by Marcelo, Tif
“Aren’t they great?” Beatrice said. “She captured you both so well.”
“Too well,” Chris grumbled. “It looks so real.”
“It’s not real. Not at all.” Geneva’s face contorted into a frown.
Brandon sat back in his chair, dismayed by her words. They took the air out of his chest, despite the logical part of his brain saying I told you so.
Had he expected a different answer?
Brandon felt the eyes of everyone staring at him, waiting for his take. “This is . . . a lot.”
“It’s not enough,” Beatrice said.
“What do you mean?” Geneva asked.
“You are the couple, and Tammy agrees. We needed one couple, the couple on our website, on our pamphlets. We hired other models, and we’ve seen their photos, and you are just . . . it.”
Brandon shook his head. How could one breakfast conversation have taken so many turns? Then, like a curtain rising on a stage, Brandon realized what his sister was asking. “Wait a hot second. You want me and Geneva to look like we’re a couple?”
“See, it’s a bad idea,” Chris declared. “That is incestuous.”
“I mean, by definition? It’s really not,” Gil said. “And from my point of view, if it even matters at all—”
Beatrice leveled him with a look. “You know it matters.”
“Logistically, you’re already here on the resort, so the background is true to the environment. In general, photographs of people bring engagement. And optics? You’re both Filipino American, which is representative of us. That’s something we’ve always discussed as important—we wanted people to know exactly who we represent and that we’re inclusive.”
Brandon pinched the bridge of his nose. “Wait a sec. Neither one of us are models. You, Kuya Gil, are. This is totally up your alley. In fact, why aren’t you doing any of this image and outreach stuff? This is supposed to be your career.”
“The voice of reason!” Chris said. “I have been saying this all along. Why are we even messing with models when we have you, Gil—you’re a freaking celebrity.”
Gil leveled all of them with a glare. “You know I’m on a break. A self-enforced break. Do I have to be blunt about it? I’m burnt out, and I refuse to compromise the few weeks I have with the kids. My focus is them. And honestly, Bran and Geneva, you have an undeniable chemistry. I don’t know what to tell you.”
“Ugh,” Chris spat out.
Brandon could feel Geneva stiffen beside him. She was sitting on her hands, posture straight, and utterly quiet.
His answer was swift. “No.”
His siblings countered with their stances, either in support or against.
“No,” Geneva said next to him.
Chris’s smile of triumph lit up the whole room. “That’s my girl.”
Irritation gripped Brandon, and against his better judgment not to act protective, he said, “She’s not your girl.”
His eyebrow went up. “Goodness, I apologize. Thank you, Geneva, for seeing it my way.”
“What I meant was,” Geneva continued in a steady voice, in contrast to his and his siblings’ bickering, “it’s not incestuous, and I’ll do it.”
The room quieted. Brandon faced her. “You’re okay with this?”
“Yes.”
“But you said, about social media—”
“That was different. This is posed, planned. And I want to do it, for you all.”
Beatrice beamed. “So I’ll tell Tammy that it’s an all clear?”
“It’s no big deal. Right, Bran?” Geneva looked to him with pleading eyes. “Ten days. We’re together all the time anyway. We take them and then move on.”
Her words called up a familiar theme from years ago: Three weeks, and we move on.
In truth, everything between them was a big deal, and moving on was no simple matter. Already, being in close proximity to Geneva had broken down the first layers of the wall he’d worked hard to build for himself since their breakup.
But, in the end, Brandon couldn’t say no to his siblings, with Geneva already on board. “All right, then.”
The question was, How would he protect himself to come out of this unscathed?
The beep of the drip coffee maker snapped Brandon out of his thoughts and he approached the machine with his to-go carafe in hand, glancing out the kitchen window.
One by one, golf carts backed out from under the house and motored down the driveway. An hour after their morning meeting, life and work resumed, and each of his siblings jetted off to their assigned projects. Geneva was up the hill, making arrangements with Sal.
Brandon had needed a moment for a refill, and for a breath.
Pouring the coffee into his carafe, all but draining the pot, he caught a nice big whiff of java, and he reveled in it for just a moment.
He would need all its strength to deal with this jumble of a situation. As if it wasn’t complicated enough with the logistics of rebuilding Heart Resort, and this messy limbo in his and Geneva’s relationship, now they would be under a camera lens.
“Still here?” a gruff voice said behind him, and he turned to Chris, who, despite looking more polished than he had been at breakfast, had an unreadable expression.
“Last top off.” Brandon lifted the carafe. “You look like you need this coffee more than I do.”
Chris pressed his fingers against his eyes. “I need a double.”
“Oh, wow. Okay.” This was a rare moment of vulnerability. Chris was a man who kept an image even with his own family.
So Brandon pulled a coffee cup from the cupboard, noticing once again how his siblings had seemed to move on. Their apartments, their golf carts, and now this cupboard of perfectly matching cups, saucers stacked perfectly next to them. That the dinnerware had been bought all together as a set, the opposite of how they’d grown up. The Annapolis town house still stored their parents’ mismatched dining sets, a result of having four children at home who dropped dishes, who accidentally tossed utensils in the garbage, and parents who never threw anything away.
Brandon poured the last of the coffee into the cup, splashed 2 percent milk from the fridge on top, and handed it to him.
Chris perched himself on the stool on the other side of the counter. “Thank you. And for remembering.”
“You’re the only one I know who likes milk in their coffee.”
He shrugged. “Anything to cut the tar a little. Especially with how you make it.”
“Pardon me. I make it to the standard, actually. Two tablespoons for every six ounces of water, just like Dad taught me,” Brandon said, eyeing his brother—he didn’t look right at all. “What’s up?”
He sipped, swallowed, and shook his head. “Just stuff.”
“Is that why you were extra bossy this morning?” To his attempt at a joke, Brandon didn’t get an answer, and he frowned. This was serious. “Can I help?”
“That’s the thing, Bran, if only someone could.”
“I don’t like the sound of that.” He leaned against the counter wholly to steady himself, and his heart rate rocketed. Sweat bloomed behind his neck.
It was his anxiety.
Since his parents’ sudden deaths, Brandon’s reactions to certain stimuli had changed. Storms rattled him; his body reacted viscerally to bad news. Just the idea of someone he loved hurting—he simultaneously wanted to jump in to help them and get the hell out of there, like the push and pull of emotions run amok. He’d learned a lot of things along the way. Seven years of grief, most of those years addressing it in therapy, and slowly reaching out to people had been helpful. Lifesaving. But it didn’t mean the anxiety was gone forever. He just got better at sensing it, coping with it, and asking for help when it got to be too much.
“Hey, Bran,” Chris said, an eyebrow up. “You okay?”
Brandon exhaled. He had been holding his breath. “Yes, I’m . . . can you say what’s up?”
Chris rubbed the top of his head. “It’s me and Eden
.”
“Eden? Something’s wrong with Eden?”
“No. No!” He shook his head. “Well, I mean, if you want to talk literally, something is wrong with Eden, but it’s because of me.”
Oh. He inhaled slowly, and his body began to unclench itself. “You’re Eden’s problem.”
“Yeah . . .” He half laughed. “We are having problems, in our . . . marriage. We’ve . . . been. And it’s been weighing on me, a lot. We fought again last night, on a date night no less. Notice she wasn’t at breakfast?”
“I thought it’s because she and the kids—”
“All excuses. Eden doesn’t want any of you all to know that we’re not great right now.”
Brandon listened for any noise, for the sound of footsteps. For a child coming from upstairs, or even a crack in the veneer of reality. Chris was opening up, to him? “I . . . I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. This is all my—our—doing.”
“Is it for a specific reason? Are there . . . other people?”
“No. Is that what you think of me?” He frowned.
“That’s not . . . never mind.”
“No, I want to know what you mean.”
Brandon pulled the threads of his thoughts together, the reasons why things had never really worked out with others, and with Geneva. “It doesn’t have to be another lover, or an affair. It could be other people in the way of responsibilities, or loyalties.”
Chris’s shoulders dropped. “No, there aren’t any other people. There are other issues, in the name of Heart Resort and Everly Heart.”
Eden was also known as Everly Heart, a romance author of fifteen books. For as long as Brandon had known her, Eden had clacked away on her computer or dictated into her phone. From Eden, Brandon had also learned to respect novel writing and romance as a genre. He was proud to say he’d hand sold his share of Everly Heart’s romance novels.
Brandon also knew of Eden’s drive and ambition, and it rivaled Chris’s. She had goals, and no one, not even Chris, could keep her back from them.
“Is it serious? The fighting, I mean? I can’t imagine you both fighting. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her raise her voice,” Brandon asked.
“She doesn’t have to. She carries a big stick. And she’s the expert at the silent treatment. My back’s screaming from the tossing and turning I’ve been doing. I’ve been on the couch.” He winced. “Anyway . . .”
Brandon locked into his brother’s change in subject, but there had been more. “You said Heart Resort. The resort’s coming in between you both?”
“Yeah. She thinks . . .” He looked down into his cup. “She thinks that I’m obsessed.”
“Obsessed. Clinically?”
“No. Those were my words, I’m sorry. That was ableist.” He heaved a breath. “Eden thinks I’m too competitive with Willow Tree.”
Brandon relaxed and rolled his eyes. “This—this isn’t a big deal. This isn’t even competition. Different states, and we have a freaking island practically.”
“Peninsula.”
“Whatever. There can be more than one couples resort in the US. There’s one on Martha’s Vineyard, another in Vermont—”
“They tried to poach Mike from us.”
“Our contractor?” Brandon frowned.
“They called and asked him to join their team for some chief of some division—his sister is married to a McCauley—Dillon McCauley the third is the CEO. Anyway, when Mike said no, they tried to mine him for information.”
“That’s shady.”
“No doubt. None of what we do is proprietary, but I certainly don’t want to make it easy for Dillon. He’s third in a line of business guys, cutthroat, old money. Bran, I just can’t let up. I want them to think that Tropical Storm Maximus strengthened us rather than hindered. I want them to know that we belong here too.”
Brandon nodded. He understood his brother’s pride. He also understood Eden’s issue with it.
“Anyway, I’m headed into town to meet up with the bigwigs to talk up the resort. What are you doing today?”
“Floors for the yoga studio, meeting with Lainey, hopefully. Speaking of, can I make a couple of PB and Js? I don’t think I’ll be able to stop for lunch.”
“Go ahead. This is your house too.” Chris waved a hand across the kitchen.
Brandon stilled for a beat. He begged to differ, seeing that he hadn’t yet been invited to move into his own apartment upstairs. But that was another conversation for another day. This had been the most his brother had shared with him. And he . . . he was in turmoil.
“Bran, this is also why I’m not down with this idea of you and Geneva being a couple for the resort. I don’t need you or her to, first of all, be exposed to Willow Tree—I know they’re watching us closely. And secondly, the idea of fraternization is unconscionable.” He harrumphed. “But, I have to trust your professionalism. And Beatrice is insisting, and I do trust her judgment.”
Chris took the first sip of his coffee.
Though Brandon commenced making his sandwich, food was now the furthest thing from his mind. He, too, was as torn as Chris was. Pretending to be a couple was not a good move, but it was too late to worry about fraternization. He and Geneva had already crossed that line.
When she’d left him those years ago, Brandon had gone day after day of being distracted. Of forgetting tasks, of worrying for a human who didn’t want to be contacted. Of trying to jump-start his body and brain so he could be the productive, competent person he was raised to be.
He hated how he had been. And he hated this state of limbo that they were in now.
It’s not real. Not at all.
Goodness, they’d shared a kiss. A freaking kiss. A hot freaking kiss, but still. He had been intimate with others in a quicker time frame. Why wasn’t he surprised that she was willing to downplay it? “Can I ask you some advice?”
Chris looked up from his cup. “Of course. Is this about your business? It did make me wonder how you can take so much time off.”
Brandon winced, because yes, he had the town house to discuss, but he could only do one thing at a time. “No. It’s personal.”
A grin broke out on Chris’s face. “Personal.”
“Yes.”
“A woman?”
Brandon nodded.
Chris peered at him. “Is this going to be like one of our ten-questions games?”
Brandon laughed at that, though admittedly he likened sharing his emotions to yanking his own baby teeth. It was like his first time in therapy—it had taken the full fifty minutes to pull more than two-word sentences from him. “No.”
Chris raised his eyebrows. “Good golly, man, just say it.”
“Since we were talking about Eden . . .” He heaved a breath. Just say it. “How do you know when it’s right for a relationship to continue?”
“Ah, you’re involved with someone.”
Involved was probably pushing it. Tangled? Hooked on what-if? Utterly confused? “Maybe?”
“And the way you’re being so open means you’re probably not going to give me a hint as to who this is.”
“I’d rather keep that private.” Brandon dropped his gaze for a beat, tempted to tell Chris—he wanted to talk this over with someone. Though it was one kiss, the situation felt urgent.
Chris ran a finger over the rim of his cup. “I’m going to allow that, just because I know at some point Beatrice will weasel it out of you. It will be more satisfying to watch it happen.”
“Kuya.”
“Okay, I’m listening. Give it to me.”
“How do you let go? How are you the way you are?”
“And what’s that?”
“Stone cold, man.”
Chris shot him a bewildered look. “I’m not sure how to take that.”
“Oh, c’mon. As if you don’t know.” Brandon grinned, leveling a look at him. “You’re not exactly warm, or touchy feely.”
He shrugged, a hurt look on his face.
“Aw, you’re not being serious right now.” Brandon did a double take. Sure enough, Chris’s shoulders had dropped, and he didn’t have a hint of a smile. “You’re serious.”
“Look, intense doesn’t mean cold.” Chris held a hand up. “And just to prove it to you, I’m not going to let this conversation derail. You’re asking me how I let go, and I’ll tell you something. I don’t. I wish I could crack the code, Bran, because I can’t seem to let anything go. What I do isn’t the most healthy or probably helpful, but I push it down, deep on the inside. Anyone like me? Type A? Repression is our superpower.”
Brandon took in his words and ruminated on them. “Wow, Kuya, that is incredibly self-aware.”
“I have a romance author for a wife. Empathy is her business, and she has schooled me more than once about my”—he made quotation marks with his fingers—“wound, or that which motivates us in all of our actions.”
“That’s super interesting. And your wound is . . .” Brandon leaned in, curious about this new side of Chris.
“None of your business. But my advice would be that you should do what’s right for you. Bottom line, I have no advice.”
“That might be a first.”
“Keep in mind that it’s only for this question. Because the rest of it? I have ideas and advice. Like perhaps when you speak to Lainey about the kitchen, I want you to keep the plans as simple as possible.”
Brandon glanced up at the ceiling and laughed. “Ah. And he’s back.”
“Oh, and just an FYI, Friday dinner tonight. I’ll grab and take you to the restaurant, and apparently per Beatrice, you and Geneva are doing a little photo shoot tomorrow morning, as the sun rises, with Tammy. I’ll text you the details later on.”
“Even better,” he said softly, except without sarcasm. With his brother’s lesson on self-awareness, Brandon now wondered if Geneva running, avoiding him, and leaving were due to a wound too? And what was his?
Brandon swiped the bread with peanut butter, and he grabbed a couple of clear ziplock bags from the drawer. His phone beeped with a calendar notification for tomorrow afternoon. He gave it a glance: Walk-through of Illinois Way.
Garrett with his perfect and awful timing.