Page 2 of The Older Brother
I roll my eyes and breathe out, “I guess.”
My pulse speeds up again, my body tingling with the familiar anxiety that numbed my skin before we got here. Everything inside of me is resisting. I didn’t want to come tonight, but my mom will be here, and I couldn’t bear the thought of disappointing her. She put the catering together and ordered the cake, party-planning one of the many hats she wears as Daniel Anderson’s assistant. And I know if I didn’t show up, all everyone would talk about is how awkward she must feel that her daughter didn’t come to her own party. We’re cut from the same cloth, her and I. Case in point, I’m not necessarily jealousseeing Caleb throat wrestle Neveah by the pool. I’m dreading the way everyone here is going to look at me because of it.
“Well. There it is,” I say, the two-tiered cake accented by golden and black folds of frosting centered on the massive granite countertop that divides the professional-grade kitchen from the vast great room that overlooks the Valley’s lights.
“What flavor is it?” Cami glances to both sides, then swipes a small rivet of frosting from the base of the bottom layer.
“Vanilla, I think.” I shrug, not sure what Caleb picked. I told him I didn’t care.
“That tracks,” Cami jokes.
I smirk, but it fades as I take in the crowded space around us. I don’t know most of the people in this room. I’ve never been interested in Brogan-Tackerly Hedge Fund clients. When Daniel hired my mom when I was a kid, the firm and the wealthy clientele were all my mother talked about for months. I used to think the snobbery of it was what drove my dad away, but as I matured and understood the nuances of relationships, I realized that a gig musician with a wandering soul was not really suited to my mother’s type-A lifestyle.
Cami and I make small plates of olives, cheese, and prosciutto, then head outside, where at least the median age is eighteen, like us. We pick a dry area on the deck and dip our feet into the cool water while we pick at our plates from the charcuterie spread my mom probably spent days perfecting.
“The cheese is weird,” Cami says, spitting her bite into a cocktail napkin, then tucking it under her plate that she discards on the deck beside her.
“Good to know,” I say, nudging the cheese to the edge of my plate with the toothpick I’m using to eat.
A rush of testosterone-fueled former football players from our school barrels into the pool a moment later, casting waves of pool water into our laps. We scream from the instant chill. Camilifts her gauzy cover-up dress over her head and tosses it behind us before pushing off the edge and rushing toward two of the footballers who doused us. She splashes them with two hands, and Warren, her on-again, off-again ex, quickly wraps her up in his arms. The two of them are giggling and play-splashing one another within seconds, which means I’m going to be solo for the rest of the night.
I spot one of the party servers headed my direction with a tray of champagne, so I stand up and wave him down, swapping Cami and my plastic-crystal plates out for a flute of golden bubbles. I tip my head back and swallow down half of it in one gulp.
“Don’t embarrass me tonight, Saylor.” My mom’s hushed voice at my side tempts me to guzzle down the rest, but I’m not here to pick a fight. I’m here to keep up the façade, to make sure she can continue to work for these people and hold her head high.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I say as my gaze drops to hers.
Our matching, resting bitch face expressions duel for a second, and she’s the first to break, slipping on her famous “everything is fine” mask.
“You look cute. Has Caleb seen you yet?” She leans in and kisses my cheek, and I breathe in her citrus-floral scent that somehow matches the eyelet sun dress and hemp mules she’s wearing. Her long brown hair rests on her shoulder, woven into a messy braid that I’m sure took her an hour to do. My mom’s effortless beauty requires a lot of effort, and I know the fact that I don’t put in the same work, given that our appearance is nearly identical except for the obvious age difference of seventeen years, drives her nuts.
“I think he may have caught a glimpse when he came up for air,” I say, nodding toward my ex-boyfriend, who is now hovering over a bikini clad Neveah, his teeth tugging at thestring that’s barely holding the triangles of her top together between her breasts.
“Ah, I see.” My mom’s mouth falls back to its natural flatline, and my stomach twists.
“I’m going to get some cake,” I announce, extricating myself from her. She has this way of making me feel guilty for the most ridiculous things that are not my fault. And I’ll be damned if I’m going to stand here and let her make me feel bad about Caleb breaking up with me.
“Saylor, you have to wait for us to make speeches. We won’t have cake for another hour.”
I groan quietly, then force a faint smile on my face when I turn back to face her.I have to be here for an hour?
“Fine. I’ll just swim,” I say, my lips forming a tight, pursed smile.
I down the rest of my champagne then hand my mom the empty glass before marching back to the now soaking deck where Cami and I were sitting. I slip my sandals from my feet, then unzip my cut-offs, making a point to work them over my hips with a little sway before wriggling them down my legs. I kick them to the side, near my shoes, then step and run my palms over my hips to make sure the strings are snugly tied on my bottoms. I scan the pool, hoping for a few sets of eyes on me. It’s a new suit, and it barely covers things. I bought it four hours ago, and so far it’s not pulling its weight. The eighty-dollar price tag has only gotten a glimpse from Cami’s ex, which is thelastperson I need noticing.
Defeated, I head toward the steps so I can slip into the water slowly. I’m not in the mood for a splash battle. I pause at the second step to scoop some water onto my tummy and arms, and when I lift my gaze, someone is finally staring at me. Rowan pulls the cap from his beer, his lip tugging up on one side as he raises it to me in a toast shared only by the two of us.
I laugh silently and shake my head as he tilts the beer back and then slowly pulls the rim of the bottle from his lips, his smirk still exactly the same. His eyes fixed on me. The attention is enough to make me forget about Caleb’s make-out session a few feet away for a moment, and I’m grateful.
Sinking into the water, I push off from the steps and glide through the water toward Rowan. He’s changed out of the dark slacks and white shirt he wore to park cars, and he’s now shirtless and wearing dark blue board shorts that ride low on his hips. The physical differences between him and his brother are almost laughable. Caleb is fit, with muscular arms and a ripped chest and back, thanks to diligent workouts and years of competitive basketball, which he’s only giving up in college because his fancy New York school doesn’t have a team. Everything about Caleb’s appearance is color-by-numbers. The perfect hair. The preppy wardrobe. The daily grooming to ensure he’s never unshaven, unkept, or sloppy.
Rowan’s body, on the other hand, is chiseled from life. The ink that crawls up his neck and down his arm tells a story about a boy who grew up in second place and never figured out how to win. His round biceps were forged by self-taught manual labor, from hours spent sanding classic cars and hoisting tires. And his smile . . . well . . . that must have come from a deal with the devil.
My fingertips slide up the stone edge of the pool, and I lay my arms over one another as I rest my chin on top and blink away the water droplets from my eyes.
“What are you looking at?” He knows I like his attention. I think he’s always known about my little crush. My teenage adoration made him feel good about himself too. I’m sure of it.
Rowan lifts his beer to his lips, pausing.
