Page 61 of Blame it on the Bet
“I know, that’s obvious. But maybe he doesn’t love himself. Or maybe he doesn’t feel loved by his own family.”
There’s something in Bryan’s tone that makes me think there’s something in Bryan’s heart that relates to this story.
“Do you feel that way, Bryan?” I ask softly.
“I do—I did. For a long time. There were a lot of women who meant nothing. A lot of flings and short-term relationships that went south as soon as I realized there was still something missing inside me. You know what it’s like?” he asks.
“What?”
“It’s like being hungry. And there’s a perfectly good, healthy meal in front of you, but you keep choosing the Snickers and a can of Coke, thinking they’ll satisfy this deep, nagging hunger inside of you. It works for a little while, maybe gives you a little rush, but eventually you’re gonna slump. And big time. When that intense sugar-high wears off, you’re twice as hungry as you were, and now you’re disgusted with yourself to boot.”
I hate to give Win the benefit of the doubt. About anything. But I can’t deny that what Bryan is saying makes some sense. There really is something about my brother-in- law that conveys a love-hate thing. And not with Jameson, either. Is it possible that he’s got something going on? Depression or self-esteem issues?
No. Can’t be. He’s an egomaniac.
“And before you write him off as a narcissist, I don’t think that’s the case.”
Not for the first time, I wonder if I’ve actually expressed my thought out loud.
“Um, why is that?” I ask, a little spooked by his perceptiveness.
“A narcissist doesn’t care about his kid like that. A narcissist doesn’t care that his father disapproves of him. A narcissist doesn’t try to protect his family?—”
“And just how is he protecting his family?” I demand. Bryan shoots me a sidelong glance.
“Don’t you get it? All that stuff about me and what I’m doing here, that was his lame way of looking out for you.” “Oh, now you’re just being ridiculous.”
I purse my lips, clutch the steering wheel harder, and look straight forward, refusing to even entertain this asinine theory.
“You sure about that? He was worried about me taking advantage of you. He wanted to make sure you got the most money possible. He wanted to know why I was hanging around so long. None of that was about him. It was about you…and your sisters. Trust me on this, Hennessy, guys know guys. Do I think Win Clarke Jr. is an ass? Absolutely. Do I think he wants to see anything bad happen to you? Not for a second. He just doesn’t know how to go about being an ass and being a good guy at the same time. It’s like Superman and Clark Kent. They can’t occupy the same space at the same time.”
Superman? Seriously? Well, now I have to entertain this asinine theory because he’s made it so…so…asinine!
“Dude, you’re just…that’s…that’s just wrong,” I sputter. “No, don’t you see?” He’s really getting into this. “Bad Win acts like a jerk because he doesn’t like himself for whatever reason. Good Win feels like a jerk and doesn’t like himself because Bad Win acts like a jerk. Vicious cycle.” “Circle,” I correct.
“I think it can be either.” “You hungry?” I ask.
“Oh God, yeah. I couldn’t get out of there fast enough once everything started to hit the fan.”
I snicker.
“You mean once the potatoes hit your head.”
“Yeah,” he agrees. “That’s exactly what I mean.”
…
I lead him around to the apartment’s side entrance, which goes directly upstairs.
“Look at you with your super-secret staircase,” he comments.
“Couldn’t be all that secret, seeing as how you were waiting here for me this morning,” I remind him.
“Nah, I thought it was just a back way out of the pub. I didn’t realize it led up here. In fact, I didn’t realize there was an actual apartment up here. It just shows as unfinished space on the blueprints on file with the town.”
“This is where I grew up. For a while, anyway,” I explain as we climb the stairs and I unlock the door at the top. When we step inside, the apartment is bathed in late afternoon sunlight. “Hey, do you mind if I change in your bathroom?” he asks, patting the gym bag he’s brought up with him from the car. “Don’t ask me how, but I think I’ve got to get out of this suit. There may be potatoes mushed down into my pockets.”
“Of course, just down the hall. First door on the left.”
