The Rivals - Dylan Allen Page 0,1

have shared nothing more than the wall that divides our properties for the last—nearly—fifteen years.

He glances at his watch, frowns at it and then looks back at me. “It can’t be over already? At nine o’clock in the morning?”

I imagine St. John’s United Methodist Church packed to the rafters with people, pretending to care that my father is dead, mingling with the handful that really do. I’ve been handed so many business cards this week by people hoping that the Riverses will continue to be customers.

I’ve thrown them all away.

“Nah, it’s probably just starting.” I kick at the leaf-covered ground and avoid his disapproving gaze.

“So … why are you here and not there?” he asks.

“I already said goodbye,” I say with a shrug of my heavy shoulders.

“What about your mom? Your brothers? They good without you there?” he asks. Kindness softens the disapproval in his tone.

I don’t like it.

I don’t want it.

But, I do feel a flush of shame that I’m not there for my brothers. I push that down and say words that are much closer to the surface and less problematic for me.

“She’s not my mom,” I say.

“Oh, she’s not?” He looks genuinely surprised.

“Nope. She married my dad when I was seven,” I say.

“So, they’re your stepbrothers?”

“They’re my brothers,” I clarify. I hate that word. We haven’t made that distinction since the first year our parents got married. Their mother was an equal opportunity terrorist. She made them as miserable as she made me and we’d formed a real brotherhood in the trenches of Eliza’s crazy. As far as I can tell, the only reason my father married her is because she was a wealthy widow with the right last name with potential spares for his heir. He adopted them, so we’re not just brothers in spirit—the law says we are, too.

“She’s never been my mother,” I say, and my voice sounds hollow in my own ears. I’ve never said that to anyone about Eliza. I’ve hidden my resentment. Mainly for my father’s sake. But now that he’s gone, so is my restraint.

“Where’s your real mom?” he asks.

“She died.” I shrug because I can’t do anything else. “I’m an orphan.” I say that word out loud for the first time and it tastes as bitter as I knew it would.

“Go be with your family, kid,” he says.

“I’m not a kid, and you’re not old enough to be calling me one,” I say.

“I’m eighteen. In college. My dad’s been dead since I was two, and my mama hates the sight of me. So, I’ve been old enough for a lot of things for a long time,” he says. There’s nothing in his tone that implies that he’s sad about his father, but now that I know what it feels like to have to say ‘my dad’s been dead …’ Or maybe he just has a well-honed poker face. I need to work on mine.

“Listen, your brothers are going to need you to act like you have your shit together. If you can’t do it for yourself, do it for them.” He puts a hand on my shoulder, and it’s oddly comforting—not at all awkward. Still, I don’t want kindness or comfort. So, I shake it off.

“I’m surprised you even care. Don’t the Wildes hate the Riverses? Isn’t that why we’ve never even seen each other before?” I ask.

“First of all, it’s the Riverses who hate the Wildes.” He bounces his ball once. “And I’ve seen you before. Didn’t know who you were. You and that little cheerleader girlfriend of yours come into Eat! over on Wesleyan. I work behind the deli counter. You probably didn’t notice since you didn’t take your sunglasses off the whole time you were in the store,” he says and dribbles his ball a few more times.

“You work there?” I ask.

“Yeah, who else is going to?” he says.

“Doesn’t your family own it?” I ask.

“Yes, and we all work in the businesses until we’re old enough and smart enough to run them. We ain’t like the Riverses,” he says, his dark eyes cocky and daring me to challenge him. I can’t. It’s true. My family members don’t work in any of their businesses. They don’t work at all. But damn if I’m going to let him know it bothers me. So, I smirk.

“I’ll say hi next time I come in. Maybe you can make me a sandwich,” I say.

“Today, I’ll cut you some slack and let you get away with that. But don’t try that on