“Right. Of course you’re not. You’re just looking at my apartment with a discerning eye. Not judging at all.”
“Exactly.”
“You are Dad’s little mini-me, aren’t you?” he says with a laugh.
I stiffen.
Then drop.
“What the hell is this?” It’s an enormous beanbag chair the size of me, about seven feet long and three feet wide. Bright red. It molds to my body as I sit on it. Terry moves behind me and pushes on it, turning it into a big pile of something that gives me back support and is comfortable.
He names a brand.
“The place with the store at the mall? That’s what all of your furniture is?”
He grins, handing me wine in a glass that has been hand painted to look like stained glass. “Yeah. It’s comfortable as hell.”
“It is,” I grudgingly admit, yanking on my trousers at the thigh to give the boys some room. I didn’t dress for sitting like this.
“Let’s toast,” he says, dropping into a blue beanbag with a lithe grace that belies his larger frame. “To not being married to a cat!”
I groan. “You heard?”
“I was there for part of it, Andrew.”
“You were?”
“You don’t remember?”
“My memory has decided to be selective.” I sip the wine. “And I assure you, this wine is not entheogenic.”
“Nor homeopathic?” he jokes.
“Just grapes.”
He crosses his legs and laughs.
Something behind me makes a jingling sound, and then a pile of ribbon and hair plunks itself in my lap, wriggling. Two serene brown eyes meet mine and a pink tongue starts licking my chin.
I nearly tip backwards.
“Mr. Wiffles!” Terry booms. She completely ignores my brother. Yeah, she. Terry has a long, ridiculous story involving a modest Amish teen girl breeder who picked the dog’s name without ascertaining the true sex, but I blame Terry for being that weird.
“How’s your transgendered dog?”
“She’s fine,” he grunts.
I pet her with my free hand and make a note to have Gina prepare a fresh suit for me. “She misses me.”
“Then it’s Stockholm Syndrome, Andrew. You stole her from me last spring.”
“Borrowed.”
“Semantics.”
“Truth.”
“Speaking of dogs, how is Amanda?” He raises his eyebrows and takes a sip.
I choke on my wine.
He pauses, frowns, and bursts out laughing. “Oh, man, that sounded awful, didn’t it? I don’t mean she’s a dog. In fact, she’s gorgeous. You picked a hot woman.” He holds his hands up where his breasts would be if he had them, and wolf whistles.
“You’re not doing a good job of digging yourself out of that hole, Terry.” I simmer, tongue rolling in my cheek, wine gone to vinegar in my mouth.
Terry sighs. “You invented that hole. I’m just trying to have a nice conversation with my brother, who never visits, while we dance around the real reason you’re here.”
“Insulting my girlfriend isn’t a great start.”
“When I said speaking of dogs, I meant that Amanda reminds me of dogs—” He holds up one palm to stem my protest “—because of her rescue of so many, and her mom’s little teacup Chihuahua.”
I give him a gimlet eye. “Right.”
“Convinced?”
“No.”
“You’re so uptight. Always have been. Even as a little kid.”
Great. Here it comes. The big brother who knows all because of age.
Mr. Wiffles moves out of my lap and trots to a water dish under the counter. The sound of lapping fills the silence between Terry and me.
“I’m here because I need advice.”
A man with a voice like Terry’s shouldn’t be capable of hooting.
“You what?”
“Declan is on his honeymoon, and my trainer isn’t exactly the guy to talk to. Dad would be impossible on this one, and the chauffeurs, well...”
“You’re flattering me. At what point in your lineup do I fall? Before or after the woman you hire to water your plants?”
“She was at the dentist today.”
Terry drains his glass, reaches behind him for the wine bottle, and pours himself another. He motions toward mine. I cover it with my palm.
“So?”
“Why did you leave Anterdec? Dad won’t talk about it. Just says you decided to become a hippie.”
“I thought we were talking about you?”
“We are. In a roundabout way. But I can’t get to my shit until I understand this.”
He looks at the wine bottle. “We’re going to need another bottle for this conversation. And some food.”
“And better seating,” I mutter.
“There’s a great Turkish restaurant nearby. We can walk.” He names a place.
“Gerald’s out there. We can drive.”
“But it’s only five blocks away.” He’s shifty-eyed. I know what he’s doing.
“I’m in a suit. I don’t want to get sweaty.”
He looks at my lap. I look down.
Mr. Wiffles sheds a lot, huh?
“If you’re worried about appearances, too late. Might as well get sweaty. Besides, you know I hate limos.”
“It’s not a limo. SUV. Satellite internet connection. We can track the markets and watch for—”
“My legs could use a stretch.”
Side-eye.
Damn it.
“Fine. Meet you there. I need to check email and some oil stats.”