“For what it’s worth,” I say, “I wish I wasn’t.”
His lip curls in wry non-humor as he drains the glass, pouring himself another. “I just found out. Came here straight after.”
“You confronted her?”
He looks at me like I’m an idiot. “I asked Cordelia about it right after you told me. She denied it.”
“Hmm.”
“But once I knew enough to suspect it, it was easy to look for the signs. I pushed her on it just now. Right after she dragged me to a meeting with a bakery to taste cakes. Why is it so warm in here? Anthony, do you still have the heat on? It’s July.”
“It’s August first,” I say, “and the heat is off.”
“You know what really gets me? I thought she loved me. Not in the exuberant, infatuated kind of way. We’ve never been like that. But I thought she loved the life we were committing to enough to stay faithful. I’ve made the same sacrifice.”
“Right.”
“I’m sorry, by the way,” Isaac says. Gets up from the couch and pours me a glass of scotch, handing it to me. Even distressed, his manners are impeccable. “You came to me and you told it to me straight, and I didn’t believe you.”
“Well, I can see why you might not. I haven’t been the best brother for the past two years.”
His eyes meet mine. “No, not really.”
“I’m aware,” I say. “Take off your jacket, Isaac. You look like you’re melting.”
“Yes, because I couldn’t get a cab from the damn bakery and walked all the way here.” But he does what I’ve told him and tosses it over the back of the couch. “You never liked us together.”
“No,” I say. “I never did.”
“I thought you were an asshole because of it.”
“I know you did.”
“Now I wonder if you were the smartest of us all,” he says, running a hand through his hair. “I wonder if old Rupert Jacobs will still want us to partner with his golf courses. Is that sad? That the first thing I thought when she confessed to cheating on me was to get angry that she might have screwed up our business deal, too?”
“I think,” I say carefully, “that it tells you everything you need to know about that relationship.”
He looks at me for a long while. “You’ve changed.”
It’s easy to shake my head, to find the words. “Isaac, I’ve withdrawn from you, from the family, for too long. Of course I’ve changed.”
“Yes,” he says, eyes turning wary.
“I’m sorry about that.”
The same eyes narrow. “If you’re saying this just because you pity me now…”
I laugh, unable to help myself, because it’s just what I would have thought in his shoes. The pride running through me is just as strong in his veins, bred into us by parents who saved I love you’s for special occasions and told stories about the family legacy for bedtime.
“Anthony,” he complains, putting his glass down.
“No, no,” I say. “I don’t pity you. Sorry.”
“Then why are you laughing?”
“Because we’re so similar. Christ, Isaac. That’s why I’ve stayed away!”
Confusion is stark on his features. I gesture to the armchair again, raising my glass of scotch. He has a seat, still staring at me.