Page 10 of Maybe (Mis-shapes #1)

EZRA

“ Fitz-Henrys don’t have dreams, Isaac—we have goals. Set your alarm so you can write your spellings out again before school. Until you know them by heart. And no television tonight. Make a start on reading that English lit. text instead.”

The grumpy dweeb trying his hardest to get into Isaac’s pants gave up and left.

Stand still for long enough in the city, you got a sense for things, learned to read people.

Him and Isaac were on a date, perhaps their first, perhaps not.

Isaac didn’t seem devastated when the guy left.

Good; not only was Isaac out of that bloke’s league, but they weren’t even playing the same sport.

Had our father had been aware of his favourite son’s proclivities?

Unlikely, I concluded, although he might have chosen to overlook them, seeing as everything else Isaac achieved met with his approval.

Especially if Isaac was discreet. What I’d observed in the last ten minutes and my hazy recollection of his car, his shirt—fuck, his hideous beige shirt (had he learned nothing as a kid from his big brother?)—and his manner told me he was.

Isaac's lack of any interest in the dweeb pleased me more than it should. But now he’d spotted me, would he leave too, or wait until I took a break?

Eventually, the hecklers got bored and wandered off.

I didn’t care either way. I played my songs, played them well, and earned my money.

No place for ego in this game. Name calling and trash talk didn’t bother me half as much as a dog cocking its leg on my guitar amp or kids trying to nick my cash.

Adjusting my strap, I strummed the fiddly opening riff of Snow by the Chili Peppers.

Was I showing off? Maybe. But when I glanced across to the café, under the guise of twiddling a tuning peg, Isaac hadn’t moved, as if he’d erected a fence of stillness around himself.

When Isaac strongarmed me out my father’s memorial service, I’d informed him I hated him and everything he represented.

And it was true, sort of. Except it was the kind of hate making me want to stab him through the heart, then rush to his side to staunch the wound.

Isaac, with his solemn frowns and his disapproving lips: the best of things and the worst of things.

My nemesis. My brother. My friend. My enemy.

My worst fucking nightmare. And, the night after that horrific trip to the solicitor’s office, the subject of a vastly inappropriate erotic dream. What the fuck was that about?

Regardless, if all of that wasn’t the very definition of a complicated relationship, then I’d like to see a better one.

All I knew was that my two-hour set was drawing to a close and Isaac was still here. And, me being me, I could only handle it by behaving like a twat. “Who shat in your boyfriend’s Shreddies?”

I slid into the recently vacated seat opposite and helped myself to a swig of Isaac’s drink.

Acting obnoxiously was infinitely preferable to admitting my life was dull, and that having Isaac back in it, in some form or other, was one of the two best things to happen to me in approximately ten years.

Then I pulled a face, because… holy fuckballs…flavoured sparkling water. “Really, Isaac? You actually chose this off a menu? Who the fuck drinks this piss? It tastes like TV static.”

“What the hell, Ezra.”

He said my name weakly, shaking his head with his eyes closed, as if he couldn’t make up his mind whether he was pleased our paths had crossed again or not. Fair enough. Must be difficult staring into the face of the person whose comfortable life you stole.

“And Gerald’s not my boyfriend,” he added. “He’s a… an optometrist… someone I met online. Not that it’s any of your business.”

“Ah.” I felt a flip of relief. Isaac really could do so much better. “I get it. Gerald the optometrist has been side-lined into the friend zone, but you haven’t broken the news yet. He’s become a non-sexual entity, like a desk or a wheel. Or crappy sparkling water.”

I was babbling, trying to be smart, trying to hate him, trying not to let him know I was hoarding every detail of his pinched, irritated face in case he told me to bugger off.

“Why didn’t you get in touch, Ezra? You had my address and my place of work. You fuck off for ten years, reappear shitfaced, then fuck off again? And who decides I’m on a date because I’m having a coffee in the middle of the afternoon with another fucking bloke?”

Ah, there it was. I’d forgotten how easily he flushed when he was annoyed. Just to piss him off, I grinned at him. “Any more fucks to give, Isaac, or was that your last one being set free?”

“Can you answer the question? I think most people might have hung around, maybe contested the will, sought legal advice or, I don’t know, said yes to half when I offered it and passed on their bank details. Last time I looked, busking didn’t pay that well.”

Seemed Isaac had developed a backbone as well as strengthened his moral compass in my absence. And had been thinking about me. Worrying, maybe.

“An optometrist, eh? I bet sex with an optometrist is a scream.” I put on a stupid voice. “Is this better, or worse? And now? Better or worse?”

Isaac’s lips didn’t twitch. Frankly, I thought it was a bloody funny joke, especially off the cuff whilst I was trying not to retaliate with a few home truths of my own.

“Don’t distract me.” Isaac huffed. “For fuck's sake, I need answers, Ez.”

I blew out a long breath. My usual flurry of smart comments deserted me. “Yeah, well.”

“ Yeah, well?” he responded incredulously. “Is that all you’ve got?”

Isaac had one of those open faces. He didn’t play games, didn’t manipulate, wind up, or bullshit. He was incapable—his honest features gave him away instantly.

“You know it’s dodgy money, made from dodgy investments, don’t you? I mean, it’s clean now, sitting in solid FT 100 funds. But it wasn’t always.”

“Yes, I’m aware.” Isaac’s lips pursed. “But not all of it. He inherited plenty from Grandpa and made a lot from his own books and his media stuff too. When the twins hit twenty-five, we’ve already agreed to do something good with a chunk.

But the first thing I’d like to do, and before then, is pass another slice of it over to you. ”

“I’m a charity case now, am I?” I flashed back. Obviously, ingratitude was the only way to go when someone was literally offering you the answer to all your problems on a plate.

“Yes, Ez. Clearly, that’s how I think of you. Although I’m beginning to wonder whether there are worthier causes out there.”

Isaac sipped at his sparkling water like he actually enjoyed it, his eyes landing anywhere but on me. He appeared tired and washed out, as if he spent too many hours indoors.

“Are you going to become a cardiac surgeon too?” Fitz-Henrys don’t have dreams, boys. Dreaming wastes time. We have goals.

“Yes, I expect so.” He frowned, then added, “Of course.”

Isaac shifted uncomfortably, and I pounced, wanting to make him even more uncomfortable, because I was a dick like that. “You expect so, or everyone else expects so? ‘Cos—newsflash—the old man’s dead.”

“What’s that got to do with it?”

“Just saying.”

Isaac crossed his arms. “I’m currently working in an emergency department as part of my background training before applying for a cardiac fellowship.

After I’ve done that and developed the research section of my CV, I’ll apply for a formal training post. Then five years of that, an exit exam, maybe some time doing a senior fellowship abroad and then I’ll secure a consultant post in Dad’s old department. ”

I got the impression he’d recited that little spiel before. It wasn’t the most enthusiastic summing of a person’s career aspirations. “And?” I prompted.

“And what?” He frowned. “Is this you pretending to care?”

There was no pretence whatsoever, not that I’d admit it. “Nope, just making conversation with my baby bro. Sounds great.”

Isaac gave me a long, hard stare, then shrugged. “I’ve got a long way to go, okay? The ED is a hard slog, but it’s good experience. All sorts of cardiac cases come through, too, as well as everything else.”

Considering he was planning on spending the rest of his life gloved up and wielding a scalpel on those cardiac cases, he didn’t sound especially fired up. I let it pass.

“Before that, I had six months working in geriatric medicine. I thought it would be dull, but actually it was very cool. You really felt you could make a difference, you know? A big proportion of our hospital’s catchment are elderly and deprived.”

“I bet that was an eyeopener.” Especially for a sheltered boy like him. I didn’t tag that on; I’d riled him enough.

He laughed, the most animated I’d seen him. “Just a bit. They present with more diverse problems than you think. I learned tonnes. It was… I really enjoyed it, much more than I thought I would, to be honest.”

“Really enjoyed it? I hope for your sake our darling papa is not listening from down there.” I pointed to the ground with my thumb.

I really hoped Satan had Henry Fitz-Henry strung up by his bollocks.

“What did he used to say? Those that can operate, do. Those that can’t end up working the medical wards . ”

And to think I used to call that pompous arse Dad.

Isaac schooled his features back to serious.

“Yes, well, it doesn’t matter how much I enjoyed it.

As I said, working there was a means to an end, and I made the most of the experience.

I’m sitting my first round of surgical exams in a few weeks.

And then I’ll apply for the cardiac surgery research fellowship.

It’s a prestigious thing to have on my CV and will definitely lead to publications in peer review journals.

Which makes me well positioned to apply for the training post rotating through Dad’s old department. ”