Page 25 of The Associate
Jacob laughed; a full-bodied sound that turned a few nearby heads. Everything about him was unrestrained, Samuel realized. The bouncing leg under the table. The dramatic, fluid hand gestures. The grin that pulled too wide. Jacob had always carried a bright, magnetic chaos with him, an energy that burned through rooms rather than settling.
They ordered drinks; a neat, top-shelf whiskey for Sam, something vaguely fruity, neon-colored, and adorned with a tiny umbrella for Jacob. When their glasses arrived, his brother immediately lifted his concoction to clink forcefully against Sam’s.
“To poor life choices,” he declared.
Samuel offered a wry, thin smirk. “You consistently make far worse ones than I do.”
“Yeah, but mine are actually fun. There’s a difference.”
Samuel shook his head with mock disgust. “Remind me again why you’re drinking something the color of a radioactive glow stick?”
“It has real mango purée in it,” Jacob said, puffing his chest out slightly. “Mango is sophisticated.”
“I am not sure you know what sophisticated means.”
“It’s my personal definition. I’m redefining the lexicon.”
Samuel snorted. “Right. Alongside your highly flexible definitions of ‘punctuality’ and ‘basic hygiene.’”
Jacob placed a dramatic hand over his heart. “The betrayal I’m suffering in this fine establishment is truly unreal.”
The familiar ease between them stretched a little. Then Jacob nudged Samuel’s foot under the table with his boot. “You hear from Mom lately?” he asked, the casualness far too practiced.
Samuel’s smirk faded. “Last week.” He swirled the amber liquid in his glass. “You?”
“God, no,” Jacob laughed, but the sound was thin. “I’m still the devil she warns her grandkids about.”
“She doesn't actually have any grandkids, Jay.”
“Not the point,” Jacob retorted, leaning back and staring at Samuel over the rim of his drink. “She’d invent them just to have someone to traumatize with cautionary tales about the prodigal son.”
Samuel huffed out a short, hollow laugh. “Yeah. That sounds about right.”
Jacob’s gaze sharpened across the table, cutting in a way only a sibling could manage. “You’re still going to those Sunday dinners, aren’t you?”
Samuel’s grip tightened on the glass. He shrugged his shoulder instead of answering.
“Is that a ‘yes’ or a ‘please don’t start this conversation’?”
“Take a wild guess, Jacob.”
Jacob sighed, a long, weary sound, tilting his head back to stare at the ceiling. “They haven’t changed, Sam. You know that. They’re never going to change.”
“I didn’t say they did.”
“You didn’t have to.” Jacob set his drink down on the coaster, eyes never leaving Sam's. “You come when they call. You sit there and you pretend like everything is fine.”
“It’s just easier that way,” Samuel muttered, his eyes fixed on a watermark on the table.
“Easier for who?”
Samuel didn’t answer. He took a slow sip of his whiskey, the burn doing nothing to settle the cold knot in his stomach.
The silence stretched between them, thick with discomfort, before Jacob broke it, his voice quiet now, stripped of its earlier humor.
“You ever gonna stop playing by Dad’s rulebook, Sam? Ever?”
Samuel’s jaw clenched, a muscle ticking along the bone. He stared down into his drink as if it held an answer.
