Page 75 of The Benefits of Love (As I Am 2)

“You’re so proud of your firm where the one thing you should be proud of is how you’re probably on Harvard’slist of most useless graduates,” he said contemptuously. “Waste of money to send you to Harvard for that meager office you call afirm.”

Ismirked to cover the bile that rose in my throat as my father repeated his speech, the one that sounded eerily like the one Laura had been hearing for years. “Arthur, you should watch yourself before you turn into acamel or some other ruminant with your continuous drudging up of the past.”

“Don’tuse that tone with me,” he hissed. He didn’tmove from the rail, but Icould see the vein in his throat pulsing.

“What tone?” My smile widened. Iknew where this ship was headed, and Ismiled anyway.Fuck him.

My father checked his golden watch, my question boring him.

Itook astep closer, lowering my voice and no longer smiling. “Since we’re bringing up the past, how about we talk about howyoubeggedmeto go to law school for forever? Fuck, if I’dhave to guess you probably whispered it to Mother’sstomach while Iwas in utero.”

“If I’dhave to guess I’dbe saying someone’sfeeling sorry for themselves.” Unlike Laura’sfather, mine never broke character, his faze frozen like his steel blue eyes. “I’mgetting bored with this discussion.”

Stopping myself from rolling my eyes at the irony of him being bored of aconversation he’dstarted was virtually impossible.

“Zachary, hello.” My mother appeared from the top of the stairs, wearing her light pink chiffon cocktail dress, her hair recently done by the hairdresser that did house calls for her. To complete the rich-bitch look, which described my mother to atee, she plastered on an evil expression Icould spot from miles away. My mother wore it well, and more often than not, directed it at me.

But whatever she had planned for me had been shoved to the side by my adorable nephew yelling. He ran toward me, his Burberry sneakers padding on the black and white vintage tiles. “Uncle Zach!”

“Arthur the third, Iwon’ttell you again that there’ll be no running inside the house.” My brother called his four-year-old son by his full, dull, and predictable name.

His voice boomed from the drawing room, stopping little Art in his tracks. My chest tightened when Iwatched his eyes widen with the known fear of being reprimanded. Not only did they not allow him to act his age, they didn’tdress him like it either. Aside from the ridiculously expensive shoes he would’ve outgrown in acouple months, they insisted on transforming him into areplica of his father. The beige slacks, white polo shirt, and pale blue sweater around the neck weren’tcute. Ninja Turtles T-shirts, or whatever cartoon kids had those days, were.

Icrouched down and held my arms open for him, curling my fingers repeatedly and affirming him that yes, he should’ve definitely run. He twisted his head from side to side, and after confirming his grandparents were busy with their chef, he sprang toward me.

“Where’sthe fun in no running?” Iwhispered to the giggling kid.

He covered his wide grin with his forefinger as if to signal me to be silent, and Inodded to him. His blue eyes, like the rest of the men in the family, glimmered just like mine and spoke volumes while he kept quiet.

“Zachary, put him down. He’snot ababy anymore.” AJ strolled out eventually, accompanied by Val and my niece Lynsey. She’dalways taken to her father, and even walked like an older woman and not like the two-year-old she was.

Listening to stiff putzes wasn’tmy strong suit and instead of putting him down Ilifted him up higher,Lion Kingstyle, his shrill laughter filling the gloomy room. “You’re not ababy anymore? For real? Could’ve fooled me.”

“Come on, Arthur.” Val, or Valerie as my brother preferred calling her, appeared at my side, extending her arms out for him. “Hi, Zach.”

Ioften wondered what she found in AJ, her youthful and kind character, the one that probably saved my nephew, contrasted that of my brother. But hey, to each their own.

The little dude looked over his shoulder with apout as Ipassed him onto his mother and from her to the floor. Iruffled his hair and winked at him, pained to see the disillusioned frown Iremembered from my own childhood.

In my childhood, when I’dgone through similar manifestations of “love,” I’dalways said that when Igrew up and had kids, I’dtreat them better. The concept, as much as Ihad entertained it recently in my head, seemed impossible. I, unlike AJ, intended to be present for my children, which bordered on the impossible, working one hundred hours aweek.

My nephew and Thomas’skids were what Isettled for, and even if it didn’tfeel like enough anymore, it’dhave to do.

The late morning’slight seeped in from the French white doors into the dining room that overlooked the garden. We sat around the table, and Igazed at the outside longingly, areprieve from the cold and impersonal feel of the room.

My father cleared his throat and Ifocused back on the table that looked nothing like Thomas and Erin’s. Where Thomas baked pastries, my parents’ private chef prepared fish, poached eggs, breakfast quiche, and salads.

“What happened to the waffles?” Iasked when no one complained about the loss of the one constant joy-inducing carb.

My mother placed the napkin on her lap and raised an eyebrow at me. “You said you were coming, but we never know with you. Forever the volatile, indecisive man-child.”

Denise Sheppard hung on to hersnarkicismas one would for dear life. It was her special blend of snarky and cynicism, and today she used it to goad me into atrap.

Ishould’ve ignored her, saidOkayand moved on, but my edges were fraying the more Istayed there, the more I’dbeen away from Laura. “Denise, I’mnot screwing around. I’ve been working.”

She looked at me behind her chilled sauvignon blanc. “Calista didn’tseem to think so.”

Val ceased allocating food to her children’splates, and my brother and father paused their conversation. The entire table turned to us.

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