“I meant about the fact that you’ve been a miserable bastard for two weeks and especially for the last two days,” he says, unruffled.
“I’d rather find the last Deepwood Loch and get back to work.”
Daniel pushes the door closed, runs a hand over his face, and turns back to me.
“All right,” he says. “Which color is it?”
“Yellow,” I say. “Probably says DLSA on the side if you see that first.”
For a few minutes, we look in silence, and I’ve got no choice but to either find the keg or wait for whatever Daniel’s got to say.
He speaks up first.
“I don’t hate her, you know,” he says.
It’s not the conversation starter I was expecting. I spent several extra moments examining a keg of Irish Red Ale, just to make triple sure it’s not what I’m looking for.
“Who?” I ask.
“In fact, I strongly suspect that you’ve been just as much of an asshole to her as she’s been to you,” he says, ignoring my question.
“So you didn’t come in here to try and cheer me up.”
“I came in here to see if I could do anything before our entire staff quits because one of their bosses is on the warpath for no apparent reason,” he says, bending over a keg.
After a moment, he looks up and right at me.
And then he waits. And waits.
I’m the one who breaks eye contact.
“After Ava’s wedding I went back to her room,” I admit. “Where I agreed to leave before we got into a fight, and I did.”
Daniel grabs a keg by the top, pulls it away from the others, and sits on it. Leans his elbows on his knees.
“And?” he says.
I pull a keg against the wall, sit on it, lean back.
Then I give Daniel the rest of the truth. He knows most of it, but I tell him about the rules of interaction. About seeing her at the brewery. About saying no to Vera and then later, saying yes.
About proposing friendship only to kiss her in the dark a few hours later, though I keep it G-rated.
I tell him that she told me to leave, that she wanted to go back to those stupid fucking rules, that I agreed to both things because I know she’s right.
“So I left,” I say, lacing my hands together on top of my head. “And I saw her two nights ago, and we talked about the weather, and I hate it. This is what we do, over and over again, and I wish I could stop it and I can’t. Every single time I think it’s the last one and then I see her again and it’s the right time and the right place, and I can’t say no to her.”
I tilt my head back and push the heels of my hands into my eyes.
“I’ve never turned her down,” I confess. “God, not once. This is why I apply for jobs on Alaskan fishing boats and at breweries in Montana.”
“What?” Daniel asks.
I take my hands from my eyes. He’s blurry, but alarmed.
“I didn’t seriously pursue it,” I say.
“A brewery in Montana is miles more serious than a fishing boat,” he says.
He’s right. They called for an interview and I never called back, but I picked the phone up and thought about it a dozen times.
“Yeah,” I admit, head still back against the wall.
“You’re thinking of moving across the country instead of working it out?”
“It sounds ridiculous when you put it that way.”
“Just a thought.”
I take a deep breath, cross one ankle over the other knee.
“I thought the wedding might be different,” I tell my brother.
This is the first time I’ve admitted it, even to myself. Daniel listens, silent.
“It was…” I trail off, clear my throat. “More complex than our other interactions.”
Meaning, we spent a long time together with our clothes on.
“But now we’re back to talking about the weather, and in six months or a year or something we’ll just do it again.”
“Then don’t.”
“That’s the point of moving to Montana. I can’t avoid her if I live here,” I say.
“My next sentence is going to sound sarcastic,” Daniel warns. “I swear it’s not.”
“I can’t wait.”
“Have you considered a clothed, sober conversation?”
He’s right. He sounds like he’s being a dick.
“We agreed not to —"
“If she’ll fuck you nonstop for an entire weekend she’ll probably agree to talk,” Daniel says, his patience finally gone. He pushes a hand through his hair, which is getting floppy, and gives me an Older Brother Look. “I know you think she’s made of sex pheromones walking around in a human suit or something —”
“Oh, my God,” I mutter, face in hands.
“ — sorry, Thomas is having a sleep regression and it’s been rough,” Daniel says.
He takes a moment, looking down at the floor.
“Listen,” he finally says. “If you want me to hate her, and call her a witch and talk about how she boils frogs and eats souls and makes you dance like a puppet for fun or whatever, I will. But I really fucking hate seeing you hurt like this. So… try something else. Please?”