Page 130 of The Billionaire Is Back

“Clawdia’s the one who should race. She’s the one who wins.”

This evokes a joyless little laugh from my brother. He shakes his head. “You know everything don’t you, Grady? You’re the winner. You’re the racer. You can’t even let me have this.”

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

“You’re saying you don’t think Muhammad Lobbee can do this. You think he’s a loser and a fuckup.” There’s an undertow of emotion in my brother’s voice that has nothing to do with lobsters.

“I don’t think that at all. He doesn’t have to be Clawdia. He shouldn’t be. The problem is not that he isn’t someone else. The problem is that he’s not being who he should be. He’s not doing the thing he was born to do.”

“What do you mean?” Damien grits out. “Are you saying he should be dinner? A nice bisque, maybe?”

“I’m saying he’s not a racer. I’m saying he’s the best lobster-racertrainerthis festival has ever seen. He’s trained a champion. Let them both be who they’re supposed to be, and stop forcing them to be something they’re not.”

Damien’s face and entire body remain rigid. I don’t move. I don’t have anything else to say right now. He can tell me to fuck off. He can take a swing at me. But I’m not going anywhere.

And that seems to give Damien the space he needs to hear what I’m trying to tell him. His stance softens. “Yeah,” he says quietly with a nod. “Okay.”

I place my hand on his shoulder. “And maybe you feel bad for me. But I never felt bad for you. I’m pissed at you.” My brother looks up at me. To me. I look him square in the eyes. “After today, when this is all done, I need you to do your music. No more fucking around. It’s time to use your gift. I’ll support that in whatever way I can.”

My brother listens to me. Really listens in a way that he hasn’t for a really long time. Maybe ever.

After a few moments of stillness, his easy half grin makes a triumphant comeback. “Yeah. Okay.”

I spot my parents waving at us as they approach.

“Hi, honey! Oh, it’s so good to see you,” my mom cries out, as if it’s been more than two days since she last saw me.

I plant a kiss on her cheek. “Hey, Mom. Dad.”

“Hey there, son,” my dad says as we hug. “You ready, Damien? I mean, is your boy ready?” My dad points at Muhammad.

“We’re ready, but there’s been a change of plans,” my brother says as he gives me a knowing smile.

For both of us. If they only knew.

I make my way over to the stage. Claire, Vera, and Jake are done setting up the cake, and Mayor Stacy is gushing over it. She isn’t even jogging in place. “Claire Sweeney—from this year forward,youare the official baker of the Shellibration. Of any official town event—my Christmas party included! This. Cake. Is. Magnificent! This cake is the heart and soul of Beacon Harbor and this event—in pastry form!”

Claire grimaces as she points out that technically, this cake is not considered a pastry, but she looks like she’s bursting with pride. “Wow. It is literally a dream come true to hear you say that. Thank you, Mayor Stacy. I am so honored. But I’m actually not going to be in Beacon?—”

“Claire!” I interrupt. “Babe. Can I talk to you for a second?” I grab Claire’s hand and pull her away before she talks herself out of her lifelong dream.

“Grady Barber! Fantastic to see you. You’re still giving the keynote speech, yes?” Stacy holds up crossed fingers.

“Absolutely. Big plans for that speech.”

“Sensational!” Stacy exclaims, punctuating it with a double thumbs-up.

“Ladies and gentlemen and racers,” we hear the announcer say over the loudspeaker, “start your pincers!”

“Oh, that’s my cue. Gotta go!” Stacy says as a mass of people make their way over to the racetrack for the start of the lobster race. I keep hold of Claire’s hand as wefollow everyone. All the women in the crowd wear fancy hats like at the Kentucky Derby.

“On your marks. Get set. Crawl!”

The race begins with a huge cheer from the crowd. Claire and I let go of each other’s hands so that we can applaud and I add a piercing whistle. My parents and Damien are up front, and I see my dad’s hands on Damien’s shoulders in support.

“Shellton John’s Rocket Lobster takes an early lead, with David Pincher’s Fast Club right on his tail!” the announcer calls out.

Now, here’s the thing about lobsters. Despite my brother’s intense training regimen, they are not greyhounds. They are not horses. They aren’t even fish. So while there is a lot of boisterous, joyful community energy to go along with the jaunty lady hats, there is not a lot of action on the racetrack. Because lobsters walk slowly. Even when they’re racing. Which is why I finally have a chance to turn to Claire and say, “You said you would come to New York with me.”

---