Page 41 of Cream & Sugar

I blink, waiting for the end of that sentence. Sorry what? Sorry I’m such a scumbag? A manchild? A drain on his finances and his sanity?

“What’s the catch?” I say, once I can’t take the silence anymore.

Finally, Rory looks me in the eye and, for the first time in forever, I don’t feel like he’s two seconds from throttling me.

“No catch. I shouldn’t have said what I did about your music either. And you were right—” he coughs and thumps himself on the chest, “—about Mum. She really liked your playing, she said so all the time.”

My jaw is on the floor. Could this be a genuine apology? Better triple-check. “Are you sure—”

“Oh for God’s sake, Freddie!” Rory barks, loud enough that the hostess heading our way does an immediate one-eighty to wipe an empty table. My brother lowers his voice, “I am not trying to trick you. I’msorry. Now can you please acknowledge that so we can leave this horrible conversation behind?”

I don’t believe in miracles, but an apology from Rory is like a blue steak: rare as fuck.

“Apology accepted,” I offer him my hand which he wrings like a chicken neck in his Terminator grip. “I guess I should apologise too, for using Mum as a weapon like I did. It wasn’t cool and I felt like a complete shithead afterwards.”

Rory nods, releasing my hand which I hide under the table to massage in secret.

The hostess returns with our drinks, looking a lot less friendly after Rory’s outburst. Apprehensively, she asks if we’re ready to order food. Rory asks for a ribeye, medium, in his grumpiest voice and I go for a fish supper, making sure to be extra smiley in case she’s thinking about sneezing on our food.

“So, what’s going on at work?” I ask after the hostess bustles off. Small talk with him feels like an alien language.

Rory clicks his tongue. “We have auditors in all week.”

“I see,” I say, like I have the faintest clue what that means. “That’s gotta be, um, stressful?”

“That’s an understatement.” Rory takes a swig of his alcohol-free lager. “Like I’ve not got enough on my plate without Trevor from head office combing through every invoice I’ve touched this year.”

“Sounds annoying.”

“You don’t know the half of it.”

I sip my rum and coke and ponder how I want to play this. “How high up is your office?”

Rory frowns. “Third floor. Why?”

“Well,” I tilt my glass from side to side like I’m weighing up options. “You could just pick him up by the ankles and dangle him out the window a bit. Scare him into giving you an A-plus or whatever.”

“Oh sure, great idea,” he scoffs. “It’s a bank, not the mafia.”

“Pfft. Like no one’s ever been dangled out a Wall Street window before.”

The faintest quirk of a smile tugs at Rory’s mouth. Despite the ludicrousness, I can tell he’s enjoying this fantasy.

“And what if Idropped him?”

“Then you should fire your gym coach for your piss-poor grip strength.”

My hand throbs under the table as Rory gives a single grunt of laughter—the most he’s uttered in years. “You’re a cheeky bastard, you know?”

I shrug. “I know. Got it from Mum. Along with my good looks.”

Rory gives a noncommittal jerk of the head and sits back in his chair, bringing his pint to his lips. I mimic him and we drink deeply, letting the moment run its course. I polish off the rest of my glass. Thinking about Mum is sobering enough that I’m not worried about drinking on an empty stomach.

Rory sets his half-drunk pint down and wipes foam from his top lip. “So how are things at…?”

I realise I never told himwhichcafé I’m working at.

“Cream & Sugar? Aye, it’s cool. The supervisor is a bit scary, but I’m learning to make fancy coffees.”