Page 49 of By All Accounts
We stood shoulder to shoulder and ordered the same thing, pastrami on rye, and I didn’t argue with him when he pulled out his credit card to pay. I found a small table in the back near the bathrooms and collapsed into one of the rickety chairs with a sigh. Marshall was close behind with two bottles of water and a satisfied smile once he took his seat.
“I’ve actually been meaning to call you,” I told him, twisting the cap off and taking a large swallow. “I wanted to talk to you about Smith.”
“Don’t deflect.”
“I’m not.”
“That’s not why I wanted to have lunch with you,” he countered.
“The meeting invite had no subject and no agenda, which means if I’m the one getting ambushed, the second time you’ve done this in a week by the way, I get to set the tone.”
Marshall looked almost impressed. He leaned back in his chair and gestured for me to speak my piece before folding his arms together in front of his chest. God, I hated him. I hated how easy life was for him, hated the way he watched over the three of us like we were his own sons. Marshall wasn’t even ten years older than me, but somehow he’d popped out of his mother’swomb with all the wizened learning of a man twice his age. It would be easy to say Marshall was the one who held the four of us together, but I’d never do it out loud and give him all the credit.
He’d become insufferable.
“You need to offer him an olive branch,” I said.
“Over what?”
“Over what?” I mocked, and someone from the counter shouted our last name. Sighing, I let Marshall marinate with his behavior while I went to get our sandwiches from the other end of the cafe. When I returned and set both trays down, he didn’t look any more moved or impassioned than when I’d left.
“I wasn’t aware Smith was unhappy,” he said.
“You’re an absolute asshole about his boyfriend, and you don’t think he’s unhappy?”
Marshall opened his mouth to argue but said nothing because he had no ground to stand on and he knew it. I yanked the toothpick out of one half of my sandwich and took a bite, chewing while he stewed over my question. My brother ate a couple bites before setting his sandwich back in the plastic tray and carefully wiping some mustard off of his fingers.
“Riggs is a good person,” I said. “He’s a good man, and he adores Smith.’
“Does he now?”
“He does.” I leveled a sharp look at my brother, debating if Smith would pick me up from jail a second time if I were to climb over the table and wring our oldest brother’s neck.
“Did he tell you this?”
“He showed me,” I snapped, rolling my eyes before taking another bite of my sandwich.
Marshall had the decency to look reflective while I chewed, not saying anything.
“He’s a lot like you,” I went on. “And I think you’d get along really well with him if you could just get over your perception of him.”
“He has a lot of tattoos.”
“He’s a business owner.”
“A motorcycle,” Marshall argued.
“How is that any worse than a car?” I countered. “Which he also has, by the way. So Smith’s boyfriend technically owns more vehicles and businesses than you.”
Marshall shot an unimpressed look at me, but I’d known him long enough to tell I was winning. He was wearing down.
“I own my own business.”
“One car,” I reminded him. “I said businessesandvehicles. But it doesn’t matter. I have to admit it seems biased you’re worried about Riggs with Smith but not Lincoln with Hunter.”
“Why would I be worried about Lincoln?”
I liked Lincoln, and I liked him with my brother, but I wasn’t above using him to prove a point.
