“And it wouldn't change mine. When did we get to a point in life where that kind of dough is...”
“A rounding error?”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah.” They sat in silence, punctuated with deep sighs, before Dylan turned to Mike and said, “Beer?”
“Hell yes.”
The apartment was the same one they'd shared with Jill, a gorgeous modern place that they'd always marveled at getting “for such a good price.”
Turned out she'd been subsidizing it. Mike and Dylan just paid her their “share” and she paid the difference. After her death, they learned just how much that difference had been.
Years. For years he'd stupidly signed over a rent check that he thought was one third.
It was maybe one tenth.
Now that they had their own trust funds, they paid full price and knew everything.
Except they didn't know one thing: why Jill lied to them.
In the kitchen, Dylan dug around the pot of chili Mike had made two days ago, moved a container of chopped carrots and red peppers, and finally found two Sam Adams beers in the back among a full six-pack. He knew there was plenty of hard liquor in the cabinet, and a small bowl of limes on the counter, though a little dried out, would give them more sustenance if the beers weren't enough.
The satisfaction of popping the beers with his bare hands made him smile.
Grabbing a good Wusthof utility knife, one Jill always swore by, he rinsed the lime, cut it into wedges, and squeezed one into the neck of each beer, then set the wedges in a small cruet. They'd likely finish the lime off by evening's end.
Right after Jill died, they'd have definitely finished it off.
And the entire bottle of tequila.
“Here,” he said to Mike, who clinked the neck against his but didn't give a toast, pushing the lime into the beer and taking a meditative gulp. Over the last few months, the desire to be blitzed had faded. A drink or two on nights he wasn't working was good for relaxing. Maybe once a week they dug in like they were pros.
The hangovers weren't worth it.
“Where in the hell will we find another woman like Jill?” he mused out of the blue, making the couch shake slightly from Mike's physical reaction.
Mike's mouth tightened. “Don't want a woman like Jill. I want a woman who is unique and her own person.”
“Duh, dude. I mean a woman who'll want two guys at once.”
“Plenty of those.” He waggled his phone. “Sixty-seven messages.”
“Eight-one,” Dylan corrected. Mike's brow turned down in confusion.
“How would you know?”
Shit. Caught.
“You've been monitoring my account?” Mike said, voice going quiet and tense, which was worse than being chewed out.
“Of course I have, You needed a kick in the ass.”
Mike's eyebrow quirked up. “You realize three women said they were into that.”
“Four, actually.”
“I don't want to date anyone.”
“I know you don't. But Jill's never coming back.”
“Why would you even say something like that?”
“Because you act like Jill's the only person for us.”
“Because she is!”
“Was, Mike. Was. Jill died.”
“You think I don't know that?”
“A part of you hasn't let it sink in.”
“Fuck you, Dylan. Every goddamned part of me knows full well Jill died. I was in that room with you, holding her as she took her last breath.”
Dylan touched Mike's shoulder. It was hard as a rock. “I know. We were a team. The three of us. And now we're two-thirds of a team.”
“Like a three-legged stool missing a piece. Everything's so... tilted.”
Dylan held his breath. It was the first glimpse into Mike's feelings. Whatever he did, he had to be careful. Getting Mike to open up was key. If he said the wrong thing, though, the guy would shut down.
“Yeah. It is.”
Mike closed his eyes and took in a long, slow breath. Dylan had never noticed before how the tips of Mike's eyelashes matched his hair color perfectly. Keeping his eyes shut, Mike took a long drink off his beer, Adam's apple jumping. Still uptight, his buddy looked like the world was squeezing him from every direction.
Inside out, even.
“I trusted her. Always. Never wavered, never questioned it,” Mike spat out, surprising Dylan. “And now I feel stupid.”
“Stupid?”
Mike swirled the beer, watching the lime float. “Yeah. Like I'm a sucker.”
Before he could stop himself, Dylan laughed.
Wrong response.
“Fuck it, man,” Mike said, starting to stand, arm going rigid as Dylan reached for his wrist.
“Sorry. Didn't mean to laugh. I just – we're suckers who inherited more than a billion dollars each. Pretty sure every person on the planet would be lined up to be suckered the way we were.”
“Every person on the planet didn't love Jill as deeply as we did.”
“Is that it? You doubt her love for you because she lied to us?”
“Of course. Who wouldn't?”
“I don't.”
“Come on, Dyl.”
“No. Really. I don't. I mean, I hate that she lied to us. That she didn't trust us. But that's separate for me than whether she loved us. I think she did. I think she loved us so much she was afraid that telling us the truth would make us love her less.”
“Then she never trusted us. And really underestimated us.”
“That's true.”
Mike seemed surprised to hear that come out of Dylan's mouth. “You agree?”
“Yeah.” Dylan finished his own beer and instantly decided he wasn't having another. “I think she loved us to the marrow.”
“So many secrets.”
“People can love you through and through and still have secrets.”
Mike looked like Dylan had slapped him.
“Our next partner might have them, you know.”
“Next. Huh.”
“Yes, next. We will find someone, someday.”
“I can't even imagine.”
“Yes, you can, Mike. You absolutely can imagine. You have dreams, right?”
“I dream about Jill.”
“What about other women? Or a future? Kids?” Dylan ventured. It's not as if they'd never, ever talked like this before, but it had been a while.
And always vague.
He knew he was pushing harder than Mike might handle, but Dylan mattered, too. There was only so much pain a guy could live in. Had to have some hope, too.
Plus, there was that hot blonde at Stohlman Industries he couldn't get out of his head.
“Other women? You mean, do I dream about other women?” Something tight in Mike's voice made Dylan sit up and pay more attention.
“Do you?”
“I – until recently, no. Lately, yes.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Who are you? Dr. Harr?”
The mention of Mike's psychologist really made Dylan go on alert. “No, but I can pretend to be.”
“You would suck at being a psychologist.”
“How would you know?”