I walked over in front of him, knowing better than to argue. He’d had enough and wanted to get the workout over with.
I dropped to my ass and lay down with my knees bent, while he stepped on top of my toes, safe inside my sneakers, to hold me in place.
Crossing my arms over my chest and clutching my shoulders, I tightened my stomach muscles and pulled up and then shot back down until my shoulder blades hit the grass. I pulled up again, repeating the crunches over and over as my brother stood above me texting.
He was always working – texting, e-mailing, organizing – and it always had to do with school or something related to his future.
He was driven, committed, and controlled, and we were exactly alike.
According to studies, firstborn children were reliable, conscientious, and cautious, and my brother was certainly all of those. As a middle child, I was supposed to be a peacemaker and a people-pleaser with lots of friends.
I wasn’t any of those things.
The only quality I shared with other middle children was a sense of rebelliousness. However, I hardly thought that had anything to do with my birth placement and, instead, had everything to do with my youth.
While many middle children often felt as if they didn’t have an identity or anything special about them that set them apart, I, on the other hand, had had more attention than I’d deserved and had gotten tired of being under a spotlight. Tired of being special, gifted, and prized.
I wanted more – or less. However you looked at it.
I pulled up and fell back, never releasing the muscles in my abs. “I’m proud of you, you know?” I breathed out, looking up at him. “This is your year.”
“Yeah.” He smirked, his eyes still on his phone as he joked, “What do you know?”
Jack had just started his final year at Tulane Law School. Not only was he busy with classes, moot court, and the pro bono requirement for his degree, but he was also looking for an internship to get a head start in the field. He’d worked hard and deserved every inch he’d gained, never expecting anything handed to him.
“I know you’re up at four a.m. every morning to study before class.” I winced as my abs started to burn. “You refuse to date, because it’ll interfere with your studies, and you take those insipid law journals everywhere with you: the streetcar, the coffee shop, and even to the bathroom —”
“Hey —”
“You’re the hardest worker.” I continued, ignoring his embarrassed protest. “And you’re in the ninety-eighth percentile. You didn’t get there by luck.” I smiled sweetly, getting cocky. “I may get a sunburn basking in the glow of your success.”
He rolled his eyes and stepped off my toes, dropping to the ground himself. We both turned to get on our hands and toes, immediately dropping and rising for push-ups.
We worked out together at least once a week, although it was usually more than that. Between finishing my degree and graduating last May and Jack’s demanding schedule, we had no set days or times, but we made it a point to keep each other motivated.
My brother had never really been an athlete, but he’d grown up helping me train, so exercise was as much a part of his life as it was mine.
“I love you, you know?” He stared at the ground beneath him as he dropped down and pushed back up. “I should say it more.”
I stopped and turned, sitting on my ass as I peered over at him.
He did the same, resting his forearms on his knees and looking solemn.
“It was hard growing up with you, Easton,” he told me, staring off in front of him, looking somber. “All the attention, the way our parents prioritized our lives around you…” He trailed off, stopping short, and I knew what he wasn’t saying.
Our parents had loved all three of their children – him, me, and our younger sister, Avery – but he knew and I knew, even though it was never talked about at the time, that I came first. My rising tennis career took precedence over everything.
Jack and Avery couldn’t take any extracurricular activities if it interfered with my training schedule, and they’d had to sit through countless matches, invisible because our parents’ eyes were always on me. Only me.
My brother shouldn’t have been my best friend. He should’ve resented me.
He popped up off the ground and reached out, offering me a hand. I took it and let him pull me up, my body vibrating with fatigue.
“You never let it go to your head, though,” he allowed. “You always acted like Avery and I were just as important.”
“Of course you were,” I stated without hesitation as I dusted off my shorts.
“Yeah, well, our parents didn’t always think so.” He sighed. “Thanks for letting me have this,” he said, referring to our choice to move to New Orleans five years ago, so he could attend Tulane, “and thanks for letting me feel like a big brother for a change.”
I laughed, raising my fists and jabbing at him. “Yeah, you’re capable of it sometimes,” I teased in a light voice.
“Sometimes?” He held up his palms so I could slap at them. “I’m three years older than you, Pork Chop.”
“Only physically.” I shrugged. “According to studies, men trail women in maturity by eleven years.”
He jabbed back, and I blocked, pushing his thick arm off to the side and seeing him stumble.
“You and your statistics,” he complained. “Where did you read that?”