Page 31 of The Boyfriend List
“For you? Of course.” He strolls into his kitchen, like he didn’t just answer the door shirtless and flash his immaculately sculpted body at me.
Stop objectifying your friend, Gloria!
I clear my throat. “Thanks.”
“You can take a seat.” London gives me a pointed look, like he can’t tell why I’m awkwardly standing in his doorway with my knee-high boots on.
I stand, unzipping said boots—they were the closest thing I could find in my closet to cowboy boots—and plop onto the barstool by the kitchen island. I smooth my hands over my dark-wash jeans, which I paired with a white peasant blouse for a cowgirl vibe. Fiddling with the tassels on my shirt, I fix my gaze on the fridge instead of him.
He has a LIVE LAUGH LOVE magnet on it, holding up a picture of him and his family on a beach vacation.
Some of his siblings grin playfully, one of his brothers not looking at the camera. London stands obediently between his parents, smiling a smile that looks forced.
“That was taken when I was ten,” London says, as if reading my thoughts. He slides a cup of instant milk tea in front of me, complete with tapioca pearls that he keeps in his fridge. I’m in heaven.
Ladies, get yourself a man who makes you bubble tea.
I mean, afriend. A friend who makes you bubble tea.
“Thank you.” I sip the milk tea. “Where was it taken?”
“On vacation in Cuba,” he says. “Brooklyn is making bunny ears behind Savannah. Troy’s holding the bucket of sand and the shovel. Then there’s Perry, looking away from the camera.”
“Do you know what he was staring at?” I ask.
“Probably a cute girl. I think he was seventeen.”
I examine all their features. Troy looks the most like London. London bears a startling resemblance to his father, while Perry and Savannah look like his mom. Brooklyn has a blend of both parents’ features.
“Did you ever feel overlooked in your family? Your parents had so many children,” I ask without thinking. It was just me and Paulo growing up, which meant I had plenty of opportunities to be compared to him. Maybe it would be worse to feel invisible in a large family.
“Never. I was the baby, remember? The youngest. My mom doted on me.” He scans the picture as he takes a sip of his own black tea. “Sometimes I think my siblings resented that. I was the favourite child, so they had to act out to get attention.”
“What about your dad? Are you his favourite?”
He snorts. “No. Brooklyn would be his favourite.”
I don’t ask him to elaborate. He’ll open up when he wants to. We finish our beverages in silence, then leave to pick up his nieces.
As we pull up in front of Brooklyn’s house, I’m struck by its grandeur and size. London told me he’s an engineer, but I didn’t think he didthatwell for himself.
The house is flanked by two tall palm trees, gently swaying in the wind. Made of what I would bet is real marble, columns tower over us as we ascend the steps to the porch, supporting a sleek, flat roof that has a built-in pool.
“Did your brother win the lottery or something?” I whisper to London as he keys in a code and we walk into the house.
“No. He married into money,” he replies.
London’s nieces, Queenie and Hattie, are sitting by the front door playing with Polly Pocket dolls, their backpacks by their sides. Queenie is bossing Hattie around. I chuckle as I see them.
“Queenie! Hattie! It’s time to go,” London calls as he steps into the entryway.
The entryway is even more magnificent than the outside. A massive spiral staircase greets us, and behind it a window with ocean views and breezy drapes. Above the staircase is a skylight that lets in natural light. The house seems to stretch on forever.
Then again, London is probably used to places like this. His dad is a successful attorney on par with Rob Kardashian (minus the friendship with a famous murderer and reality show). When I went to his family’s for Thanksgiving, the opulence of their mid-century modern home made me scared to touch anything lest I break it. Still, Brooklyn’s house, despite its shiny surfaces, feels more lived-in. Children’s toys litter the foyer, and tacked-up crayon drawings line the walls.
The two little girls scramble up, discarding their dolls in a bright pink toy chest that clashes with the all-white and blue decor of the house. “Uncle London!”
They throw themselves at London, flinging their arms around his legs, or waist, then let go and jump up and down.
