The Millionaires - Brad Meltzer [176]
I set a toe in his bedroom.
“Take a wild guess,” I answer.
Sitting up in bed and readjusting the bandage on his shoulder, he nods to himself. He knew it was coming. If they didn’t fire us, they’d be fools. “Did they say anything about me?” he asks.
At the foot of the bed, I dump the boxful of his desk toys all over his childhood comforter. “They wanted to make you a partner, but only if they could keep your Silly Putty. Naturally, I told them it was nonnegotiable, but I think we can counter with some Matchbox cars. The good ones, of course, not the crappy knockoffs.”
As I say the words, he’s completely confused. The result, he expected. But not my reaction. “This isn’t a joke, Ollie. Whatta we do now? Mom can’t support two apartments.”
“I totally agree.” I leave the bedroom and return two seconds later dragging an enormous army-green duffel bag. With a grunt, I heave it on the bed, letting it bounce next to him. “That’s why we’re downsizing to one.” As Charlie whips open the zipper, he spots my neatly folded clothes inside.
“So you’re actually going through with this? You’re really moving back in?”
“I hope so—I just spent twenty-three bucks on my last cab ride. Those things’ll cost you a fortune.”
Narrowing his eyes, Charlie picks me apart. “Okay, what’s the punchline?” he asks.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“No, no, no,” he insists. “Don’t play that game show with me, Monty. I was there when you found that apartment and moved into your own place. I remember how proud you were that day. In college, all your friends lived in the dorms, and you had to live at home and commute. But once you graduated… once you signed that lease and took your first step on the yellow brick road of success… I know what it meant, Ollie. So now that you’re moving back in, don’t tell me you’re not devastated.”
“But I’m not.”
“But you’re not,” he agrees, still searching my face. It may be a temporary move, but it’s a good one.
“So you think this room can still sleep two?” I ask, motioning to the pyramid of speakers where my old bed used to be.
“Two’s fine—I’m just happy it’s not three,” he says suspiciously.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Well, your girlfriend Beth called earlier. She said your phone was disconnected.”
“And…”
“And she wants to speak to you. She said the two of you broke up.”
This time, I don’t respond.
“So who broke up with who?” Charlie asks.
“Does it matter?”
“Actually, it does,” he says, touching the hairline scab that still hasn’t faded from his neck.
“Since when’re you so somber?”
“Just answer the question, Ollie.” He won’t say it, but it’s clear what my brother’s after. Life is always a test.
“If it makes you feel any better, I was the one who broke it off with her—”
“Ohhhh, Lordy, I’m healed…!” Charlie shouts, raising his shoulder in the air. “My arm—it works! My heart—it’s a pumpin’!”
I roll my eyes.
“Mmmmm, baby, can I get a hallelujah!?”
“Yeah, yeah, she’ll miss you too,” I say. “Now how about helping me move the rest of my stuff?”
He looks down and grabs his shoulder. “Ow, my arm. Cough, cough, and more cough—I can’t breathe.”
“C’mon, you faker—get your butt outta bed—the doctors said you’re fine.” I yank the covers aside and see that Charlie’s fully dressed in jeans and socks. “You’re really sad, y’know that?” I say.
“No, sad is if I was wearing sneakers.” Hopping out of bed, he follows me into the living room and spots my other duffel bag, two huge boxes, and some milk crates full of CDs, videos, and old photos. That’s all that’s left. The only piece of furniture is the one I brought over last night: my dresser from when I first moved out. That belongs here.
“Where’s your Calvin Kleinish bed?” Charlie asks.
“Mom said she kept my old one in the basement. I’m sure it’ll be fine.”
“Fine?” He shakes his head, unable to accept it. “Ollie, this is stupid—I don’t care how good an actor you are—I can hear the pain in your voice. Now if you want, we can pawn some of my speakers. That’ll give you at least another month to—”
“We’ll be okay,