Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
Romeo
Breakfast.
What would Ivy want to eat? How the hell did I miss that one?
Usually, breakfast is the first thing I cover. Women always blush when I ask so how do you take your coffee? I want to know how to fix it for you tomorrow morning.
It's a cheesy pick-up line, yes, but it's not the content that matters. It's the delivery. The way I smile, look into someone's eyes, set her at ease.
That's what I'm good at. Making women comfortable.
And I covered the coffee part—
She's a tea drinker.
But a breakfast challenge is a step too far, even for me. I watch Mom escort Ivy to patio table outside, the one where Cynthia is already sitting. They make an odd trio.
Even though they're all dressed in some version of California casual, they don't fit together.
Ivy looks awkward in her teal sundress and sandals, as if she's not sure what to do in weekend clothes.
Cynthia's oversized linen suit overwhelms her narrow frame. And, well, it's just strange to see Cynthia in any kind of suit. Even one that's clearly designed for time off.
Mom is the only one who fits into the relaxed atmosphere, with her orange linen dress, despite her sky-high espadrilles and her understated good jewelry.
Is she torturing the two of them?
Does Mom secretly disapprove of divorce?
It's not the image I have of her. She's not exactly a devoted Catholic. She has plenty of divorced friends.
Maybe it's different when it's my girlfriend.
Maybe she's a hypocrite.
Who isn't?
I know how to massage the truth to my advantage when I know what someone wants to hear. But I'm lost here.
This doesn't fit the vision I have of my mother. The romantic who believes love conquers all.
Surely, all includes something as minor as paperwork.
I need to get a pulse on her. See where she is. Ivy might be right. She might be wrong.
Sure, I'm full of shit, but it's only fair. How can she tie my inheritance to marriage? A wedding present, really? That's even more full of shit.
Mom will put the money in a trust early if she really is retiring to the Amalfi coast, the way she always dreamed. After all, why do the paperwork twice?
But if she doesn’t, can I convince Ivy, or some other sucker, to marry me? It’d be the only way to get the funds right away.
With that cash, I don’t need Daniel as a co-investor. But I want to do this with him anyway. It’s our dream. Our project. The way to honor our family.
How am I supposed to build a coffee shop of brotherly love by myself?
Besides, I can’t marry some other poor woman. The image of a wedding to a stranger feels like a betrayal. Which is strange. Ivy is my fake girlfriend. We've agreed to a week. We've had sex twice. And only one of those times was real—
Was it real?
What the hell is real, anyway?
No, I can ask existential questions later. Right now, it's time to fix breakfast.
I move into the kitchen, where Daniel is already hard at work, slicing peppers into tiny cubes.
We’re competing to see who can make the breakfast closest to our lover’s ideal. Though I’m not sure if that’s a breakfast closest to our lover’s favorite or the best tasting breakfast (for two, of course). Mama isn’t exactly a whiz with rules.
Either way, Daniel has a leg up. He lives with Cynthia.
He looks both ridiculous and perfectly in place in his matching oversized linen suit. That explains Cynthia's outfit. He loves that sort of cheesy shit.
I always thought she saw it as ridiculous, the way I did.
But sitting out there with Ivy and Mom, she looks—
Well, she and Ivy both look like people trapped in a conversation with a poet before they've had their morning cuppa. At least, I can help Ivy with that.
First, my brother in the kitchen.
Daniel, in the linen, the master of the brunch. Pan preheating on the stove. Oil, eggs, goat cheese, sundried tomatoes, pour over.
An omelet with intense flavors. His favorite.
Cynthia wouldn't object—she's never been all that picky—but she doesn't love it either. She was always more into the stuff dad likes. Homemade barbacoa with Trader Joe's salsa.
Daniel is more into his expensive tastes.
Ivy is a good match for him that way, I guess. She sips gin and tonics. She drinks tea. Her fridge was filled with fresh fruits and vegetables.
What does that tell me?
She told Mom she's not particular. So, she's not a foodie, either. She keeps it simple. Classic. But subtle, the way tea and gin are.
What else do they have in common?
Herbs.
Ha. She and Cynthia both.
Not that I can share that joke with Daniel.
I try to recall the scene at my apartment, when Sasha fixed Ivy's tea. How did she fix her tea compared to at her place?
Balanced, with milk and honey.
That's enough.
I scan the fridge for ingredients.
As usual, Mom is well stocked. Eggs, four types of cheese, overflowing shelves of fruits and vegetables, bread, flour, oatmeal.
Ivy might prefer a sweet breakfast. Pancakes or French Toast.
But savory is a safer bet. Eggs. Medium. With a little something extra. Green onion or basil and tomato. Just enough for oomph. Not so much to overwhelm.
Like a simple gin and tonic.
The pan sizzles as my brother pours eggs over tiny cubes of red peppers.
"I would have thought you covered this on the first night," he laughs. "Or did you leave too early that morning?"
"You know women. Once they've had their fun, they're done with you," I say.
That disarms him.
Ha, I've still got it. Tragically, pride fills my body. I want his approval too much. It's sickening.
"Is that really how it started?" he asks, in a tone that almost suggests he believes Ivy is my girlfriend.
"No. She waited until I woke up to kick me out of her apartment," I say.
"And how did you convince her to see you again?" he asks.
"How else?" I ask. "I promised to make her see stars again."
Daniel shakes his head. "Is everything about sex?"
"You started it."
"Mature," he says.
"Back at you." My eyes go to the table outside, where the ladies are chatting. Ivy laughs at something Cynthia says. They do have a lot in common, in a strange way. With their smarts and straight-shooter attitudes. And nothing in common, in another.
Maybe this can work.
"Cyn suggested you two dropped acid together," I say.
Daniel rolls his eyes. "She did not."
"Mushrooms, but still."
"Who says I haven't?"
"Really? You two are getting high and having crazy sex?"
"Sex, again, Rome? You know there's more to life than the five minutes you get your dick wet," he says.
"Fifteen, please," I say.
"Women don't like it when you go too long," he says.
That's not wrong. I'll give him that. I'm not sure where men got the idea women want to go for hours. The flesh gets tired. But so many men put their pride above an actual woman’s satisfaction.
Daniel shakes his head in that older brother way of his. Oh, Romeo, you're so silly, so immature. When will you grow up?
But none of it is you don’t really have a girlfriend.
It’s much more you’ve probably spent barely any time together with your clothes on. I’ll take it.
He steps to the right as he motions to the left burner. Then to the kitchen island, where the cutting board and knife sit, ready for action. "I'm about done."
"Did Cyn say anything about Ivy?" I roll my shoulders back. I channel my poker face. I'm calm in the face of my brother's judgment. No, I'm not just calm. I'm beyond his judgment. I understand it, but I'm a changed man now that I'm with Ivy. I see my past self as foolish too.
"Yeah." He flips the omelet. "She likes her."
"Ivy too."
He makes one of those hmm noises that could mean anything. From him, it usually means yeah right, you are so full of shit, but I choose to ignore it.
I accept his invitation and move into the space. Mom's tea selection is only slightly better than mine, but I still find a solid English Breakfast and a ceramic tea set.
Then the eggs. Fresh basil. With tomato and mozzarella. Probably not Ivy's favorite breakfast. But she can claim a love of caprese salads.
"Wasn't that your old line?" Daniel watches me slice a tomato. "What can I fix you for breakfast tomorrow?"
"It's effective. For people with charm."
"People this handsome don't need charm," he counters. Back to playing an old game.
I can't help but laugh, the way I did when we were kids. "You've got me there."
"I think you might be delusional about the charm vs looks ratio yourself, kid." He looks to the table. Watches Ivy laugh at one of Mom's jokes. "She fits in here, doesn't she?"
"Yeah," I say.
"Almost like you picked her out to fit in here," he says.
"Isn't that what dating is?" I ask. "Picking someone who fits into your life?"
He shakes his head at my obvious bullshit, but he can't argue with the logic behind it. So, he tries another tact. "When did you learn her last name?"
"What's it matter what her father's name was?" I ask. "Does that really speak to her character? Her dreams? Her values?"
To that, he has no comeback.
I'm playing his game for once. His way. I just need to lean into it.
"I won't argue with your perception of me.
I've slept with a lot of women. Usually, it didn't matter.
But there was something different about Ivy.
I felt it right away. Isn't that how it was with Cynthia?
Didn't you know, as soon as you kissed her, that something was different? "
He stares back at me, stone-faced. "That is something people say."
So, what does he say? Daniel has always been practical. He's never gushed over matters of the heart. "When was it for you?" I ask. "That you knew she was the one?"
"There's no such thing as the one," he says.
"Don't let Mom hear you say that."
He chuckles as if he's an ally. As if we're kids playing capture the flag, strategizing on how to beat the other team.
Some tension in my chest dissolves. My shoulders relax. My jaw too.
I want his approval. I hate how much I still want his approval.
My older brother. The smart one. The responsible one.
And Romeo, the playboy fuckup.