“Don’t try to flatter me. It won’t work.”
Lie. It’s already working, and based on his expression, he knows it.
Tank comes around the island and claps a big, meaty hand on my shoulder. “Just come and see it. The magic of the idea will get in here”—he taps his slightly graying temple—“and it won’t let you go. Same as me.”
“And then I’ll help you convince the others? Is that what you think?”
“If you believe it, they’ll believe it.”
I smirk. “And if I believe it, they will come?”
He grins, picking up on my Field of Dreams reference. Tank is my movie buddy. Many nights, I find my way over here to veg out in front of the TV. Sometimes we’re joined by my brothers or Harper and Chase. Mainly, it’s me and Tank, watching and filing away quotes for later use.
Recently, those two nights a week have bled into more like five or six, sleeping in my childhood bedroom instead of in my latest apartment. I can’t seem to find a place that feels like home, and this newest apartment is no exception. The lease isn’t up for six months, but I’m already looking around. I’ve thought about moving back home with Tank, since I’m here so much.
I suddenly imagine me and Tank in the same spots on his couch ten, maybe even twenty years from now. Two lonely old dudes having movie nights and wasting away. It’s a little too easy to imagine.
Maybe we do need a project, a new dream. But still. A whole town?
“You overestimate my power of persuasion, Pops. James is the one you need to convince. He’s driving the Dark Horse train. And Collin is way too logical not to shoot a million holes in this idea. Having me agree with you won’t help.”
If my oldest brother wins the stubborn award in addition to the control freak ribbon of excellence, Collin would take the cup in practicality and cautious decision-making. Despite an excellent business plan and the still semi-famous status attached to our family name, Collin spent years planning and worrying before he opened his gym. Years.
“You’re underselling yourself,” Dad says. “You are the glue in this family.”
“Me?” I glance around the kitchen dramatically, as though looking for someone else Tank could mean.
“You.”
I’m practically preening under his praise and wish my face didn’t display every one of my emotions like a Jumbotron in a stadium. Dad thinks I—Patrick, the one no one takes seriously, like, ever—am the glue? Well, shucks.
Then he has to go and ruin it.
“I also think,” he says carefully, like a man picking his way across a room full of trip wires, “it would be good for you. Maybe provide some focus and clarity about your future. You’ve been in limbo too long, son.”
This again. I can’t say I don’t understand his concern. I’m just tired of hearing about it, of being judged or joked about because I don’t know what I want to do when I grow up.
Sure, I have a tendency to jump from idea to idea, excitement to excitement. I get bored. I get restless. I like change. Some of that may have to do with my ADHD, which was undiagnosed until this past year, but it’s hard to say where my brain function ends and my personality begins. I’ll figure something out I love doing. One day.
Could it be this? The idea is completely ridiculous, but it also sounds like a challenge.
With an evil grin, Tank pulls out a set of car keys, pauses for dramatic effect, then says, “I’ll let you drive the Aston Martin.”
Oh, he’s good. Real good.
I’ve wanted to drive the Aston since the moment Tank drove it home. It was—towns aside—the biggest splurge he has ever made. He tried to tell us all about some great deal he found but no one missed the timing—he bought it the week after Harper’s wedding. She is the baby of the family, Tank’s baby, and so we all totally understood the car as his way of coping.