Two weeks after Joe cornered me, Dom surprises me with two tickets to Puerto Rico for a long weekend. It’s sudden but not unwelcome. I’ve worked myself to the bone lately, no doubt to forget the cluster I sometimes affectionately refer to as my life.
With fully estranged father and baby brother, no family to speak of （without casting blame here）， a roommate who is a flight risk, and a ghost from the past with the potential to ruin my life, I have a lot to run from.
The universe, naturally, decides to give me a long middle finger in the form of Joe driving us to Logan International Airport. Joe appears comfortable with driving his brother and ex-girlfriend to a romantic getaway. Slunk back lazily in his seat, one arm draped over the steering wheel like Michelangelo’s Nile river god.
Dom is in the passenger’s seat of the truck. I’m sitting in the back. The brothers seem in good spirits. They talk about their mutual hatred for the Yankees—there’s a specific game they’re referring to—and I can tell, in this moment, that they are heartbreakingly close. More than Renn and I ever were. They have this easy camaraderie, these inside jokes. This confuses me, seeing as Joe seemed determined to get what he wanted from me only weeks ago with little regard for his brother. But I guess relationships are complex, and Joe can both hate his childhood and love the brother who made it unbearable. Just like Dominic can adore Joe and still envy him for being the “healthy” brother.
“Babe Ruth killed my soul before I was even born. How is that fair?” Dom jokes.
“An eighty-six-year championship drought, man. Should’ve been born in New York.”
They both look at each other and grin. “Nah,” they say in unison.
“So . . . were the Yankees to blame for the Red Sox drought?” I ask from the back seat, offering my important contribution to this conversation.
Joe shakes his head. “Not really. But Bostonians never forget.”
“Also, I would like to note that we invented the wave. Legend has it the wave owes its existence to Fenway Park—because the seats are so close together, whenever a fan has to stand up, everyone else in the row has to stand too. And then the people behind them get pissed because they can’t see anything, so they get up too. And that creates the human wave,” Dom explains, eyes sparkling.
“Fun fact,” Joe notes.
“From a not-so-fun stadium,” Dom delivers the punch line, and they both burst out laughing again.
This is my important reminder that they are attached at the hip, that they moved to the same town together, the same building. I’m the outsider here.
The conversation bleeds into what Dom and I are going to do in Puerto Rico.
“Eat, dance, take pictures . . . and, you know.” Dom lets out a chuckle, and my stomach rolls with nausea. “What about you? Are you still seeing that chick? Stacey? Tracy?”
Crap. Crap, crap, crap, crap, crap. I was not expecting this gut-wrenching reaction to hearing that Joe is seeing someone. Now I cannot help but envision him having hot, sweaty sex with a faceless woman. In my bedroom, for a reason beyond my grasp. Slowly smiling at me, his half-moon smirk, while pounding into her. It is so his style.
“Presley,” Joe corrects in his easy, dispassionate tone.
“I was close, wasn’t I, Lynne?” Dom meets my stare in the rearview mirror.
“Hmm-mmm.”
“How’s she doing?” Dom asks.
Joe shrugs. “Dunno. Ask her.”
Now our gazes meet in the rearview mirror. I know what he thinks.
I’m not giving you the pleasure of knowing what’s going on in my love life. Choke on the unknown, baby. We both know it hurts more than any naked truth.
“She sounds like a great girl,” Dom marvels. “Funny, nice, into you, got a great job.” There’s a comical beat before he adds, “Hot. Sorry, babe, it had to be said. The girl looks like a fashion model or something.”
Knife, meet heart.
Joe smiles idly but doesn’t say anything. I wonder if it would hurt as much if I heard something similar about Dom, but then I remember that I found a necklace in his bedroom, and although I was a little annoyed, it didn’t feel like I’d been chopped to tiny pieces and fed to the gators.
I know I have no business being jealous. Not when Dom all but stated we’d be spending our weekend rolling in bed together. But the thing about feelings is, they care little about logic.
“Give it a chance, bro. Seriously. Just . . . take her out.” Dom beams, all positive energy. So much positive energy. Must he always be so optimistic?