by Sharpe, Elle
Things are easier for you Jen, I thought. You’re always so confident, with your schemes, and your crazy style, and your party games, and your calling up multi-millionaires and just assuming they’ll answer. Somehow every insane thing you do works out, and just makes everyone love you more. I think the rules might be different for me.
“Hey, Ronan,” Jen said. I heard a hint of his voice greeting her back, and all my stomach-rocks rattled together. “So, I have a favor to ask you. Norah would kill me if she knew I was calling you-”
She winked at me.
“But she’s been talking to me about how much she wants to do your charity event. Yes, yeah, no, she’s really excited about it. The thing is, I can tell she’s pretty nervous.”
I started waving my hands frantically in protest.
“I think this would be a big opportunity for her. Do you think you could hang out with her before she performs, just, you know, keep her company? Then she won’t feel so awkward. You know how she gets at parties.”
I could hear Ronan’s voice, vague and fuzzy on the other end. He sounded uncertain.
“I’m...pretty sure she’d hate that,” I heard him say.
I nodded vigorously in agreement. I would hate it.
“No, no, Ronan, she’d appreciate it so much, really. You’d be the only person at this thing that she knows. If you could just talk to her, loosen her up a little. It would be a huge help.”
“Jen, you know she hates me, right?” Did he sound bitter? Or was it just hard to make out his tone through the receiver?
“No…” Jen said, momentarily faltering. “She...likes you fine. Yes, really. She was saying some very nice things about you after the party.”
What the fuck Jen??? I mouthed at her.
“Yeah, like about how cool it was of you to get so into the Thunderdome stuff, and how nice it was for you to offer her this job.”
She looked pointedly at me, implying that I should have some positive feelings about Ronan doing these things, even if I didn’t in reality. I folded my arms and shook my head back and forth slowly. No. I refuse.
“Yeah, see,” she said to Ronan, while still looking directly at me. “She’s not always such a stubborn, judgmental harpy.”
I threw the toothbrush pillow at her head.
“In fact,” she went on, dodging the pillow without missing a beat, “If you want to be really helpful you could also pick her up on the day of and give her a ride over. Oh yeah, she’d be so grateful. Great. I’ll give you her address. Thank you so much, Ronan. You’re so thoughtful. Yup, bye!”
“Jen…” I muttered, after she had hung up. “Jen, why?”
“Now Ronan is guaranteed to spend time with you. And being around him always makes you angry, right? Because he’s always such a jerk. So, he makes you angry, you’re suddenly cured, and you can sing whatever you want!”
“I mean, I guess it would be interesting to see if that would actually work...”
“Unless you think he might be too nice to you?” Jen asked.
“Pff, yeah. He’s not capable of that.”
“Well then, sounds like you have nothing to worry about.”
She was smiling like she’d just made a winning chess move.
“I guess worst-case scenario if it doesn’t work is I could do my usual act,” I said, pondering. I was annoyed at myself for considering this. I wanted to call Ronan right back, tell him to never believe another word Jen said, and add that he could go to hell.
But he had offered me a lot of money. Well, for me it was a lot. I couldn’t deny that I needed some cash. And I was pretty curious about Jen’s theory.
“Fine,” I said. “I’ll do it. For science.”
I added another popcorn kernel to my glass, and of course that was the moment that the liquid overflowed, making a mess on Jen’s coffee table. It felt like a portent of things to come.
Ronan
Jen’s call had caught me in the middle of my Sunday night ritual: a glass of bourbon on the rocks, out on the terrace in the early-evening light. I rarely drank, but on the weekends I allowed myself this small indulgence.
As usual I was working through the weekend. I had so much to do that I couldn’t afford not to. But for these twenty minutes I was giving myself time to relax. And now, thanks to Jen, my relaxation time was filled with thoughts of Norah.
I put down my phone with a strange new idea in my head. Was it possible that Norah Green didn’t entirely hate me?
I tried to imagine Norah saying the things Jen claimed she had said. Thinking I had been “nice” to her, rather than “a huge asshole.” I hated the way my chest seized up at the possibility. It didn’t really make sense to me, but I couldn’t help but hope that it might be true anyway.
I didn’t have much time to dwell on the question. Just a few minutes after my call with Jen ended, a call from my mother came in. I was seriously tempted not to take it, but as always I ended up answering before the second ring.
“Hello, Mom,” I said. “Are you calling to tell me how calm and at peace you feel?”
“Ronan.” My mother’s voice was full of its usual driving urgency. “We have an issue.”
I was not at all surprised to hear it. A day rarely passed in my mother’s life without one or two “issues” cropping up. It would have been easier if I could have disregarded all of them, but unfortunately one out of every twenty or so ended up being real.
“Tell me,” I said.
“It’s your brother. He’s having an Instagram meltdown. Again.”
Damn it. This one very well could be real. My hand clenched around my phone, almost hard enough to crack it. I did not feel like dealing with Barron’s shit today.
I liked to think of Barron as my opposite. Buzzfeed had once written a profile of him entitled “Instagram’s Most Obnoxious Rich Kid.” In response he’d commissioned a 24k gold crown for himself, with “Most Obnoxious” written across it in tiny diamonds.
In contrast, my Instagram account was private. I also barely used it, because I had better things to do with my time. I had a real job, being responsible for an entire business and everyone who worked for it.
I also had human friends that I had met in real life. Not many of them, admittedly, but enough. Barron’s only friends were his 2.1 million followers.
I valued hard work, frugality, and discretion. Barron worked hard at nothing—except spending huge amounts of money and telling the world about it.
I had a crazy desire to maintain my dignity, and Barron seemed hell-bent on making himself a laughingstock.
His latest favorite hobby was “pushing the envelope.” You’d think he was some sort of cultural innovator, hearing him use those kinds of words. In practice “pushing the envelope” meant getting drunk on Instagram live and saying whatever controversial nonsense was most likely to get him tabloid coverage.
He did this mainly to piss off our mother. Probably also to piss me off.
“I thought you said you’d gotten through to him,” Mother lamented.
I let out a weary sigh.
“I thought so too.”
I was used to being responsible for other people’s behavior. It was part of what made me a good CEO. And a good friend. I could identify someone’s weaknesses and guide them to a better place. I’d coached lots of young hotshots at Baylor, and turned them into capable managers who motivated their teams to success. I’d helped Chris stop drinking, when he’d finally realized that he had to.
It was something I took a lot of pride in—helping someone level up, become a better version of themselves. And the more I did it, the more I felt myself develop too. Just like working out. Honing leadership skills, like honing muscles.
But Barron didn’t want to be coached, or led. He resisted me at every turn. He was like a heavy, clanging barbell of dead weight that I could never seem to lift.
The worst of it was how it affected our mother. Mom could be a lot sometimes, but she was a good person, with a lot of i
ntegrity. She’d taken so much care throughout our childhoods to make us understand the responsibilities that came with privilege. And Barron threw it all back in her face.
“I’ll talk to him,” I promised her. Not that it would do much good. But I had to try.
As soon as we got off the phone I went to Barron’s Instagram account. With great reluctance I pressed on his profile icon. I dreaded finding out what fresh flavor of nonsense he was spouting. But I couldn’t scold him properly if I didn’t know the details.
I was greeted by Barron’s drunk, stubble-covered face. His dark hair flopped greasily into his eyes. He was wearing a Gucci t-shirt. He’d probably paid at least $500 dollars for it, and it had a ketchup stain on it. His right hand gripped a bottle of Cristal, which he was very careful to keep in the shot at all times.
I already hated everything about this, and I hadn’t even heard the words coming out of his mouth. When I turned the sound on, everything got a thousand times worse.
“People always ask me, ‘Barron, what’s so great about money...I mean it’s just...money. Little green..little green dollar bills, with faces.’”
He paused, as if he had momentarily forgotten what he was saying, or was on the verge of falling asleep. Then he regained his train of thought, and continued on, with a slur in his voice.
“But I think money-” he hiccuped. “Money is like, the currency of our times. Think about that. Think. About. That.”
He punctuated each word with a finger-wave at the camera.
Well, at least he wasn’t saying anything overtly offensive, or reciting his social security number. But he was veering into the sort of absurdity that would tempt the memers. “Money is the currency of our times.” Yeah, the internet could have a field day with that if it wanted. Best to nip this in the bud, before too many people started watching.
I called his phone, hoping that in his drunken state he’d forgotten to turn on his “do not disturb” settings. No such luck. Apparently there was only one way to reach him now. I gritted my teeth, swallowed my pride, and made a comment on the live stream.
Stop streaming.
I knew the exact moment he saw it. His face lit up like it was Christmas morning.
“Everyone, everyone this is such a treat. Do you know what just happened here? The Ronan Baylor—CEO of Baylor Hotels, that one—has honored us with a comment. Now, for those who are unfamiliar, Ronan is the uptight, workaholic Baylor brother. The less pretty one. Yeah, I said it. You all know it’s true. Say hi to the people, bro.”
I can’t lie—it was aggravating to see a cascade of comments encouraging Barron to “burn” me, “drag” me, “read” me, etc. But I decided to take the high road and keep my comments simple.
Turn the stream off, Barron.
“Now, I don’t know if you caught that guys, but big brother Wo-nan wants me to turn the stweam off.”
Barron’s baby voice always sounded so strange, coming out of his firm-jawed, high-cheekboned face. But the strangeness did have a certain comedic value—a fact I was sure he was aware of. He pouted, making his lower lip dangle down.
“What a mweanie-pants! I want to see some negative we-acts to this bossy, bossy man.”
I watched his chat fill up with orange angry-faces and poop emojis. It was a little frightening, the way people immediately did what he said. If emojis had the power to kill, he would be the commander of a great army.
I knew he was trying to bait me. I kept my calm.
Barron, what will it take for you to turn the stream off?
“Ah, so now it’s bribery time! Yay! My favorite time!”
Bribery was usually the only way to make any headway with Barron—especially drunk Barron. But how, I hear you ask, do you bribe a man who can afford to buy anything he wants? The results were usually...interesting, let’s say.
Yes, Barron, I wrote. Let’s strike a deal. Privately, please.
“Got to go, fam. Love you!” Barron made kissy faces at the camera before the feed ended.
Then, finally, I was able to call him and have a private conversation, without thousands of bored teens hanging on our every word.
“I thought you said you were taking a break from Instagram,” I said.
“And hello to you too, brother. Thanks for taking an interest.”
“So?” I pressed.
“I was,” he grumbled, still talking in his pouty voice even though he was no longer performing for a crowd. “But then I changed my mind. You know how indecisive I can be. It must be my OCD. Or ADHD? Or maybe it’s my anxiety. Ha, see, I can’t decide!”
“Hilarious. Come on, let’s get this over with. What will it take to keep you off of social media for a month?”
“A month?” he gasped like he’d been told a relative had died. “Ronan, what will my followers do without me for a month? They’ll miss me!”
“Fine. How about a week? And no drinking on camera. Ever again.”
I thought of Norah saying, “No more, never again,” and tried to sound as intimidating as she had.
Barron sighed.
“Well that just takes all the fun out of it.”
“Surely you can be more creative than that.”
Appealing to Barron’s pride sometimes helped. But only rarely. Pride wasn’t something he had a lot of.
“I’ll consider it. Depends on if you accept my terms. Also, only counts if you can—hic—tell—hic—that I’m drunk.”
“Usually not a challenge. So, what do you want?”
There was a moment of silence at the other end as he considered. Finally he spoke, sounding delighted with his decision.
“I want your darkest secret.”
I hoped he could hear my eyes rolling over the phone.
“I don’t have any secrets, Barron. Sorry to disappoint you.”
“Oh, come on man, everyone has secrets. Tell me about your love life.”
“Barron, why on earth would you want to know about that?”
“I’m just trying to have a heart-to-heart with my big bro Ro-Ro.”
Ha.
“So come on, tell me, have you at least gotten laid in the past year?” His voice pressed, like he was going to annoy the information out of my body.
For some stupid reason I decided to use the same line that hadn’t worked on Jen.
“No comment.”
“Ah, see, things are getting juicy now. ‘No comment,’ always means ‘yes,’ you know. It’s like pleading the fifth. Nobody does that unless they are guilty AF. So, have you finally decided to claim your birthright and start up a harem of models?”
I nearly vomited.
“Absolutely not. No models.”
“Okay, now we’re getting somewhere. Narrowing it down. So, not a model. Am I right in thinking there’s one fine lady in particular? You’ve always been boring. I mean monogamous.”
“No, there is no one ‘in particular’.”
“Oh, so you are playing the field.”
“No.”
“So there is a particular person?”
Barron had a special talent for driving people towards murder. I wasn’t sure how he was able to wind me up this easily. He was drunk and stupid, but somehow still ingenious.
“Come on, my dear, dear brother,” Barron mewled at me. “I just want to know what’s going on in your life. We never talk. It makes me ever so sad. Now spill, or I’ll pose naked on my Maserati for all my followers to enjoy.”
I wasn’t sure what Barron’s angle was with this whole thing, but I was sure it couldn’t be good. Unfortunately I also knew that his ridiculous threats tended to be genuine. Barron had no issues with nudity, vulgar displays of wealth, or violating social media terms and conditions. I was sure he’d consider it very “on brand” to combine the three together.
I decided I could try to string him along, but keep the details as vague as possible.
“There is one person I may be interested in, yes.”
“Aha! Tell me everything there
is to know about her.”
“Well, she’s a woman.”
“Duh. You’re much too dull to be anything but hetero. Go on.”
“She’s not a model.”
“As we previously established.”
“She has all four of her limbs. She breathes oxygen.”
“Damn. Sounds like a hottie. But of course you know I’m going to need more info. There’s no way I can insta-stalk her based on that.”
Oh Lord.
“Why would saying that encourage me to give you more information, Barron?”
“I could do a drunk naked livestream on the hood of the Maserati. That would definitely get some press coverage, I think. Ah! I’ve got it. Let me meet her.”
“Oh. Yes. Absolutely. On the frozen banks of hell.”
“If you let me meet your mystery woman, I will behave like an angel for a whole month. Two months. I swear on our mother’s pre-nup.”
Hmm. Now that was a tempting offer. If he could stick to it.
“And what happens if you ‘change your mind?’” I asked.
“How about this: if I can meet your woman, I’ll give you my phone. And you can hold it captive for two whole months. How does that sound?”
Barron going without a phone for two whole months sounded like a minor miracle. It would give our mother enormous peace of mind. And therefore it would also give me enormous peace of mind. I might not be interrupted by family drama every five seconds, and might be able to focus on actually running the company.
On the other hand, Barron might seriously embarrass me in front of Norah.
Maybe he didn’t have to meet Norah for this to work. Maybe I could hire some girl to pretend to be my love interest...I shook my head at myself. Only Barron could make me consider such hare-brained plans.
But as I considered that possibility of Barron meeting Norah, I realized it might not be such a bad thing. Norah thought I was an asshole, but I was nothing compared to Barron. Maybe he would make me look better by comparison.
I chuckled at the thought.
“Fine,” I said. “It just so happens she’ll be at the gala Friday night. I’ll allow you to speak to her for five minutes. How does that sound?”