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“Stay where you are,” Philip tells him.
“Henry,” Mum says, “don’t make it worse.”
But I can see the pain in the boy’s face, and I’m furious with Philip for implying he wishes that he hadn’t kept Rangi.
“You’re sixteen,” I say to Rangi. “You’re old enough to leave home without his consent, if you want to.”
Rangi looks at his father again.
“Don’t you fucking dare,” Philip says. He jabs a finger at me. “He’s my boy, not yours. It’s not my fault you’re a fucking Jaffa.” Jaffa—a seedless orange. I should take comfort in the fact that he’s chosen to pick on my infertility because I have no other weaknesses, but funnily enough I don’t find it comforting.
His eyes gleam, and his lips curve up. He knows he’s hurt me.
“Fuck you,” I whisper fiercely, fighting the urge to pummel him. He’s not worth it. I’m not going to lower myself to his level.
Instead, I look at Rangi. “Are you coming?”
He gives me a helpless look. “I can’t.” He’s too frightened of what Philip will do if he goes.
I go over to Mum, give her a hug, nod at Teariki, then head for the door without another look at my brother.
Outside, I get in my BMW, and within a few minutes I’m on the State Highway, heading toward Sumner Beach.
I spend the first five minutes of the journey cursing myself. At Kia Kaha I’m known for my calm, unflappable manner, but that’s only because the people I deal with at work are unable to penetrate my armor. Philip, however, knows exactly where to insert the blade and how deep to drive it.
I remember Juliette’s text about Cam: He knows right where to slide the knife. I replied: of course he does. That’s what happens when you’re with someone for a long time.
Do you think it always has to be like that?
No. I think if you truly love someone, even in an argument, you choose not to breach their defenses.
I know that the fact that Rangi confided in me hurt Philip, but that’s not my fault. I didn’t wound him on purpose. If I wanted to stick the knife in, I could—I’d mock his lack of education, his inability to earn a decent wage, the fact that none of his kids respect him, that none of the women he’s fathered children by have been faithful to him. But I don’t; I choose not to breach his defenses because he’s my brother and I love him.
Clearly, though, he doesn’t feel the same way about me.
I’m twenty-eight, a successful, grown man, and long past the age where I need to earn the respect of my big brother. On paper I’ve surpassed him in almost every way, and nobody would say he’s more successful. And yet I feel stuck in our childhood relationship, constantly trying to earn his approval and love.
I do it for my mother, and because deep down I’ve always hoped that if I could break through his resentment, we’d be able to share the positive sibling relationship I’ve always wanted.
Well, he can slide into poverty and misery for all I care. I’m fucking done with him.
The traffic is relatively light, and it only takes me fifteen minutes to get home. I slide the car into the garage, go into the house, kick off my Converses, grab a bottle of whisky, and take it out onto the deck. I pour a generous amount into the tumbler, throw myself into a chair, and knock back half the glass in one go.
Then I slide down in the chair and look out at the ocean.
My life feels as if it’s slipping away from me. How can I be so in control in business and so fucking useless in my personal life?
My marriage broke down, and at twenty-eight I’m already divorced. I’m unable to father children. I haven’t dated for two years, because I’m obsessed with a woman who belongs to another man, and she’s showing no real signs of leaving him for me. My father died. My brother hates me.
I earn a fortune, I live in a mansion, I have three cars, a couple dozen tailor-made suits, handmade leather shoes, and the biggest, most expensive iPhone, but it’s Christmas Day, and I’m sitting here, about to get drunk, alone.
So which of us, really, is the most successful?
Ah, Juliette…
I let out the longest sigh I’ve ever given, finish off my whisky, and pour another glass. I’m drinking too much lately, but it’s the only way to numb my misery. It’s weak, though, and I despise myself for it. Tomorrow, maybe I’ll start doing something about it. Today, I just want to forget.
I can’t forget her, though. She captivated me the first moment she walked into the bar, and it’s only gotten worse over the years. Now I’m obsessed, or, more correctly, possessed. She’s bewitched me. Bedeviled me. It’s all her fault.
