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Asher looks down at his outfit—a bright ass purple velvet tracksuit. “What’s wrong with it?”
“You’re wearing velvet. To dinner.”
“It’s velour,” he says, as if that’s a solid defense.
“That doesn’t make it better.”
“Well, you like Tootsie Rolls,” he says.
“Yeah, because they’re a fucking delicious, low-calorie treat, and that’s got nothing to do with your ridiculous velour tracksuit.” I pull one out of my pocket, and he laughs.
“Okay, then. Bet. I pick up more pussy wearing this than you do wearing that.” He nods pointedly to the black T-shirt and jeans I’ve had on all day.
“I’m not taking that bet,” I say. I’m not taking it because I’m supposed to be in a relationship with Ava, but he takes it to mean something else entirely.
“Because you know I’ll win.”
“Yeah, exactly that.” I roll my eyes. “Where the fuck is Dad so we can get this over with?”
“I’m right here,” he says, walking into the foyer. At least he’s dressed normally, though black slacks and a short-sleeve, button-down plaid shirt are very much a dad move. “And why are you so eager to get this over with? Got somewhere to be?”
“Always.”
“Never anywhere more important than with family,” he says, pursing his lips.
Do I really have to sit through this dinner with him? I’m starting to remember why I didn’t rush to call him when I arrived in town.
He’s always been about family loyalty, family ties, family this, family that. Yet he’s the one who fucked everything up so badly that my mom filed for divorce. Where’s the family loyalty in that? Pushing away the woman who supported him for the last forty years doesn’t seem so devoted, but I guess I don’t know what the fuck went on in their marriage. All I know is he’s cried family loyalty my entire life, only second to football coming first.
I unwrap the Tootsie Roll I found in my pocket and pop it into my mouth. It’s a little stale, but when they’re hard, it just means I can make the deliciousness last a little longer.
Asher rolls his eyes.
“You two ready?” I ask.
They follow me out to my truck, and Asher slips into the back while Dad rides shotgun.
“Where are we headed?” I ask from the driver’s seat.
“There’s an excellent steakhouse at the Venetian,” Dad says.
Of course he’d pick a steakhouse on the Strip. I force myself not to roll my eyes, but in all honesty, I should start eating less red meat and sugar and start preparing for the upcoming season.
And so should Asher—but that’s on him to decide. I can’t help but wonder if he’s been working out over the last year or if he’s taken it off to play video games.
I should know these things about him, and maybe I will now that we’re in the same town. But even though he’s only five years younger than me, it feels like we come from different eras.
Which is strange considering the woman who currently has my attention is seven years younger than me, and it doesn’t feel like that’s too far removed.
Maybe women are just more mature than men.
And I suppose we prove that once we’re seated at our table.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” our server says. “Are we celebrating anything tonight?”
I nod at Asher to give him the signal.
You know…that signal between brothers where we silently agree that we’re going to annoy our father at this meal and where it becomes our sole mission to get the other one to crack first.
