“For more than a hundred and eighty years, the enterprising Cartwrights have been true leaders, taking Portland from a forested trading outpost on the Willamette River to the elegant, modern city it is now. With a tradition of excellence and public service, each successive generation of Cartwrights has contributed to its enduring legacy of orderly development, dignity, and civic-minded design.”
It’s Saturday morning. Governor Lockwood, speaking from a podium in front of a wide, red velvet ribbon fastened across the entrance to Spencer’s new high-rise building, addresses the crowd assembled outside in the misty rain.
Glancing at my watch, I realize I won’t be getting out of here anytime soon. Spencer already droned on and on about his senatorial campaign, and the governor is only getting started on her collective ass-kissing. But this is what people do at these events. I can’t hold it against her.
In a suit, overcoat, and hat, I’m more formally dressed than the rest of the North Face-wearing crowd, but since there’s a chance that my picture will end up in the media coverage of the event, I need to match the rest of the family and appear sober and proper even though I hate being in the crosshairs of the press.
Drew, on the other hand, dons the full splendor of ripped black jeans and a Ramones T-shirt, showing that he really gives no fucks and that his invitation consisted of a text from me. With a rehearsed smile on his face, he listens, likely planning a drinking game in his head based on how many times the governor says the word “enterprising.”
My phone vibrates in my pocket, but there’s no way in hell I’m looking at it, because it’s either registering hits on my dick blog or a call from my attorney. Not a single use for my phone is safe in public these days.
But thinking about my phone reminds me of Evelyn and her piercing gray eyes, those delicate freckles on her beautiful face, and her sweet, albeit awkward, mannerisms, which make sense. She probably doesn’t get many clients who need to confirm their identities using random body parts.
I can’t call her now, though, because the subject matter of our conversation would definitely not contribute to the enduring legacy of the Cartwrights. I don’t think anyone would consider my dick’s architectural adventures to be an elegant, modern design, or one displaying the dignity of the enterprising Cartwrights mentioned by Governor Lockwood.
I’m not building anything with my dick, except an online reputation that she will never know about.
But it’s what I’m interested in. My thing.
Ha. My thing.
My phone vibrates again in my pocket, and I realize I’m hoping it’s my new attorney.
Last night when I took pictures for my blog, I started with Sandi Sundae for inspiration, but my mind soon went to Evelyn. I’ll admit it—I jacked off thinking about how beautiful she was. Not the plastic skin of Ms. Sundae, but the tones of a real woman. I imagined the way she tilted her head and bit her lip when she thought, the way her tits looked like they were going to pop out of that blouse, and how her hair seemed long enough to wrap around my hand as I plowed into her from behi—
Shit. I’m in public. I can’t think about that or I’ll get hard. I glance over at Drew, who has an expression like he can’t believe I made him come to this, and I silently apologize for dragging him with me. I try to focus back on the ceremony. But having been here for an hour, standing in the rain, hearing speaker after speaker praise my brother for his green building, for moving the city again into a new era of design and modifying the iconic downtown skyline, blah, blah, blah, I just want to get the fuck out of here.
He’s not the only one who modifies iconic skylines.
I don’t have a choice in events like this, however. When the governor finally cuts the ribbon, I plaster on a smile and get slapped on the back by everyone, saying, “You must be so proud of your brother.” I smile and agree, but secretly I’m thinking, Which one?
“Let’s go to the after-party,” I tell Drew.
He barks out a laugh. “That’s what we’re calling it? I thought it was going to be an incredibly dull gathering with a baby, a tiny lunch that will require you to stop by Taco Bell on the way home, and”—here he adopts the tone of Governor Lockwood—“a celebration of the next generation of enterprising Cartwrights. Who will be true leaders, unlike Joshua Cartwright, the secret pervert.”
If looks could kill. “Quit mentioning it in public. Seriously. I shouldn’t have even told you.”
“But then you would have lost the bet.”
This is true.
Walking down the street to the parking garage, Drew shakes his head. “Dude, you know you’re gonna be the elder statesman soon with all these new Cartwrights. You’ll be leading with your staff of life. Your rod of power. Your—”
I shove him into a planter box, and he laughs hysterically.
It’s a short drive from downtown to my parents’ house, which the rest of Portland knows as the Cartwright Mansion. A late 1880s Greek Revival-style estate on a hill, it’s open to the public a few days of the year.
After I moved out—for boarding school, then college and grad school—I came back and realized that the rest of Portland sees my family home much differently than I do. They see original antiques, artwork by Thomas Hill and Albert Bierstadt, and early indoor plumbing and electricity, which have been updated.
I see Drew running through the building with a baseball bat when he was thirteen, and my dad yelling at him that repairs to the columns would cost $25,000 each.
We park in the twelve-car garage, get out, saunter over to the white tent where my mother has set up microscopic food served by obsequious waiters, and I get a good look at the other guests sipping champagne and talking.
Goddamn it.
I yank Drew by the neck and pull him over to the side, next to the chocolate fountain.
“She’s here.”
“Of course she is. When’s she not around?”
I roll my eyes.
Tiffany, my ex, still has this flounce in the way she walks, like she owns the place. Even though we broke up seven months ago when she told me she just wanted to be friends—in contrast, I’d bought a ring—she still shows up often, invited by my mother, who has been best friends with her mom since childhood.
She’s this permanent fixture I can’t seem to get rid of, though I’d love to, especially once I realized she cheated on me. Her excuse? That’s what I got for working such long hours.
Worst, though, is that it still bothers me, and while I’d love nothing more than to tell her to fuck off, it’s not worth the tsunami of crap my family will spew if I upset her.
That’s right. She fucked up, but I’m in the doghouse for disturbing the almighty marriage plans our two families have had since the dawn of time.
As usual, Drew correctly reads my thoughts. “You’d think your family might get a clue that you didn’t want her around after the drunken stupor you were in when she left. That was like a month, dude. I didn’t think your liver would recover. I mean, you’re not as young as you once were.”
I reach for two glasses of champagne from a nearby waiter, hand one to Drew, and clink glasses. “Awesome. Glad you reminded me.” He laughs and takes a sip.