Page 7 of Dating His Brother

The moment I walked into my building, despite my best attempts to dodge him, I was cornered by my landlord who was looking particularly angry and impatient with me that day. It was the last thing I needed.

“Maybe you’ve forgotten, but rent is due by the fifth of each month,” he grumbled, shaking his finger in my face. “Not every other month.Every single month. Do you know what today is?”

“Tuesday?” I shrugged.

“The twentieth!” he fumed. “Which means you’re fifteen days past due and it’s only fifteen days until rent is due again!”

“I’m amazed that you can figure all of that out without even looking at a calendar!” I teased.

“It took you months to catch up the last time you got behind. If you think I’m going to do this dance with you for another six months again, you’re wrong! I mean it this time, Dawson! This isn’t some shelter and I’m not in the business of charity! You pay the rent on time or you’re out on the street!”

“I’ll have two months worth of rent for you on the first,” I assured him. “That means the second month’s payment will actually be four days early! How about that?”

He cringed, but accepted. “Why do you make things so hard on yourself, anyway? You’re a part of the Hayes family, for christ’s sake! Why don’t you just ask them for the money? Lord knows they have enough of it. More than any one man could ever need.”

“You know I don’t associate with themortake their money,” I reminded him, slipping past to start back up the stairs to my apartment.

“Oh, how great for me,” he groaned, shuffling back to his office.

The last thing I needed that afternoon was another reminder about my family. I hated being a part of the Hayes family’s hoard of wealth. I didn’t want anything to do with it. Taking money from them meant living the way they wanted me to, which was nothing like what I wanted for myself. They thought my art, mypassion, was a frivolous waste of time. Meanwhile, they did nothing to earn the pile of money they were sitting on. They were born into it. But apparently it was better to be rich and do nothing than to do something you actually loved.

As for my rent, it was dirt cheap, which was how I liked it. And you got what you paid for, but I had made the little loft my own. I threw down my coat on the back of the nearly broken chair that sat in front of my rickety old wooden table—all shoved into the corner of the tiny kitchen. I used the main space as my studio and slept in the small storage loft that hung overhead.

I was looking over my canvases and paints, feeling the stir of an idea, when my phone rang. I cringed at the sight of my brother’s name scrolling across the screen. I had to give the guy some credit for still wanting to be in my life despite everyone else disowning me, so I went ahead and answered as a token of my appreciation.

“Change into the good clothes I know you still keep in the back of your closet,” he ordered me. “We’re going out tonight.”

“Ah, not tonight,” I groaned. “I just got in actually, and I was about to sit down to…”

“Don’t tell me you’re about to start piddling around with your silly paints,” he scoffed. “Not tonight, Daws. Your old girlfriend from high school who I know for a fact never got over you is having a housewarming party for her new manor. Poor girl is so convinced she’ll be alone forever she went ahead and got her own place. A big one too.”

“You’re really selling her to me,” I chuckled.

“The only reason she’s still single is because she never got over you,” he argued. “Now come on. Even if you somehow don’t like her, despite her being even better looking than she was in high school, you can at least make some money off of her. A big new manor just sitting there! In desperate need of your paintings all over her walls.”

“Give her my number and she can set up a time to come by the studio if she wants to buy something.”

“Oh she’ll come to the studio, alright. And she may even buy something. But we both know what she’d really be coming for.” He laughed.

“I gotta go. Have a good night though. Tell everyone who doesn’t hate me that I said hello, and tell the rest of them to go to hell.”

I hung up and turned my phone off, refocusing on the fresh canvas calling my name from the easel. I pulled out a piece of charcoal and started sketching curved lines that matched the bouncy curls of Izzy’s hair, followed by the gentle curve of her lips. I kept sketching, recreating her face from memory the best I could. But I knew I couldn’t do her justice—especially after only having met and seen her once. It didn’t stop me from trying though.

When the sketch was finished, I started in on my favorite part—adding the color. I used the brightest red for her hair and lips, and mixed a bright sparkling green for her eyes. When it was all finished, or the first pass anyways, I sat back to admire it.

Just as I thought—it didn’t hold a candle to how she looked in the flesh. But at least I had somewhat preserved the memory. Even if the painting didn’t quite capture her, every time I looked at it, it would jog the more vivid memory in my mind.

After cleaning up, I heated up some beans and rice on the stove and cracked open a cheap canned beer to wash it down. I decided to eat out on the balcony—which was what I chose to call the fire escape stairs outside my window. Many nights I’d crawl out and lean against them, admiring the starry sky and the moon or the traffic on the streets down below. The night scene was a lot like Izzy’s beauty—all too easy to appreciate when it was in front of you, but damn near possible to ever recreate on canvas.

As I ate my dinner, I wondered how my mystery woman was spending the evening. Our outing was so brief, I didn’t have a chance to ask much about her. Maybe that’s why she was so quick to leave. She thought I was full of myself and never wanted to talk about anything else.

When my bowl was empty and my beer was gone, I grabbed my coat and headed out again to the corner bar. I was starting to feel a little lonely with nothing but the moon to talk to. The usual crowd would be down at the bar, ready to tell jokes and get rowdy over drinks.

Maybe I’d even meet a girl to bring home. It’s not like I had terrible trouble with the ladies, after all. Apparently I just had trouble with the ones I really wanted. Story of my life.

4

Isabella

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