice as I respond. ‘Hey, you’re on extreme surround sound.’

I hear the humor in his voice. ‘Yeah, it’s handy when you want to be hands-free. So how’s it all going over there? Are you still hiding from the world or are you ready to share your woes?’

I sit forward, leaning across my knees, resting on my elbows, my face in my palms. ‘The former. You haven’t mentioned what’s going on to anyone, right?’

‘It’s not my story to tell, kid, but I think it’s a matter of time before word spreads.’

‘Yeah, well, a little bit longer to get my head around it all would be nice.’

‘No one will hear a thing from me. I just wanted to check in and make sure you’re not eating your weight in jelly sandwiches.’

I look across to the kitchen counter, where there’s a loaf of white bread and a kilo of strawberry jelly. ‘I’m not five years old, Mike,’ I reply, instead of outright lying.

‘If you say so. Just to let you know, the cleaners will be there today at four. Hide your sticky socks from under the bed.’

I shake my head, though I am, miraculously, amused. ‘It’s only been three days; I’m not that desperate, yet.’

Mike is still laughing when thebeep beep beepof the dead call tone comes through the speakers and I have to think about what to do with myself.

It’s the start of a new day, which means I can sit on the sofa with a strawberry jelly sandwich or choose a new signed baseballfrom my brother’s wall shelf collection and bounce it off the wall repeatedly until my mind is completely numb.

Rising from the sofa, I select a ball that has been signed by Barry Bond, infamous former left fielder for the San Francisco Giants. I know this because my brother has had small plaques made to sit in front of each ball. Most of his collection has come from ball trades at the end of his games, but some, like his signed Babe Ruth ball, he acquired from auction.

My brother is a catcher for the San Francisco Giants. He’s spent the last three years as a starter but recently picked up a shoulder injury that’s seen him out of the game for four months, with the physios predicting another two to recover after a number of setbacks.

He earns good money, the kind that means he can afford a second home in New York – which has now become my hideaway.

Mike and I look like dead-ringers for each other. We’ve even been asked if we’re twins a heap of times. In fact, I’ve wondered whether that means he looks younger than his thirty-six years or I look older.

He’s four years my senior, and I’ve spent a lot of my childhood in his shadow, unable to live up to his dizzy heights of athleticism. I wasn’t a bad ball player, but I wouldn’t have made a major league team like Mike. When I finally stepped out from his shirt tails, I realized I had a bent for and enjoyed science, analytics and tech.

See, though we look alike, personality wise, Mike and I are polar opposites. He’s a devout athlete and sports fanatic and I’m a self-confessed tech nerd. Specifically, I develop forward-thinking, innovative, analytical software.

And, until seventy-two hours ago, I was flying in my field.Now, I’m just a guy who hasn’t got the faintest clue how to get through each day.

Intermittently taking bites out of my zero-goodness sandwich, I decide to grant myself 250 tosses of the ball against the wall, plus an extra one for any missed catches. This is more than double my allowance of one hundred throws I allowed myself as an insomnia cure last night but when I reach 250, I promise I’ll check my emails.

Thud. Catch. Thud. Catch. Thud.Dropped catch.Thud. Thud. Thud.

I lose count around 170 but I’m sufficiently pacified by the tedium of the activity, and my sandwich has filled a hole.

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