Page 60 of Betting on the Boy Next Door
He gives a sigh, one that sounds very, very tired. “I know. But honestly, I’m too wasted right now to deal with it.”
He doesn’t sound drunk, so he must mean “wasted” like wiped out. I’m ashamed that as soon as he doesn’t want to know what I meant, I want him to start digging.
“My turn. You okay?” I ask.
Long silence. “No.”
“What’s up?” I ask it quietly but without hesitation. Suddenly, it matters to me to know.
“My job would be stressful no matter where I worked, but sometimes, working at the family firm makes it worse.”
He sounds like the kind of tired I get when I’ve worked a double shift and we lose a resident and have at least a half dozen other emergencies. I know that kind of tired too well. “What happened?”
“One of those days where I was better than good but still not good enough.”
“Sounds like you’re being pretty hard on yourself.” I keep any judgment out of my voice.
“Not when I’m the nepo hire and the prodigal son. For some people, I’ll never be more than that.”
Prodigal son? I haven’t heard him refer to himself as anything close to that. I’m not super versed in the Bible, but I know the gist. A screwup kid comes home again. Hmm. Not a backstory I would have guessed for Josh, but I can see how it would explain some of the tension I’ve sensed around his family.
“I’ve got time and good listening skills.” I make the offer quietly, no joking in my tone. It’s clear whatever he’s working through feels hard for him. I really am a good listener. Comes with the job. “Doesn’t everybody get the luxury of mistakes sometimes?”
“Do nurses?” he asks. “Can you afford to make a lot of those?”
“Depends on the mistake, but I take your point.”
A full minute passes before he stirs, resting his arms on his thighs and staring down at his clasped hands between his knees. “This is about today and about a long time before today. It doesn’t paint me in a great light. You will most likely want to punch me at least four times before I’m done. And I wouldn’t blame you.”
“My kind of story,” I say.
“I, Josh Brower, am a black sheep.”
I press my lips together to keep a disbelieving laugh from popping out. Preppy frat boy, BMW-driving corporate attorney, tie-wearing, condo-owning Josh Brower is a black sheep? This should be good.
“I hear everything you aren’t saying right now,” he says.
That’s so on point, I startle slightly. “I promise to say nothing until you explain what that means.”
“You see how I grew up. Money, privilege. Stable family. All that.”
“Yeah. I kind of had that figured out when I realized you lived in a dorm named after your grandpa.”
“It comes with strings,” he says. “Expectations. A lot of ‘Browers do’ and ‘Browers don’t.’ One of my best friends from high school was a PK. Pastor’s kid. He did the thing where he ran wild to prove he wasn’t uptight, and I did my own version of that in college.”
“You mean like partying?”
“Like it was my job,” he confirms. He sounds tired, not proud of it. “The weight of family expectation hit me when I was registering for classes. My parents told me what to major in. Business and prelaw. I’d always known I was joining the firm, but that was the first time it sank in that I’d never consciously made that choice. I couldn’t even pick my own college classes.
“So I acted out. Subpar grades. Academic probation a couple of semesters. Blowing off family stuff. Doing everything I could to put some distance between me and them. I sound entitled. I know I do.”
I’m glad he sees it.
When I don’t respond, he looks my way, and I think I see a small smile on his face. “I’m still hearing everything you’re not saying.”
“Not my fault,” I say since I can’t deny he’s right about the drift of my thoughts.
“I don’t blame you.” He goes back to studying his clasped hands. “My parents were less than thrilled. My dad kept threatening to cut me off from everything but tuition until I pulled it together, but my grandmother would always step in. She kept telling him that I was a good kid at my core, and I just needed to grow up.” He rubs his hands over his face.
