I pull myself away from Rush and glance out the generous living room windows that offer him a partially-obstructed view of the Brooklyn bridge. He only recently finished his residency and he’s not rolling in the dough quite yet, but as a young ER physician, he does well for himself.
“I’m surprised you have a two-bedroom,” I say.
“Was going to do the whole roommate thing, but he decided to do the whole Doctors-Without-Borders thing at the last minute.” Rush kicks off his tennis shoes and sits his keys down on a table by the door. He looks older than the last time I saw him, naturally, but in a more refined sort of way. There’s a different air about him, but I can’t quite put my finger on it.
I guess it’s hard for me to think of my brother and not picture the scrawny teenager who used to pour my cereal and walk me to the kindergarten bus every morning.
“So who are you working for in the city? You never said.” He pulls a pen from his pocket—purple-bodied with some drug logo on the side—and places it beside his keys.
“Oh, um.” I don’t want to go over specifics with him. For starters, he won’t believe me. And if he does, he’s going to spend the next thirty minutes lecturing me on what a bad idea this was. Rush makes my pragmatic tendencies look like child’s play.
We are what happens when two hippies who don’t believe in organized anything (including school) get together and reproduce. If it wasn’t for Rush, I don’t know that I’d have graduated from high school, and I certainly wouldn’t have attended college. Even though he’s ten years my senior, he was always more of a father figure than an older brother.
My parents once tried to unenroll me from fifth grade so we could travel the country in an RV. They argued that I’d learn more doing that than I could ever learn sitting in a “boring classroom” all day. They only backed off because they couldn’t get financing on the RV they wanted (lack of a job will do that) and Rush threatened to call DHS on them.
“Just so executive,” I say. “Owns some technology company in the city. Pretty boring stuff …”
I hold my breath and cross my fingers that my answer satisfies his curiosity.
“Cool, cool. Well, I’d love to catch up, but I’ve got to get some sleep,” Rush says, squeezing past me. “Going in again tonight for another twelve hours.”
“I’m here for a month. We’ll have plenty of time to catch up.” I offer a tired smile of my own. I had to take a red-eye from LA to NYC since Mr. Welles wanted me to start “as soon as humanly possible.”
“Guest bath should be stocked. You might want to get some groceries. Fridge is pretty bare bones right now. There’s a number on the fridge for a place that delivers.” Rush yawns, his dark eyes squinting as he runs his hands through his even darker hair.
He’s always reminded me of Ashton Kutcher, only less goofy and more serious. Like an Ashton-playing-Steve Jobs-and-not-Kelso kind of serious.
Rush would be the ultimate catch for some lucky gal, and I’m not just saying that because I’m biased. He’s ridiculously intelligent, driven, and one of the most selfless people I’ve ever known.
But he’s married to his job. And he’s not the cheating type.
We’re the same like that, he and I.
Both workaholics, both obsessed with our careers.
Melrose, one of my best friends back in LA, once theorized that since we grew up with such a chaotic home life, our education and careers have been the only thing we’ve ever been able to control.
And I have to agree.
Relationships will always be shaky ground for us, a great unknown that we couldn’t control if we wanted to.
Wheeling my suitcase to the guest suite, I close the door behind me and change out of my travel clothes so I can hit the shower. I always feel so dirty after flying, and a soak in the pristine white tub in the guest bath sounds amazing.
That’s another thing about us Keanes. We’re clean freaks. Likely another symptom of our misguided parents who didn’t believe in cleaning too often because “the chemicals cause cancer.”
Ironically enough, our father almost died of lung cancer five years ago, and to me, that goes to show you that you can believe anything you want to believe, but at the end of the day life still happens—and if I’m being completely honest, that terrifies me.
I peel out of my clothes and run a steamy bath, unpacking and arranging my toiletries and cosmetics in proper order.
AM skincare.
Makeup.
PM skincare.
Face masks and supplements.
I skim my fingers across the top of the bath water to check the temp before twisting the faucet knobs and stepping inside.