Page 78 of One Last Rainy Day
“So?” Tobias prompts, looking pleased while sipping his wine.
“So what?”
“So, was that not the best fucking fare you’ve ever eaten?”
“Sure.” I shrug.
He tosses his pressed linen napkin onto his empty plate as silverware clinks around us, along with hushed conversation. Looking relaxed, it’s clear he’s in his element. After thanking the waiter for topping off his wine, Tobias pins me with his stare. “We grew up gutter rats, and you just ate from a tasting menu designed by one of the best chefs in the country. Why are you so pissed about it?” He shakes his head. “Tell me, Dom, what does impress you?”
“A woman’s flexibility,” I smirk.
He sips his wine, unimpressed. “That’s Sean talking.”
“I’ll tell you what doesn’t impress me—wasting three thousand dollars on fermented grapes and sautéed vegetables.”
“That’s Delphine, through and through,” he dismisses. “Tell me, Dom, where is your voice?”
I glare over at him.
“Don’t be offended that you’re a chameleon. You change colors to blend with the company you keep, and it only proves just how intelligent you are. But you’ve allowed others to give you the impression and current idea of what you deserve. You’ve been dodging looks your whole life,” he surmises. “The glares from Delphine for being a reminder of our parents’ deaths and the orphans she was forced to take in. The attention and cruelty you garnered for being a poor kid wearing ill-fitting hand-me-downs. The looks you draw now for lashing out because your grudge against the world is so obvious...Jesus, you haven’t even noticed the three women to our left who’ve been eye fucking us for the last twenty minutes. So, while you talk a good game—and have a healthyamount of confidence to back it up—you don’t exactly know who you are yet, outside of the club.”
He leans forward, eyes intent as I rake my fork over my last bite of pureed cauliflower.
“That’s okay, Dom. It takes time—a lifetime for some—but it requires truly living and experiencing the world outside of books through your own perspective. Leaving Triple Falls is your chance to discover yourself outside our mutual purpose and decide what kind of man you want to be.” He pauses, knowing he has my attention. “I’m sharing this with you because I felt completely fucking lost my first year in France. I had no idea who I was. You’ve surpassed me by miles in some respects, but I’m worried because you haven’t evolved past the limits you were made to believe you have. You have to try, Dom, for yourself. I’m scared of how lonely you’ll be if you don’t.”
“I don’t get lonely,” I counter.
“Because it’s been such a constant state for you that you don’t recognize it anymore. You prefer isolation because it’s safe.”
I remain mute as he leans in. “You can talk to me about this, brother.”
“Why?” I snap defensively. “Because you’re managing to pull off the scam so well?”
“No more than anyone else here is. But yes, I’m a chameleon and will remain one, and so will you.”
“Is this dinner sponsored by overused slogans? Now it’s ‘fake it until you make it’?”
“No,” he grits out. “Always fucking fake it. We’ve already made it, but if people catch wind of that, they’ll only try to drag us down—make our lives harder out of envy, spite, orboth. So, keep the grudge but hide the fangs. But make no mistake,” he warns, “most interactions between humans are just a formality. When people ask how you are, most don’t give a fuck, and that’s all that interaction with outsiders is, Dom—a formality. So, don’t waste energy, time, or effort on the people with whom you’re only meant to exchange formalities. It’s when you can’t fake it with someone who consistently shows up for you without motive that you’ll know they’re deserving of all three.”
I can’t help my grin. “This monologue of yours is a bit cliché, don’t you think? Like a mobster delivering life advice before getting whacked or run over by a milk truck.”
He shakes his head, tossing in an exaggerated eye roll. “Your constant vitriol is exhausting, brother.”
“I learned from the best, and it’s not like this,” I glance around, “is really that much of a stretch for you. You like this atmosphere and dressing that way,” I point out.
He shrugs. “I like expensive wine and clothes, and things we never imagined we could ever afford and now can, so why aren’t you at least allowing a little of that in? You haven’t spent a fucking dime since we added zeros to our net worth. At the very least, you need to order a new fucking mattress, but you haven’t, and I know why. Look at me, Dom.”
I snap my eyes to his.
“Press through your mindset limit and decide your own potential. Once you figure that out, we’ll forge a fire so fucking big, no one will ever be able to overlook it or escape it.”
Twisting his glass stem, he stares at it contemplatively. “It’s laughable now how comfortable most of the men of our time are,” he ponders. “The men in your history book who really did something with their lives and raised actual fuckingswords in defense of their beliefs. Who spilled blood in the streets without flinching, declared themselves outlaws, and sacrificed every comfort while fearlessly fighting to the death. While more civilized negotiations have become part of the progression from Neanderthal to the modern man—who uses brain over brute force—there’s something to be said for those men of the past. I’m pretty sure those trailblazers weren’t getting regular mani-pedis.”
We both chuckle as he plucks the bottle and fills our glasses, a buzz humming steadily through me. “So, take this time to live some life outside of the club because one day in the near future, we’re going to be fighting in the streets—maybe in more expensive clothes, armed with better, foolproof plans, but fighting nonetheless.”
“I’ll drink to that,” I say, taking a hearty sip. He grins as he lifts a finger for the waiter, who nearly trips over himself getting to our table.
“Yes, sir?”
