“I don’t want you, or any of us, to get caught in something sticky,” Trace said, glancing over my shoulder toward Cora’s room.
“I promise the least amount of stickiness possible.” I raised my right hand like it was a Boy Scout’s honor. “There’s a solution here, and I’m gonna find it.”
My brothers looked placated, at least temporarily. Their concern was more than valid; I just wasn’t entirely sure that avoiding stickiness was even possible. I’d wanted to promise to keep my heart out of it altogether, but even I knew that was a lie.
Keeping my heart out of anything involving Cora was about as likely as me calling up Eli for a friendly game ofMario Party.
Butch the chef joined us soon after, carrying his leather satchel of sharp-ass knives. We all conferred about what should be on the menu tonight, and after some back and forth, settled on scallops. Butch got to work prepping dinner while Damian, Trace, and I migrated to the sitting room.
“I’m ready for a visit to Louisville,” Trace said with a sigh as he eased into his favorite spot, the pewter velvet barrel armchair.
“Oh yeah?” I settled into the chair facing him. My brothers and I usually traveled to Kentucky when we were in dire need of a reset or when we got too far embedded in the lifestyle of the rich and famous. Kentucky grounded us. Kept us real. “We were just there a couple months ago.”
“Yeah. But I need to get out of this fucking city again.” Trace dragged his palm across his forehead. “I’m tired of managing all this money, you know?”
We all laughed. It was one of our oldest inside jokes. Managing this money was the key to our lifestyle. But it came with its own costs. We each bore our own burdens within the business, which meant we all got a free pass to complain about our roles. But all of us equally bore the burden of our extra-vestments. The larger our business grew, the more often we convened to analyze our approach.
Trace managed the investments because he was a genius for that shit, but Damian had invented the algorithm that siphoned off a fraction of a penny from every dollar of return and reinvested the accumulated amount silently into noble causes. We were funding the foster care system across the entire country, and nobody even fucking knew, along with a few other altruistic endeavors. It made us nervous sometimes, being Robin Hood and all. But it was what we signed up for, now that we were wealthy beyond measure.
“You should take a trip this weekend,” I suggested.
“Maybe I will and go say hi to Mom and Dad.” He twisted in his seat, looking toward the small bar in our sitting area. “Are we having whiskey yet?”
“Allow me.” I sprang to my feet, arranging three tumblers on the glass bar near the windows. The churn of Manhattan fifty floors below distracted me as I poured three equal neat whiskeys. And then I thought better of it and poured a fourth.
The scent of garlic and onion mingled with the sizzle of scallops as my brothers and I relaxed. Cora joined us just as the smell of dinner had reached mouthwatering levels. The sight of her emerging from my hallway in soft lounge pants and a loose shirt was almost too much to bear. Despite the loungewear, she still wore that diamond pendant. I knew it had to have a story behind it. One I planned to hear soon enough. I tipped more whiskey into my mouth, gobbling up this moment.
“Hey Trace,” she said, joining us sheepishly. “Sorry it took me so long. I jumped on the Suicide Hotline for a half hour to take some calls.”
“Look at you,” I murmured, my heart swelling. She still did it, even all these years later. I hated to admit how much knowing that affected me. Whatever parts of me remained cold or closed-off toward her, she was rapidly forcing her way inside to every last corner of my heart.
She sent me a shy smile. “Hope you guys don’t mind that I dressed down for dinner.”
“We have no dress code at El Restaurante de Hermanos,” Damian teased in a fake Spanish accent.
“But you do need reservations,” I added. “Which luckily, I already secured.”
Trace snorted. “They’re hard to get, aren’t they?”
“At least for someone with my last name,” Cora added with a wry smirk. She slunk toward the open armchair.
“Yeah, Margulis doesn’t show up too often on the guest list,” I cracked. The four of us shared amused looks. A warm and familiar feeling blanketed me. This, right here—it felt like home. The four of us, hanging out, catching up, chilling in the living room.
Of course, the surroundings were different now. Instead of threadbare, hand-me-down couches from the streets of Chinatown, we had insanely expensive custom furniture. We’d swapped Thai takeout paid for with cryptocurrency for our five-star personal chef. But despite the differences, this moment felt the same.
Butch called us for dinner, and we followed the tantalizing scent of grilled veggies and seared scallops. Cora lagged behind, and I matched her pace, the two of us falling into step. There was nothing I wanted to focus on more than the rich mahogany gloss of her hair and her tired but smiling face, freshly washed, stripped of the business veneer.
This was the Cora I’d follow forever. Drunk, idiotic, smarmy-faced, Ken-doll-hair-wearing husband on the sidelines or otherwise.
“Thanks, Axel,” she said quietly, snagging my gaze like she’d been waiting an eternity to find it.
I took her hand without thinking about it. Without even meaning to.
“Anytime,” I whispered. It was true, no matter how much I didn’t want it to be. I’d take her in after a break-up. After eight years. After she married somebody fucking else.
My brothers were right. This wasn’t just sticky.
We were drowning in honey.