Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 115198 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 576(@200wpm)___ 461(@250wpm)___ 384(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115198 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 576(@200wpm)___ 461(@250wpm)___ 384(@300wpm)
“You think it made the story more believable that I, a man who has driven the same Honda Accord for ten years, bought a house in Cabo? If anything, that’s going to make him more suspicious.”
With a laugh, Jake rids himself of our shot glasses and snags two tumblers of whiskey off a passing tray. He hands me one before lifting his own. “Well, whatever. To the final few months: if you pull this off, you’re free.”
My stomach dips. If he only knew how critical this farce was… for all of us. We clink glasses and take a sip. “How’s work?”
My brother shrugs. “Fine. The usual.”
He looks past me at the party, and I take stock of how he seems from the outside. He’s got Dad’s dark wavy hair and light brown eyes, but like me, he got his height from our mother, who is almost six feet tall without the benefit of heels. Jake is good-looking, charismatic, and always up for some (mostly) good-hearted shit-stirring. My stomach sours with guilt for what I’m keeping from him. What I could potentially fuck up.
Jake’s happiness is my lifelong, constant vigilance: making sure Dad isn’t turning any of his brand of tough-love parenting on my younger brother. For the most part, Jake has managed to escape it. It’s almost like our father gave the largest dose to Alex, the second largest to me, and by the time he got to Jake, he was too bored to pay much attention. He skipped right to Charlie, where the adoration is lavished. Frankly, I’m fine with it. It’s better this way, and from a very young age, Jake realized it, too.
Our father’s dream was to have his three sons beside him in the C-suite. Alex was trained in accounting from the time he could read, and Jake is social and magnetic—a perfect fit for marketing. I took a natural liking to computers, but I suppose my temperament and the strategic invention of a computer program when I was in my teens that simplified a huge waste and inventory issue had my father’s laser sights on me as CEO.
But I’m where this plan broke down, and Dad has no one to blame but himself, though it would never occur to him to do so. I was the first to join the family business, if inadvertently: At fifteen, for a summer programming class, I created an inventory system to be used across all of the stores. It was a game changer at the time, and Dad became obsessed with all the ways new technology could put Weston’s above every other chain out there. He pulled me from school, hired private tutors so that I could spend more time programming new systems, tinkering with employee portals, forums, and retail pages, and less time in the classroom. I did everything he asked of me, and yet, years later, when his feet were held to the fire, he fucked me over.
But like Jake said, I’m nearly free. If Anna and I pull this off, we’re all nearly free. And standing here with my little brother… I’m relieved that even working for Dad, he seems good, too. Maybe we’ll both survive our father with minimal damage after all.
“Anna really does look amazing,” Jake says, pulling my thoughts in a new direction.
“You’ve mentioned.” I search the room for her, finding her still talking to Blaire. “And I agree, she does.”
“I mention it because… have you two…?”
“No,” I say, too quickly, blinking down into my glass. “It’s not like that.”
“It could be like that. I saw you looking at her in that dress.”
“Everyone’s looking at her in that dress.” I turn to him, suddenly curious. “Did you two ever…?”
“Hook up?” he asks and takes another sip. “No. But I did sleep with her friend Isabelle.” Jake leans in. “The best sex of my life, no lie.”
I stifle a smile. At least I know now which way those “mixed reviews” went. Poor Jake. “Ah. That’s good.”
“But you—”
I hear a squeal, and then am attacked from behind by a set of familiar arms thrown around my torso, two hands weaving together against my chest. My sister presses her face to my back and squeezes. “Liammmmm!”
Turning, I pull her in for a long hug. “Hey, little miss,” I say, kissing the top of her hair. I’ve known a lot of people who grew up with complicated feelings about discrepancies in the way they versus their siblings were treated by their parents. Jake and I have been to therapy to work through ours, Alex would never, and Charlie simply won’t have to. I don’t begrudge her this; I wouldn’t have it any other way. You know those Best of and Most likely to lists they put in the back of yearbooks? Charlie would be voted Best All Around, every time. Her face is welcoming, always with a smile that makes her nose scrunch and a dimple hollow out each of her cheeks. She has the best of our mother’s features: golden hair, wide eyes, skin that benefits from genetics as much as money—all in a pint-sized Ray Weston package. It’s been at least six months since I’ve seen her, and a tight, clawing sensation invades my chest. I miss her. I miss Jake. I don’t want to lose these two, no matter what Dad does to fuck it all up.