“You just want me to pretend I don’t need it.”
She crossed her legs, and the dress parted over her thighs. Matt’s gaze followed her movements before he jerked his eyes back to the road. “Are you trying to sabotage me? There are important people at this party.” He was getting louder, while she had a death grip on her tone that kept it at an even level. “This should be easy,” he snapped. “What I’m asking you to do is exactly what you were already doing before. Show up, smile, and drink some goddamn champagne.” He slammed his hand against the steering wheel. “Why do you have to make everything so hard?”
Matt made a sharp turn, the tires screeching on the asphalt in the Vasquez driveway. The valets stopped talking to stare as he braked to a sudden stop.
“Don’t kid yourself. This?” Rachel gestured between them. “Was never easy.” She glanced at the gawking guests, already raising their phones to take pictures. “Now pull yourself together. Your fans are watching.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Nathan bypassed the valets and parked his car between the west entrance and the lemon groves. No one entered that way unless they were working in the kitchen. Tonight, the lot was filled with small cars and catering vans. A group of guys standing in a cloud of cigarette smoke passed a bottle of Smirnoff back and forth while they spoke loudly about going to Adams Morgan after their shift. Nathan imagined joining them, blowing off the party, and throwing back shots at some college bar until his brain was numb. But he’d promised his family to make an effort.
He reached the foyer and instantly recognized a few people from his father’s company, gray-haired executives wearing dark suits and big gold watches. None of them recognized him. He wasn’t eight years old anymore, stealing pens and paper from their offices. They were clumped together, shout-talking over glasses of brown liquor. One of them called Matt Abbott a “pandering prick” and laughed so hard it made him cough.
The other guests were from his mother’s world—people who planned, attended, and critiqued parties like this for a living. Their outfits were brighter and more complicated, with leather straps in strange places and suits in fabrics that had no business being made into clothes. One guy was suddenly camouflaged against the damask cushions when he perched on a love seat.
Servers in white dress shirts weaved through the bodies with trays of drinks, and Nathan swiped a glass of wine. A white guy with a handlebar mustache pointed to his glass and asked, “Hey, fella. Can I get another one of those?” Nathan handed the guy his unwanted drink and walked away, searching for a dark corner to brood in.
Joe found him lurking in the shadows a few minutes later. “Look who finally showed up, only…” He glanced at his watch. “Forty-five minutes late.”
Nathan pointed to his own shirt. “And with buttons.”
Joe’s lips twitched as he cocked an eyebrow. “Congrats on the bare minimum.”
“Apparently that’s all I’m capable of.”
“Dad didn’t mean it like that,” Joe countered. Nathan knew his brother was trying to stay neutral, but just once, he wanted Joe to pick a side and stay there. Or at least call their father out on his objectively fucked-up bullshit. Beto was imprinted on his brother in ways that ran so deep it was scary.
“That’s exactly how he meant it,” Nathan said.
Joe propped both hands on his hips, revealing a creased shirt and wrinkled pants. He’d probably come straight from the office. “All right, so what? He’s a seventy-year-old asshole that doesn’t care about anything but a stock option. Toss a coin in this room and you’ll hit five more just like him.”
“That makes it okay?”
“No, but your attitude is pointless. Who gives a fuck what he thinks? Let it go.”
Nathan bit back a laugh because Joe never let go of anything. He balled things up and choked them down with a chaser of sleep deprivation and antacids. Then he dragged himself to events like this to avoid dealing with their parents’ disappointment.
Sometimes, when Joe would visit Nathan’s apartment, his brother would slouch on the couch with his tie loose and his shirtsleeves rolled high. They’d drink beer, make guacamole, and watch some romantic Korean drama that Joe refused to admit was his favorite. He’d tell jokes, and laugh, and sound like the teenage boy who used to squeeze Nathan’s fingers to distract him when he was frightened. That was the real Joe, a goofy romantic who didn’t think twice about holding his little brother’s hand, not this brittle Brooks Brothers drone constantly beating his life into submission. Talking to this guy made him miss his brother.
Nathan surveyed the crowd of party guests. The men checked their watches while the women greeted each other with slack-armed hugs to preserve their hair and makeup. It was like watching an SNL sketch about what rich people do in their spare time. “How do you deal with this every day?”
“It’s just a party.”
“You know what I mean.”
Joe sighed and claimed a bare spot of wall to lean against. “I haven’t left the office before eight in months. Most nights I skip dinner. In the morning, I hit the gym before five. I never see Mom. Don’t see Dad outside the office. Makes things easier.”
Nathan laughed. “And I’m the one getting shit about ghosting this family?”
“It’s not the same thing and you know it. You left us, Nate.”
Nathan could hear the rest of his brother’s accusation. Joe had learned that Nathan moved out the same way everyone else did—in a group text of his new address. They’d argued about the way it went down a few times, but Joe had never said out loud what his eyes were saying now. Why didn’t you talk to me? You didn’t even try.
“I left him,” Nathan said, and nearly added not you, but stopped himself because they weren’t having that conversation.
“He built this life for us,” Joe lectured. “Like Tomás did for him. Call it pride, machismo, whatever, but what you did broke his heart.” He sighed. “Look, I know he talks shit about your art—”
“Finger paints. Get it right.”
“Come on, Nate.” Joe looked up at the ceiling, probably praying for patience. “I know what it means to you. I know you better than anyone, don’t I?” He paused, waiting until Nathan nodded in agreement. “I’d never let them take it from you. But you can do more. We’ve got a dozen subsidiaries with creative teams at Vasquez. Take your pick.”
Nathan’s head was starting to hurt. He rubbed his neck and fumbled for a polite way to say that becoming his brother’s clone was one of his worst nightmares. “I can’t kern fonts on coffee bean labels every day.”
“You can’t—hold on, what the fuck is kerning?”
“Adjusting the space between letter—”