Brady winces, which only validates what I thought at the time. That I might have been sixteen, but they were elitist snobs and effectively trying to rewrite my dreams for me.
“I’m so sorry. That had to be so painful, to have your sister praised for pursuing her dreams while yours were mocked.”
I swallow hard. Although I’ve largely put this in the past, at times like this, it hurts. I’m instantly that sixteen-year-old girl, the one who was told her dreams were silly and worthless.
“That began my current trend of disappointing them,” I say, my voice coming out with a slight wobble, which surprises me. “Ari is the perfect daughter, while I continually buck what they want and let them down. Ari and I are very different people. We aren’t close. I wish we were. I wish we were the sisters who laughed and spent time together, like hours catching up over mugs of tea, and were the best of friends. But we’re not. Ari is dismissive of what I do. She points out my failings and then accuses me of being jealous, and I suppose sometimes I am. Not because I want to be a concert pianist, but because she is achieving all her goals, and my parents are so proud of her. And I’m over here, trying to live my dreams, and it’s not good enough for any of them.”
“Addison.”
I lift my eyes to meet his.
Brady slides a hand to my face and caresses it softly. “If they are disappointed in you, it’s their loss. Not yours. You’re making a career doing something you love, in a town that is super-competitive for jobs. They should be proud of you for your gifts. You should never be compared to Ari.”
I blink back tears as his fingertips move across my cheek. I’ve never revealed these feelings to anyone before, and it feels good to think someone is on my side for a change.
“Thank you for saying that,” I say. “I feel like you understand what I’m feeling.”
Brady puts his hand back on Willy’s chest and resumes stroking him. “I do. I’m you in the sports world.”
“But you’re a professional baseball player,” I say. “You’ve made it.”
“Not like Brody has.”
I pause, as I feel he’s about to reveal something he has buried within himself, too.
“Brody is a superstar,” he says, his voice quiet. “He always has been. I’ve been the twin who was good at baseball, but never as good as Brody. In high school, our teammates would give me shit about not getting any of the good baseball genes in the womb. I wanted to be Brody so badly, I could barely think of anything else.
“So when Brody got drafted when we were seniors, I was so damn proud of him,” Brady continues, “but also jealous. Which is a horrible, awful thing when you’re talking about your own brother. My twin. The person I’m closest to in the whole world. God, I feel so shitty just saying it aloud to you.”
“I understand,” I say, putting my hand on his arm. “I do.”
“I know you do. Which is why I’m telling you something I’ve never spoken about to anyone else.”
My heart holds still. “Thank you for sharing this with me.”
“It’s crazy, but when you started talking about Ari, I knew you would understand.” He’s quiet for a moment, as if he’s sorting out what he’s going to say next. “All I wanted was to be like Brody. But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t achieve what he did. I had to go to Stanford to get better, while he was already living the dream in the minors. I mean, I couldn’t even get an athletic scholarship to play there. I had an academic one.”
“But Brady, do you realize how amazing that is? An academic scholarship to Stanford? You should be so proud of that.”
Brady’s mouth lifts up in a half-smile. “Well, yes, but my dream was to be a major leaguer.”
“And you are. With a Stanford degree. That’s winning at life in my book.”
“Come on. Winning at life in your book means I’m a viscount with some vast manor in the English countryside,” he teases.
I laugh. I’m about to reply when we both hear a crash from the hallway.
Willy sits up. Brady furrows his brow. I sigh.
“You know what that is, don’t you?” he asks.
“Yep. Wait a few minutes, and you’ll see.”
“Life with ferrets is never dull, is it?”
“Nope,” I say, smiling.
Brady turns his head in the direction of the hallway, looking to see what is going to happen. Within minutes, out comes Petey, dragging a hairdryer by its cord.
“He’s going to stash your hairdryer?” Brady asks, his voice incredulous.
“Yep. Well, he’s going to try to, but the hairdryer won’t fit under that opening.”
Brady roars with laughter as he watches Petey struggle with dragging the hairdryer across the hardwood floor, and Willy leaps off to see what treasure Petey is bringing to the stash party.
“That is the funniest thing I have ever seen,” Brady says, a huge grin lighting up his whole face. “If my phone weren’t in my coat pocket, I’d film this.”
“Stashing is about as fun to watch as dooking,” I say.
“Totally,” he agrees. He keeps his eyes on Willy and Petey for a few seconds longer before turning back to me. “Back to the deep dive.”
“Yes. I want to know more about your family,” I say, propping my elbow up on the back of the sofa, resting my cheek in my hand. “What was it like growing up in your home, with such open-minded parents?”
Brady leans back against my sofa, his head nearly hitting the bottom of the mirror frame because he’s so tall. “Mostly good. We were free to explore whatever religions or spiritual beliefs we wanted. They didn’t have the same expectations for me that a lot of my friends at school had from their parents. They never felt grades measured intelligence. It was the kind of person you were, how you treated your family and friends and people in need that mattered the most. But sometimes, that was hard.”
“How so?”
“Well, we never decorated for Christmas because that was too commercial. Or received baskets from the Easter Bunny, stuff like that. Which I get now, but that made it weird as a little kid. When I got into Stanford, it didn’t measure on their radar because they don’t value academic success. Awards didn’t mean anything to them, grades didn’t mean anything to them, so all my achievements—like graduating with honors, making the high honor rolls—weren’t celebrated by them.”
“That had to sting,” I say quietly.
Brady sighs. “I feel stupid for bringing it up, but I know you will understand. I never received validation for the things I could do. What I achieved, because they knew it wasn’t my passion, wasn’t regarded as anything special. Even more so because outside of going to college for a professional practice like medicine, they didn’t understand what value a degree in mathematics had.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, reaching out and touching his leg with my hand. “All of that should have been celebrated.”
“I’ve moved past it,” Brady replies, giving me a lazy smile.
I feel myself grow warm as I drink it in. God, he’s a beautiful man.
Inside and out.
“Now I have another question for you,” he says, lacing his fingers with mine and holding my hand against his massive thigh. “When was the last time you were in love?”