Page 92 of Mr. Brightside

“Okay,” I reply hesitantly. “I appreciate that.”

He continues. “I was in shock. I felt like a fool. I drove by, spotted Ash’s van, and thought I’d surprise the girls. I was home earlier from my business trip than planned. I was jet-lagged, and I was unnecessarily short with you and them. And then to find out you’re married—”

“Don’t,” I growl out in warning.

“Don’t what?”??

I grind my molars and try to keep my cool. “Don’t even think about casting judgment or making a remark about my husband,” I warn. “He’s a good man, Julian. Anamazingman. I love him, and for the first time in my whole damn life, I think I might be genuinely, truly happy.”

My words come out harsh and rushed. But they needed to be said. He can think anything he wants about me. But there’s no way in hell he’s allowed to talk shit about my man.

Julian scoffs defensively. “I wasn’t going to—”

I cut him off before he can make his case. “Yeah, you were. I know how your mind works. I know what you think of me. But you can keep that shit to yourself. There’s too much love in my heart to let your hate taint my marriage.”

We sit in heavy silence then, both scowling, lost in our own heads.

“Jake,” he says softly, almost like he’s struggling to get through to me. “I wasn’t upset at the splash pad because you married a man. I’m not Joe,” he sneers. “I was upset to find out that you got married and I had no idea.”

The room’s too dark for me to search for the lie in his eyes. But the weight of his words feels genuine.

Still.

“Just like how I had no idea you had kids?” I mock.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “I deserved that. I’m sorry about that, too. I’m sorry about so much when it comes to our relationship. Truth be told, this isn’t how I thought my life would go. That I’d work myself to the bone every day. That I’d barely spend any time with my family, that I’d have no idea how to take care of my own damn kids. Yet here I am. I’m just like him.”

I’ve barely had time to process his confession before I’m taking the open shot.

“Then do better,” I insist.

Mimi stirs in my lap, rolling over so she’s facing away from me now, one hand thrown over her eyes and forehead. I can’t help but smile when I look at her. She’s so docile and sweet when she’s sleeping. It’s a noticeable shift from her day-to-day sass.

“It’s not hard to show up and be there for people when they need you, Julian. Just because you’re CEO of Whitely Enterprises doesn’t mean you have to be like him.”

“You think Iwantto be like him?”

I did. And part of me still does. It would take monumental effort on his part for me to change how I view my brother in comparison to our dad. I can tell he resents the idea, though. And I don’t blame him for that. Joe Whitely was a vile, despicable excuse for a father. I choose my next words carefully.

“I think that you and Joey are more than happy to perform the roles he assigned to you.”

“And what about you?” he asks, turning the conversation back on me. “How have you managed to exist outside the shadow of his demands?”

I guffaw at his oversimplified assessment of my relationship with our dad. Does he really think I just skipped along through adolescence, completely unaffected by the monster who spawned me?

“Well, when you tell your only living parent that you were drugged and almost raped, and his response is to spit on you and say you were probably asking for it, you tend to lose the ability to care about his demands.”

The air grows thick between us and the temperature in the room ratchets up a notch. I hadn’t planned to share that with him—now I’m spiraling in a mix of fear and shame while I wait to see how he’ll respond.

“You were sexually assaulted?”

My jaw ticks as the truth itches to break free. Yes isn’t the wrong answer. But it’s far from the whole story.

“In high school. There was this assistant athletic trainer at Arch who was in his early twenties. I… I met up with him with the intention of hooking up. But things got way out of hand. He drugged my drink, then he started to get really aggressive with me.” I swallow past the lump of emotion that forms each time I recall the first part of that night. “I shouldn’t have been there, I know. But yeah. A guy named Ian McDowell tried to sexually assault me when I was sixteen.”

“Ian McDowell?”

Those two words sound like a vile curse on my brother’s tongue. His disgust is evident, although I’m almost positive it isn’t directed at me.