But Conor looks nice. He did last night, despite the pretentious rich-guy aesthetic, and he does this morning. Cropped wavy hair somewhat disheveled, jeans, a thin sweater, sunglasses—

“What?” he asks when I stare. I love it, the scrape in his voice.

“Nothing. Just…” I lean back against my chair, grinning. I put on some makeup and my favorite sweater. Showered. Washed my hair and left the curls to flow over my shoulders. See, I’m trying to say. I can get my shit together. I was at my worst last night, but I can do better. No need to think of me as a loser. “Thank you for arranging this.”

“No problem.”

Silence. We regard each other for longer than is normal, or polite, and…

“Oh, no,” I say.

“Oh, no?”

“This may have been a mistake.”

“You said you loved Loudons.”

“It’s not that. It’s just, you and I”—I gesture between us—“do we even have anything to talk about? I mean, you’re kinda advanced in age.”

His forehead furrows, a deeply etched scowl. “I was promised food, not beration.”

“Oh, I can deliver both.” I grin. Tilt my head. “It’s okay. We’ll find something. You can tell me how life was before electricity.”

He gives me a stern, prolonged stare.

“Just kidding. Age is nothing but a number, and all that.”

He winces. “Don’t say that.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s what some piece of shit who hangs out in online forums with minors would say.” I laugh, but he doesn’t. Holds my eyes as he says, “Age is years of accumulated experience. Age is lessons learned.”

“That’s not always true. Lots of factors intersect with that.”

A tired sigh. “Have you gotten in touch with your brother? He landed early this morning.”

“Not yet.”

A single eyebrow peeks from behind a dark lens. “I thought you needed to speak with him very urgently. So urgently, I showed up at your doorstep.”

“Correct. And since I wouldn’t want you to think that I don’t appreciate it, I’ve decided to let Eli focus on his Australian deal, and to make do with you. Congratulations—you have been promoted.”

“So I’m your brother now?”

“Sure,” I joke, even though it feels wrong. To Conor, too, judging from the set of his brow. It’s a relief, being interrupted by the server for our order.

“When’s your flight back?” I ask once she’s gone.

“Afternoon.”

“Are you going back to Ireland?”

“Austin, unless my father trolls us with another disappointingly un-deadly health scare.”

“Conor, this is…terrible.”

“I know. He made me come all the way over here and won’t even kick the bucket.”

“No, I meant…” Our coffees are brought to the table. “The way you speak of him. Do you really not care that he might die?”

“I do care. I am actively upset every second he remains alive.”

“Is this an inheritance thing?” I lean my elbows on the table. “Do you want his money?”

He chuckles against the rim of his mug. “I will not be in that will.”