Page 20 of Requiem

I nod. “Yup. We were at her place for a while, but it was tight. So we ended up moving out of Brooklyn and into a brownstone apartment in SOHO a few months ago.”

“Sounds pretty serious.”

I shrug noncommittally.

“So …no wedding bells ringing then?” he fishes.

“Not yet.”

He faces forward as he takes a long, slow swig of his beer. When he puts the bottle down on the bar, he turns toward me again.

“Huh,” he muses with the slightest furrow of his brow. “You know, that’s interesting, because I ran into Sharon Ginsburg. You remember her from McInnes, don’t you?”

Shit. I know exactly where he’s going with this, but he doesn’t wait for my reply.

“Yeah, she plays with the Broadway touring company of ‘Hamilton’ now. I ran into her when the show came through town last month. She was pretty hammered. And horny. And chatty. But not a bad lay, as it turns out.”

I give him my best ‘spit it out’ glare.

“Anyway,” he continues, oblivious to my irritation, “she seems to think she’s invited to your wedding. The one you’re not having.”

I hold up my empty bottle for the waitress and she nods that she’ll bring me another one. For a second I consider asking for a shot of tequila instead. Or, maybe, in addition to.

“Do you really not want me to come?”

His affectation of hurt is nothing short of brilliant. But I know better. My brother doesn’t do hurt.

“Why? Do you really want to come?”

“Of course! You’re my only brother. I want to be standing by your side when you pledge your eternal love to your blushing bride.”

I’m about to snort when my bottle of beer arrives.

“Thanks,” I mutter to the server before turning my attention back to Jeremy. “Oh, please,” I hiss. “The only reason you want to come to my wedding is to stir up shit. Not gonna happen. I don’t want to see you anywhere nearby. Not at the church, not the reception. And not even God himself will be able to help you if you should somehow pop up anywhere nearby on my honeymoon. Got it?” I point my bottle at him, making direct eye contact. I need to know that he understands what I’m saying to him. He raises his hands in a gesture of surrender.

“Okay, okay! All you had to do was say ‘No, Jeremy, I don’t want you to come.’ That’s all.”

“Fine. No, Jeremy, I don’t want you to come.”

An awkward silence settles over us. I offer an olive branch by way of a change in subject.

“How’s the Philharmonic?”

He accepts the offering.

“Not bad. I’d rather be playing first horn, but all things in time.”

“I hear Jennifer Ruiz is an amazing player.”

“She’s not as good as they say,” he informs me flatly and takes a long pull from his bottle before continuing. “But the truth is that it isn’t her fault.”

I nearly choke. “What? Please, are you seriously trying to tell me that you don’t hold a grudge against her?” I scoff.

My brother shrugs sheepishly. “Well, maybe a little one,” he admits. “But, here’s the thing … my beef isn’t really with her because she didn’t want the principal spot. She didn’t audition for it. She was trying out for the third horn spot.”

“Which you now have,” I point out.

“Yes, which I now have. I’ll admit it, I was ready to make the little twit’s life a living hell, but I didn’t have to.”