Page 11 of The Older Brother
“One day you can donate everything you inherit. Does that make you feel better?” he says.
“Only mildly better than burning it,” I respond, scratching my name across the line before dropping the pen to the paper and pushing them away.
“You do seem to like playing with fire,” my father incites.
Unlike Caleb, however, I only feel beholden to this man to a point. I signed his fucking trust papers. I am not, however, sticking around for more insults and dessert.
“Caleb, it’s been nice. Sort of. Dad, it’s been . . .” I draw in a deep breath as I stand from the table and remind myself that I’m building a legacy of my own far away from this toxic one being thrust at me.
I nod to Rob as I leave the restaurant, his shoulders once again ratcheted up to his ears with stress. Pausing just before the exit, I fish out my wallet and pull out the two hundred dollar bills I won at pick-up basketball last weekend, and turn back to hand them to Rob.
“Thank you for your hospitality, or something,” I mutter, not sure how to couch this tip.
“Wow, uh . . . thanks,” he says, tucking the cash in his suit jacket pocket as I wave off his gratitude. I don’t want him feeling like that’s a payoff. If anything, it’s restitution for years of empty promises from his most difficult clientele.
I pull my phone out of my pocket when my feet reach the parking lot, and when I read the message from Miguel asking if I’m down for a trip up north this week to pick up an investment car he found online and wants to flip, I jokingly ask if I can leave right now.
MIGUEL: It’s not ready until Thursday but you do you, man.
A four-day road trip with spotty phone service is tempting after that lunch, but I guess I can drown myself in engine work until then.
SAYLOR: I’m keeping the shirt.
Or other distractions . . .
Chapter 4
When I first joined a swim team, Idid it because I thought being under water for hours at a time would give me peace. It still does, to an extent. Pulling my cap over my head and gliding through the water twenty-five yards at a time is the one place where I can quiet the constant critiques from my mother, coaches, and Caleb. Honestly, it’s the only reason I’m still swimming.
I hit the swim club early this morning to put in my laps. It was an excuse to get out of breakfast time with my mom, and for a moment, I worried she might try to accompany me. She has thoughts on my undeclared status for my freshman year. She says I’m ignoring my natural business savvy and my penchant for number crunching. I’m good at math. It doesn’t mean I love it. And I absolutely don’t want to do it for the rest of my life.
The echoes of my mom’s lecture during dinner last night resurface in my head the moment I leave the water. The reprieve is always so short-lived, but I can’t stay in the pool forever. Damn, to be a mermaid.
“Saylor, I’d love to chat with you before you leave if you’ve got a minute?” My old team coach, Christen Tellez, has been tryingto get me on board to coach this summer. How do I tell her that I’m probably not the motivating factor she thinks I am for her group of young swimmers? I’m liable to slip at some point and tell them how much I hate competing, how the only reason I’m here is for the audible drowning it provides.
“I can’t today. I have an appointment. Next time,” I say, holding my hand up as I pick up my steps toward the locker room and rush by her at the pool’s edge.
“It won’t take long. I’ll follow you out,” she insists.
I sigh as I walk, and I know she sees it. I don’t care.
“We’re scrambling to get a coach for the fifth and sixth graders. And you’ve always been so good with the youth here. It would really mean a lot . . . to the kids.”
We round the corner and enter the locker room, then stop at my stall. I flatten my hand on my locker and stare at the leftover sticky outline from where I pulled my nameplate away a few weeks ago. Fucking hitting me with her famous “the kids” speech. I drop my chin and nod.
“Okay, I can fill in until you find someone permanent. Make sure the parents know that I’m temporary.” And disgruntled. And only good at swimming because I’m excellent at running away from my problems.
“Of course. Thank you so much, Saylor. You’re saving our asses, truly.”
I glance over my shoulder and force a smile to match my former coach’s relieved one. It feels nice to help her at least. And I do like working with kids. Maybe I can find a way to use this to get my mom off my back about my future. She’s always admired teachers. Maybe that’s what I’ll become. Of course, teachers are poor. Like musicians. And since that’s always been a sharp criticism of my dad, I’m not sure how much grace the teaching route will buy me.
“I’ll have Megan set you up with paperwork tomorrow. Drop by whenever you can,” she says, tugging on the lanyard that holds her whistle around her neck before spinning on her heels. She practically sprints out of the locker room, probably afraid I’ll change my mind.
Smart move.
I already am.
After a quick shower and change into my blue cotton romper and sports bra, I head out to my car without running into any more unwelcome conversations. The AC for my car has been tricky lately, as in working every third attempt or so, but my Toyota is twenty years old, so repairs are weighed against the price of a new car at this point. I’m sure my mom would help pay for a new car, but that would be one more piece of leverage she would have in dictating my decisions. If I can just make it to school in the fall, I’ll walk everywhere I need to go and figure out what to do for transportation next summer.
