“I am dressed,” I look down at my T-shirt and jeans, my muddy boots discarded somewhere on the floor beside my bed.
He grimaces. “You don’t have anything nice?”
I quirk a brow. “Have we met?”
“Good point, come on.” He jerks his chin toward his bedroom, which sits catty corner to mine. “I’ll lend you a shirt . . . and pants . . . and shoes,” he chuckles.
“I’m good.”
“No, you’re not,” he flicks a finger toward me, “they’re not going to let you in wearing that.”
“Then I’ll pass,” I raise my book to resume reading.
“We’re celebrating, little brother, and I’m not in the mood to fight about how,” he grumbles. “So do me a fucking favor and just borrow some clothes.”
“Fine,” I acquiesce, following him into his room. Taking a step in, I glance around. It’s the same as it’s always been, same furniture, same setup. The difference is that he doesn’t live here anymore and hasn’t for nearly a decade. Most of those years, I’ve only looked across the hall to see it pitch dark and empty. “What are we celebrating?”
“You’re leaving in a week for college. That calls for celebration.”
“Which includes fine dining? You sure this party is for me?” I snark.
“Maybe for me a little too. Is that so wrong?”
“It is if I have to look like I stepped out of Men’s Warehouse,” I quip, dubiously eyeing the luggage on his bed.
“You’re not selling out, Dom. It’s just a fucking dress code.” He flips open his luggage, and I cringe when I spot a cashmere sweater.
“You seriously wear this shit?” I pilfer through his suitcase alongside him.
“Yes, I do, and the difference in feel and fit is incredible.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
“Why?” He tilts his head. “There are perks to being a millionaire, and it’s time you see the upside, or in our case, the flipside.”
“You don’t think I’m ready for MIT,” I conclude.
He pauses before plucking a tightly rolled shirt from a row of them at the bottom of his suitcase. “I don’t want you feeling like you don’t belong.”
“Let me save you the suspense,” I widen my eyes, “I won’t blend well.”
“Dom, I’m not telling you to change, but things will be different—the people, the norms, the culture. It’s a different environment.”
“I’m not a fucking idiot, hence the acceptance letter. I know how to pronounce big words, too. Don’t worry about me. Better yet, stop worrying about me.”
He scoffs. “You act like it’s a choice.”
“It is. I’m all grown up now, so you can brush the dust from your hands. You’re all done. I can take it from here.”
“So easy, huh, this game of life? I’m halfway through my twenties and still have no idea how to handle certain situations. Ever hear the saying ‘age is nothing but a number?’”
“Yeah, but I think you’re more on a ‘grass is greener’ trip right now.”
“It can be. Don’t be so damned prideful little brother. I didn’t even know how to properly fasten a necktie until I was in prep school. The man who taught me saw potential in me and altered some of the instilled perceptions I had about myself on a night that changed my life. So, just put the fucking shirt on, and try to keep an open mind.”
“Fine,” I snatch the shirt from his hand.
“You should iron it,” he adds, shrugging on his suit jacket.
“That’s a fuck no,” I grumble.
He raises his palms in surrender as I fist off my shirt and slide the collared atrocity on.
Pinstripes.
Shoot me now.
We’re closer in build than we’ve ever been, so it fits well enough. Trying not to gag, I shed my jeans before pulling on a pair of his chinos. When my shirt is tucked in, Tobias’s expression resembles something akin to pride as he reads my discomfort and chuckles. “Okay, maybe we skip the bow I had picked out for your hair. Try not to look so miserable. We’re going to have fun.” His eyes dip. “Shoes too.”
He pulls some loafers from his bag, and I jerk my chin. “Not. Fucking. Happening.”
“Wear them,” he muses, “I promise none of your friends will see you.”
“Sean’s not coming?”
“No, Tyler either. You’ll be alone in college . . . at least at first,” he reminds me.
The weight of that truth doesn’t sit well, and he pounces on it. “That, that right there, is the whole point of tonight.”
“Thought it was a celebration?” I start to unbutton the shirt. “Not really interested in your little experiment.”
He swats my hands to keep me from undressing and sighs my name in frustration.
“Here’s an idea,” I mutter, “how about just allowing me to go through shit to figure it out for myself?”
With the snap of a cufflink, his patience follows. “Because you’ve gone through enough on your fucking own!” The light in his eyes dims as he runs a hand through his hair in exasperation.
“All right, big brother, no need to get emotional.” I flash him all my teeth, and he glares at me in return.
Three hours later, Tobias lays down a card for the three-thousand-dollar dinner bill—mostly due to his various wine selections. We’ve literally dined like our namesake. Our glasses never got close to empty—wine or water—as we were catered to like infants.
“So?” Tobias prompts, looking pleased while sipping his wine.
“So what?”
“So, was that not the best fucking fare you’ve ever eaten?”
“Sure.” I shrug.
He tosses his pressed linen napkin onto his empty plate as silverware clinks around us, along with hushed conversation. Looking relaxed, it’s clear he’s in his element. After thanking the waiter for topping off his wine, Tobias pins me with his stare. “We grew up gutter rats, and you just ate from a tasting menu designed by one of the best chefs in the country. Why are you so pissed about it?” He shakes his head. “Tell me, Dom, what does impress you?”
“A woman’s flexibility,” I smirk.
He sips his wine, unimpressed. “That’s Sean talking.”
“I’ll tell you what doesn’t impress me—wasting three thousand dollars on fermented grapes and sautéed vegetables.”
“That’s Delphine, through and through,” he dismisses, “tell me, Dom, where is your voice?”
I glare over at him.
“Don’t be offended that you’re a chameleon. You change colors to blend with the company you keep, and it only proves just how intelligent you are. But you’ve allowed others to give you the impression and current idea of what you deserve. You’ve been dodging looks your whole life,” he surmises. “The glares from Delphine for being a reminder of our parents’ deaths and the orphans she was forced to take in. The attention and cruelty you garnered for being a poor kid wearing ill-fitting hand-me-downs. The looks you draw now for lashing out because your grudge against the world is so obvious . . . Jesus, you haven’t even noticed the three women to our left who’ve been eye fucking us for the last twenty minutes. So, while you talk a good game—and have a healthy amount of confidence to back it up—you don’t exactly know who you are yet outside of the club.”