Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Romeo
Daniel is at my kitchen counter, sipping espresso from a tiny white cup, the picture of poise and confidence. Or he would be, if he wasn't so stiff and awkward.
There's an image of my older brother, in the dictionary, after uptight. It's not just his posture. Or the stern expression he wears ninety-nine percent of the time. It's an aura.
"You're here earlier than I expected." He turns to me and raises a brow. An old gesture. One that used to be playful.
Now, I don't know. It's hard to imagine him teasing me the way we did as kids.
"Were you planning to wait all morning?" Usually, I charge extra for that, but I can't exactly list my prices.
As far as Daniel knows, I'm a part-time contractor.
I help small businesses with accounting.
Not that he believes that. He's sure Mom bought me this condo.
She's sure Daniel did. He couldn't afford it, but math has never been mama's strong suit. Like I said, she's a poet.
The motherfucker would love to buy me a condo. He'd rub it in every second he could. I can only imagine the look on his face if he'd even helped with the down payment. The smug superiority.
Of course, I didn't make it on my own. Of course, Romeo needs help. Look at him. Didn't even finish his business degree. Thinks he can read poetry all day and fuck pretty girls all night.
The joke’s on him.
I turned my hobby into a business.
"Would that be a problem?" He takes a small sip of espresso. He closes his eyes, noting the flavor, but not making a single gesture or sound to suggest he enjoys it.
I suppose that's fair. At this point, we're professionals.
For years, I've been begging him to start a business with me.
A coffee shop to celebrate our heritage.
Mexican beans at an Italian style espresso bar.
There's nothing like it anywhere in Southern California.
And it fits with a lot of recent trends in business.
The beans will be fair trade. Environmentally friendly.
Good for farmers and local communities. A celebration of two different cultures and the love that brought them together.
All the romantic shit people adore.
A celebration of our family’s history.
"Testing beans for Amor y Coffee." I admit, it's not the most clever name, but there aren't many fresh spins on coffee.
"Rome." He says my name the way he has for the last five years, as if he can't believe I'm still this ridiculous fanciful child, as if he expects me to be someone other than our mother's son. "You know how busy I am with the wedding."
Sure, that's his excuse of the moment, but what's keeping him busy? It's just family, in Mom's backyard, and Cynthia is the one planning everything. Though I'm sure she'd prefer the courthouse if it were up to her. Or an Elvis chapel in Vegas.
To be honest, I'm not sure what she sees in Daniel. He's a handsome man, I'll give him that much. Maybe even more than I am. Taller, at least. A little broader too.
But she's fun.
He's the opposite of that.
"You don't need to be that involved at first," I say. "I can start everything."
"Rome." Somehow, he adds even more you're ridiculous inflection this time. "Really?"
"Really, what?"
"It's seven-thirty."
"And?"
He finishes his cup of espresso and sets it on the counter. "And you're coming home in last night's suit."
"I had a meeting."
"Rome."
Okay. That's a bad lie. Believe it or not, I'm not a great liar. Not in this context. Women fall for my charms. Men, not so much.
That is what he believes about me.
Why not sell me.
"You're right," I say. "I was with a woman."
He ignores the statement, completely disinterested in this line of conversation and the potential business. Though I don't know why. The idea is sound. The business plan is good. And he's been talking, non-stop, about how much he wants to branch out on his own, how much he wants to build something.
Why not this?
Something for our parents, something for us, the dream we had as kids.
"I'll fix you a cup." He turns to face the grinder. "Macchiato?"
"Thanks." I toss my keys on the counter. Place my overnight bag in my bedroom. Which is untouched. Really, I shouldn't let Daniel have a key. It's risky. There's a lot of incriminating information here. Client lists, website passwords, cash reserves, lingerie, sex toys, photographs.
But he asked. For emergencies. And I'm a little brother, through and through, powerless to resist my older brother's wants, desperate for his approval.
For a minute, he was proud of me for buying my own place. I saw it in his eyes. Then he put it together—how did I pay for this apartment—and came up with his own explanation—some of the money Mom inherited from Aunt Marisol—and all that pride turned to pity.
Poor Romeo, still living like a playboy teenager. Not a stable family man like him.
I need a shower and a workout. That's one of the things I don't love about this job. The need to hit the gym five days a week and the protein shakes I down to build my biceps.
But clients like it, and I don't exactly mind the physique. If I still picked up women for fun, I suppose it would be an asset.
Who has the time?
I move through the clean living room, to the kitchen, where my brother is waiting with my macchiato.
It's perfect. Of course. The man is good at everything he does.
"Thanks." Manners take over. I can't help it. It's the way we were raised.
"De nada," he replies in Spanish. Part of an old game. To use as many languages in a conversation as possible. He still has a firm grasp of Italian and Spanish. I'm decent with Italian. Spanish, well, I at least know my please and thank you.
"We can go over the business plan now." I pull out my phone. I have the file there, my iPad, my computer, printed in five different files. Wherever. "If that works for you."
"Rome." My nickname. What my friends and family call me. My mother's birthplace. It means something.
"Why not?" I ask.
"Do you know where Mom's ring is?" he asks.
What?
"She said she gave it to you, when she found it, on her last anniversary, because it made her cry, and—" he sighs so loud the neighbors could hear— "’Romeo is like me. He has the soul of an artist. He appreciates items of great beauty in a way you couldn't.’"
That's sweet, that Mom still thinks her engagement ring is a thing of great beauty, now that she has the cash for something that really sparkles.
I'm surprised Daniel agrees. He's more the type to impress the neighbors with the number of carats.
And he is the one engaged. But I can't help but argue. "She gave it to me."
"You're not getting married."
"Says who."
His eyes go to the wrinkle in my suit's slacks. "The girl who's name you don't remember."
"I remember it perfectly."
"What was it?"
There's nothing to gain from giving out that information. "I thought you bought Cynthia a ring?"
Daniel frowns at the mention of his fiancée. Which is weird. Who else would receive the ring? But then again, what does Daniel not frown at these days? "I did. But she likes the idea of Mom's."
"Maybe I do too." Now, I'm just being an asshole, but she did give it to me. "And I might get married one day."
"When was your last third date?"
With a non-client? Well, that is one side-effect of sex work. It limits your pool of potential girlfriends. Most people aren't open to dating a hooker. "You can have the ring if you look at the proposal."
"Fine." He just stops himself from rolling his eyes.
A victory. Almost. I pull the business plan up on my phone and hand it to my brother while I fetch the ring from the safe.
He gives it a cursory glance, then insists he'll look more closely from his email Inbox later. "I've got a meeting."
"Sure."
"I do hope you see someone—"
"I am seeing someone."
"You don't have tampons in your bathroom," he says.
What? I return his raised brow gesture.
"You should get some. If you have a girlfriend. Or pads. Whatever she uses. And extra toilet paper. And start leaving the seat down."
"I always leave the seat down. I'm not an animal." I close the lid, every time. Who wants to look at the toilet bowl?
"Are you bringing her to the wedding?"
Right. That little thing. The small moment in their lives. People do bring their partners to weddings, don’t they? And this one is in two and a half weeks. If I had a girlfriend, we would have discussed this. "I thought it was family only."
"I can spare a plus-one."
"Of course."
"Can't wait."
"Perfect."
He leaves with the smug superiority of a person sure his little brother is about to get caught in a lie.
Great. I need to find a fake date for my brother's wedding. And it can't be Sasha. They already know her as my best friend, from college.
Where the hell am I going to find someone?
I'm more likely to find someone on Tinder than my next call.
But I play the message on my work voicemail anyway. Business first. Then whatever I have to do to deal with this.
"Hello, this is Ivy. I was recommended by a friend of a friend. I believe you know her as Juliette. She thought that was cute, since your name is Romeo. I'm sure you get that a lot."
I do.
She speaks with a steady voice. "I'm recently divorced.
Well, maybe not that recently. But enough I haven't had good sex in a while.
Not that I did then. I should know all this stuff.
I'm a professional too. A therapist. But I can't seem to get out of my head.
Or enjoy something casual. So, my friend recommended you.
I, uh, I'm available nights, and I have the budget for three hours, if the rates she shared are correct. "
A sex therapist.
Mom would love that.
The divorce—
I could spin it.
No. What the hell am I thinking. There's no way I'm asking a client to play my girlfriend. Besides, if Ivy is my average client, she's in her 50s, and no one is going to believe my new girlfriend is almost twice my age.
This is work.
And I need to be extra careful. After all, she's a professional too. More likely to see through my Cassanova routine.
I need to bring my A game.
But then again, I always do.
I'll have Doctor Ivy celebrating her divorce in no time.