He’s Not for Me

Chapter 1

One

Relationships Aren’t My Thing

YOU’RE PROBABLY GOING TO THINK I’m an asshole.

Look, I’m not going to hold it against you.

Pretty much everybody does. I’m not exactly what you’d call a people person, I’m not fun at parties, and knowing the right thing to say — well, I never do.

I can’t think if my socks are too tight and I hope the person who invented fluorescent lighting is in hell.

I’m a prickly bastard through and through and you’d really be better off if you left me alone.

Just take a look at my student evaluations:

Professor Callahan is a good teacher, but you’re not going to like him.

Ouch, right? But I’m sure I deserved it.

And I’m not actually a professor, either — I’m not on the tenure track and I probably never will be.

I teach four sections of introductory United States and world history at three different schools a semester, along with two sections of online freshman composition, and every once in a while I get to swap one of those out for an upper-level course where I can dig into something in a little more depth.

Meanwhile, I haven’t written a word of the book on the Spanish-American War that was supposed to be my ticket out of this mess in three years, and I’m up until one in the morning every day, grading pile after pile of shitty papers written by students who don’t want to be in my classes any more than I do.

I’m not exactly living the dream.

Which is why I’m sitting on the train with a chip on my shoulder one Saturday afternoon in April, skimming the pages of a textbook on ancient Greece and scrawling notes for my Tuesday lecture while trying not to think about the mountain of student essays waiting for me back in New York.

I don’t have the time to be heading home overnight for my brother’s engagement party, not two weeks before the start of finals, trying to keep track of everything I have to do.

But it wouldn’t have looked good if the best man hadn’t shown up, even if the best man is the last person who should ever be allowed anywhere near the Heterosexual Marriage Industrial Complex.

And I do care about my brother Seth, even though I have no idea why the fuck he would want me to stand up with him.

Okay, maybe I have some idea. We’re not close, exactly — we never have been.

We’re three years apart, and we always had different friends, different interests.

But it’s just the two of us — well, the two of us and Dad, and Dad isn’t exactly my biggest fan.

Mom died when we were teenagers, and she always pushed us together, even as it became clear that we were going in opposite directions.

And I guess maybe Seth felt some kind of way about that.

He’s always been loyal, even if we don’t really get each other.

He texts me on my birthday and on major holidays. I guess I can give him this.

We’re just a few minutes away from the station in Middletown, where I know Seth will be waiting for me, so I pull out my phone to let him know.

Me: Almost there

Seth: Yeah I’m watching the time on the train app

Seth: I’m in the parking lot across the street

Me: Fair enough

Me: See you in a few

I slip my book back into my backpack and reach up into the overhead rack for my overnight bag.

I don’t know why I packed a suit for tonight.

It just seemed like the thing to do, even if we’re planning on going to the same seafood restaurant that we’ve visited for pretty much every major occasion I can remember — from eighth grade graduation to Mom’s funeral. I guess Dad just likes what he likes.

I make my way down the aisle, reaching the door just as the train slows, creaking to a halt in front of the platform. And as I step across the gap, I spot my older brother leaning against the fence, his arms crossed across his chest, a half-smile lifting one corner of his mouth.

“Ezra! You look good.” He steps forward, giving me an awkward hug and taking the bag off my shoulder.

“Do I? Huh.” We fall into step, making our way down the platform. “Can’t say I’ve been working out or anything.”

Seth snorts. “Me, neither.”

The truth is, I don’t think either one of us are the kind of guys who would make you look twice if you passed us on the street.

We both have curly brown hair and light brown eyes, with pale skin that burns the second we step out in the sun (which is a problem, considering that we grew up in a beach town).

Seth has that sort of reedy, indoor, hunched-over look that you get from spending too many hours slouched in front of the computer in the dark.

He comes by it honestly, as a video game developer with his own company up in Boston.

I’m a little taller than he is, but we’re both pretty average height.

And I’ve always been on the thicker side, more interested in books than sports.

I’ve worn glasses since I was eight years old, and the kids in high school used to call me Samwise Gamgee because…

well, you get the idea. It’s possible that living in New York has agreed with me over the past few years, because I’m always walking or taking the subway, carrying my heavy bag, and sometimes I’m so busy I forget to eat.

But I wouldn’t exactly call it a self-care regimen.

Seth is looking over at me, trying to be polite. “So, uh — how was the ride down?”

“Fine,” I grunt, but then I feel bad, because I know he’s trying. “You know, it’s a good place to get work done. Quiet and all that. No problems.”

Eesh. Good job, Ezra. You’re doing a great job of convincing everyone you’re an actual human with feelings.

Thankfully, the walk to the car is short.

We stow my bags in the trunk of Seth’s crossover SUV, and then we’re climbing into our seats, pulling out onto the road.

And it’s quiet for a little bit, the houses and trees of suburban New Jersey flitting by as we both stew in our own thoughts. But then, I open my big mouth.

“So, uh —” I push my glasses up the bridge of my nose and drum my fingers on my knee. “This whole wedding thing —”

Seth shoots me a look out of the corner of his eye. “What about it?”

“Isn’t it, I dunno — fast?” I blurt. “I mean, it’s been less than a year, right? We just met Sabrina at Christmas. She’s not knocked up, is she?”

“Dude, this is 2025, not 1945,” Seth groans. “Besides, her father would kill me. I would already be dead.”

“This is true,” I concede. Sabrina’s dad is Rodney Slade, the movie producer and media tycoon behind half the action movies Seth and I watched when we were kids. I have no doubt that he would know exactly how to make my brother disappear. “Why, then? What’s the rush?”

Seth considers this. “Well, when you know you know, I guess. We want to have a family, and I’m not getting any younger —”

“You’re thirty-five,” I cut in. Three years older than I am. “Robert De Niro had a kid two years ago, and he’s seventy-nine.”

“Yeah, but I want to be able to play with mine without breaking a hip.” Seth runs a hand through his hair, then puts it back on the steering wheel.

He always keeps his hands at 10 and 2, like an old lady.

“And besides — I mean, we saw what happened with Mom. You never know how much time you have. So, if I know how I want to use mine, I just want to get started.”

“Yeah, I get that.” Talking about Mom still makes my insides go all rubbery, even after all these years, so I change the subject. “You have to admit, though — she’s too good for you. Sabrina, I mean.”

“You’re telling me! I still pinch myself every time she walks through the door — can’t believe I got this lucky.”

Seth and Sabrina met through work — his company hired her as the voice actress for the big-titted heroine of one of their first-person shooter games, and I guess one thing led to another.

We’re both quiet for a little bit, lost in thought. Then Seth sighs, glancing over at me. “Look, I know relationships aren’t really your thing, but could you just be happy for me? Bree is great. And she really wants to get to know you better. Maybe you could — I dunno — Try today. Just a little.”

I think about the secret folder of hookup apps on my phone, about every first date with a guy that never went anywhere further than a dingy bathroom stall.

I think about every woman who ever wanted something from me that I couldn’t figure out how to give.

And I want to say it’s the other way around, that I’m not really relationships’ thing.

But Seth doesn’t know anything about that part of me, so I sit back in my seat and I nod my head and I give him what he wants.

“Okay.”

You might not believe this coming from me, but even I can agree that sometimes it’s easier not to fight.

***

“So, this party — who’s coming?”

I’m walking down the hill from the house with Seth and Dad, my hands shoved in the pockets of my one good navy suit.

Seth is looking surprisingly sleek in a suit that Sabrina must have picked out for him, and Dad — well, Dale Callahan always looks a little out of place when he’s not dressed head to toe in Carhartt.

He’s tugging on the sleeves of his tweed blazer as we walk, and for once I know exactly where he’s coming from, because I’m not exactly in my element either.