Page 19 of The Billionaire Is Back

“Oh, hey,” he offers without any enthusiasm.

“It’s good to see you?” I didn’t mean for that to come out like a question, but there it is.

“Is it?” he replies, raising one dark eyebrow.

“Yeah. It is. You look good.”

“Thanks,” he says, passive-aggressively plucking at one string of his guitar.

“That a song for your band?”

Damien shrugs. “Nah, I was just messing around. My band broke up.”

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.”

He raises that eyebrow again and speaks in the same flat tone. “Are you?”

Okay, so his little-brother-passive-aggressiveness is in better shape now too.

He tips his chin toward the box in my hand. “What’d you bring me?”

I laugh. “A welcome-home cake.”

He finally breaks into a grin as well, and it changes his entire face. “Well, it was a long day at the beach, so I appreciate it.”

“Yeah, speaking of—where are Mom and Dad?”

“Busy getting ready for the big barbecue to welcome you home.”

“What barbecue?” I groan the tiniest bit as I realizeof coursethere’s a barbecue. It’s summer. This is Beacon Harbor. There is always a barbecue. No wonder the cake is so big. “So they’re getting things ready and you’re not helping?”

“Hey,I’mhere whenever they need me…” He waves his hand as if waving away the tension that’s been building. “They’re arguing about the menu. Dad doesn’t want to give up red meat.”

“How’s he doing?” I ask, suddenly feeling grateful to have a sibling to talk to about this.

“He’s fine,” he says, in a totally different way than my mom said it and still not at all reassuring. “It was pretty fucking scary when he said he was having chest pains, but he’s the same as ever.” Damien begins strumming his guitar again.

I’m about to ask him why they were at the beach, but I’m interrupted by the drone of my parents’ argument as they enter through the sliding door.

I can hear my dad’s deep voice clearly as they pass through the kitchen. “I can’t spend all night in front of that grill, smelling the meat that I cook to absolute perfection, and not eat any of it. Sartre was wrong. Hell isn’t other people. Hell is watching other people eat your perfectly seared and seasoned meat without being able to enjoy it yourself!”

I hear my mother heave a big, dramatic sigh. “Well, you’d get to find out soon because if you eat that, then you’re gonna die and wake up in hell for all eternity!”

“That’s garbage, and you know it! My barbecue skills alone get me into Heaven!”

My brother and I share a look, and we can’t help laughing. Our faces immediately switch to feigned indifference the minute our mother walks into the room. I can hear our dad opening and closing cupboards in the kitchen.

“Stop doing things!” Mom yells back at him. “You have to relax, remember?!Iwill get the condiments!” Her expression immediately shifts from deep frustration to blinding joy at discovering me in the living room. “Oh, Grady!” She opens her arms wide.

Still holding the things I brought in from the car, Iembrace her in a warm one-armed hug. “Hey, Mom. You look lovely. These are for you.” I take the flowers I bought at a rest stop off the top of the cake box and hand them to her. “Sorry they’re a little wilted from the heat.”

“Oh, that’s all right, honey. I’m just so glad to see you. Gosh, don’t you look handsome? Hungry. A little tired. But so handsome.” She presses a manicured hand to my cheek. Her hands are always manicured, her hair is always in place, her outfits are always pretty and practical. My mother grew up in a wealthy area of Massachusetts, the descendent of a long line of lawyers and doctors and the first females of the state to finish college and get PhDs. That side of the family and the wealthy people she grew up around were very good at adjusting their facial expressions to fit the social scene. Despite looking elegant even when she’s pulling her hair out over my dad, she’s not like her relatives—her emotions turn on a dime because she feels them so deeply.

“Grady! You’re here. Why didn’t you tell me he was here?” my dad says to my mom as he enters from the kitchen.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, I just found out myself!” My mother lets go of my face so I can hug my father.

He grew up blue collar, in a family with tumultuous emotions that they wore on their sleeves. He was a sailor—a cook in the navy for some years. He let that go at my mother’s behest so they could settle down in one place to raise me and Damien. He obliged and started a fishing-tour business. That wasn’t his dream, but he wanted to make my mother happy. He almost lost the business with a couple of bad seasons when the weather just wouldn’tcooperate. Damien was too young to know what was going on, but I was old enough to see how much strain it put on my old man and how guilty it made my mother feel.

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