Palmer quickly stands from her chair, abandoning her coffee. “This is exactly why I never come home: because we don’t get along. We’ve never gotten along. We attempt to act like we have some sort of sibling comradery, but let’s just face it: we haven’t been friends in years. So, what’s the point of coming here, withstanding this torture, only to be brutally reminded of exactly why I chose to leave?”
“Then why the hell are you here if you hate it so much? Why didn’t you just stay in New York until the party?” I ask.
She starts to answer but then closes her mouth, her expression uneasy. There’s something more. Something she wants to say but is holding back.
“Why are you here?” Ford asks, pressing her for answers. “You said you’re working on a PNW piece, but I haven’t seen you do anything for it.”
“You haven’t even been out of your hotel room long enough to notice me going anywhere, Ford. Plus, my plans changed once I broke my wrist. Hard to be cute with a cast.” Palmer expertly puts on a mask of indifference, but I know by now that whenever she slips on that mask, she’s just hiding from something she’s not ready to face just yet.
“Nah, there’s something you’re not telling us,” I say. “Which means you can’t sit up there on your high horse and judge me when clearly not everything is going well in your life.”
“Everything’s fine.” She inspects the nails on her good hand.
“Then why are you so defensive?” I ask her.
“Because I don’t need you prying into my life. I’m fine—drop it.”
“Palmer,” Ford says in a more soothing tone, “it’s clearly not fine if you’re getting upset. What’s going on?”
“Oh, now you’re going to care?” Palmer asks. “Or are you just going to slap a Band-Aid on my problems and move along? Because that’s what you’re good at when it comes to me and Cooper. You think you know what’s best, you attempt a short-term fix even though we didn’t ask for it, and then you turn a blind eye and move on, never actually scratching the surface of what we need. And what we need is not for you to anticipate what is missing in our lives, but for you to actually listen to what we’re saying.”
“I do listen—”
“Then you would have known that I want something more than what I’m doing with my life,” I say. He would have heard me when I told him a year ago that I was making changes in my life after my one-night stand. He was calling to check up on Mom and Dad, asked how I was, and I told him I was making some strides. But he didn’t listen—he brushed it off, didn’t ask me what kind of strides but instead told me he had a meeting and had to go. “You would have seen I wanted to give the rebrand a shot. But you assumed you knew what I needed instead. Which was to apparently not embarrass myself—your words, not mine.”
“I never said ‘embarrass.’” He looks between us, studying us. “So, what . . . I’m a shitty brother, is that what you two are trying to say?” Ford pushes away from the table and gets out of his seat. He grips the back of his chair, his knuckles turning white as he looks down at the table. “Clearly this was a bad idea. We can’t seem to pull our shit together whenever we’re around each other lately.” His weary eyes connect with mine. “Remember how close we used to be? The long talks we would have on the phone?” He glances at Palmer. “And what about all the times you used to visit me in Denver? Maybe I haven’t talked to you about the rebrand because you barely talk to me now. And here I thought I was attempting to bring us together.”
“How can you do that when you have no idea what’s going on in our lives?” Palmer asks.
“I’m not a goddamn mind reader. If shit is hitting the fan for you, you need to talk about it.”
“Why would I talk to someone who doesn’t listen? You don’t ever listen, Ford. You choose what you want to hear.”
He slowly nods. “Okay, so this is all my fault, then?” He spreads his arms wide. “I’m the shit person in the family? Fine. I’ll take responsibility for that on top of everything else.” He slams his chair into the table and walks past me. “Don’t worry about the planning. Larkin and I will take care of it. Rest assured, you two don’t have to lift a finger.”
I slam my chair into the table as well, knocking over an empty glass of what was once orange juice. “I was doing a fine job with the plans. No one needs you to be a hero, Ford.”