I glare at him. “I like fruity shit.”
“Fruity doesn’t mean refined,” he informs me. “You two need to learn to drink better brands and less sugar.”
Sighing, I finish reading the contract. We’re never going to agree on the subject. He thinks spending a thousand dollars on a bottle of single malt is better than drinking margaritas. We’ll have to agree to disagree.
“Listen, you shouldn’t be signing this,” I suggest. “Persy and I will amend her book deal and—”
“It’s going to take me years to recover her investment,” he interrupts me. “These guys don’t need the money right away. She does.”
He is right. Our sister lent him her savings. The amount included the advance she received from Blackstone and Morgan Press, the publishing company that bought the rights to her next book. A book she doesn’t want to write because it’s off-brand and forcing her to divulge more about her life on social media than she usually does. I’m trying to fix her current contract so she can change the title and the subject. But if we can’t come to an agreement, she’ll have to give the money back so I can terminate the contract.
I sigh.
“Thirty-five percent is a lot,” I say, changing the argument as I continue reading through the partnership proposal. “We need to negotiate the terms before you sign anything. I understand that they are practically financing the entire operation, but…”
I pull out a calculator and run some numbers. “You’re not earning any money for at least five years. Where are you supposed to live and what are you going to eat?”
“Funny that you mention this,” he says, giving me his boyish grin. “You have an extra room in your house.”
“No!” I answer with determination.
I have two guest rooms. I love my siblings, but I can only stand living with them for so long. Just earlier this year, Persy stayed with me for almost six months and even when we had fun, we both concur that we needed our own place. We’re too old to have roommates. I can’t imagine what it’d be like to live with Eros for five years—or until he gets his shit together. I’m going to become his maid, parent, and… No, thank you.
“Nyx, at least let me explain my plan to you.” His pleading voice doesn’t change my mind. In fact, I cross my arms. “I sell my place—”
“You have two mortgages on that house. You owe more than you’ll get for it. You have to be sensible about your finances,” I remind him, shaking my head. “Why do I always have to sound like the oldest one in this family?”
He shrugs. “You always liked to boss me around while we were growing up. Show that you were responsible. It’s your thing. Just like Persy likes to analyze people. I watch over you three.”
He’s right. That’s been our dynamic since we were kids. It might have to do with the way we were raised. Our baby sister, Calliope, doesn’t fit in this dynamic, and maybe that’s why she doesn’t like us so much.
“No, we’re going to go back to these Chadwick brothers and we’re going to cut you a deal that will be beneficial for everyone,” I state. “Do we have an understanding?”
He salutes me. “You’re the boss.”
There’s this idea that the person we become is partly defined by the order in which we come into our family. It’s part of the sibling hierarchy. The oldest becomes the teacher to the rest of the siblings. Whoever established that theory didn’t know the Brassard siblings. We are four, one brother and three sisters. Eros is the oldest. I’m the second out of four. Then comes my sister, Persy, and Calliope is the baby.
In theory, Eros should be our teacher. The one who takes care of us. Most days I’m the one who is rescuing everyone and saving them from not fucking up their lives. Maybe it has to do with my parents’ philosophy. They believe that making mistakes is what forges our character. I keep telling them that there are mistakes, and then there are times when people should avoid failing. Letting others commit errors so you can learn isn’t always smart. What if it’s something that can bankrupt us, get us thrown in jail, or kill us?
Earlier today it was my brother. Thankfully, I was able to change the original partnership he was about to sign, and he got to save his home.
More like, I won’t be having him as a roommate, and we won’t end up killing each other because he’s a slob.
Now, I’m on my way to talk some sense into Calliope. Most days I’m thankful for Persy. She’s not only the most down to earth of my siblings, but she’s also my best friend. Maybe the whole theory about birth order has some truth to it. She’s only ten months younger than me. We have a connection like not many do. We understand each other, and sometimes we even guess how the other one is feeling.
As I’m about to ring the doorbell to the apartment complex where Callie lives, there’s a person coming out who lets me in and even smiles. I blink a couple of times and shrug. What happened to security? I climb the stairs to the fourth story and knock on the door.
A male voice answers, “In a minute.”
Not sure if the guy understands how long a minute is because only two seconds later the door opens. It’s a tallish guy. By tallish I mean under six feet, lanky, and in a dire need of a trim. No, I don’t have anything against guys who have long hair. There are some that look hotter with a mane. This guy though, he needs…a shower, a brush, and clean clothes.
“We didn’t order take out,” he says.
“I’m here to see Calliope, my sister,” I inform him.
“Cal?” he asks and studies me. “You kind of look like her, but uptight.”
“Is she here?”
“No, she moved out a week ago,” he states.
“Who are you?”
“Ron,” he answers. “I’m subleasing this place.”
Subleasing the place? I’m blown away by those three words. She’s not allowed to do that. Did he even sign a contract? Because I don’t remember signing one where I agreed to let this man live in this apartment. I take a deep breath and ask calmly, “Did she leave you a forwarding address?”
He shakes his head. “No. You should talk to your sister, not me.”
I hate to agree with him, but there’s nothing I can say to him that’ll make this right. Other than kicking him out of the place because technically he is living here without my consent.
“Thank you, I appreciate your time,” I say and leave.
On my way to the car, I dial Callie’s number. She sends me to voicemail, so I try again, again, and again until she finally answers, “What do you want?”
“Where are you?”
“Far away from you,” she states.
Why do you always have to answer like a petulant fifteen-year-old? I want to protest, but I don’t. Instead, I say, “I take it you made the decision to move out of the state. Did it occur to you to tell us about it?”
“As I said the last time we spoke, I’m done with your meddling,” she comments. “In fact, I’m done with you. Lose my number.”
“Well then, when will you be sending me the money I loaned you to buy your car and the deposit to rent the apartment where this Ron character lives?” I question. “Furthermore, this apartment is under my name too, and I didn’t sign any agreement to sublease the place to him. My name is on that leasing contract.”