Free I Regret Everything by Seth Greenland

wiped up the remains of the insect as my chastened little brother slinked toward the house.
    â€”Sucks to be a moth, Marshall said.
    By the time we sat at the table the incident was forgotten and the usual awkwardness returned. Katrina had made crab salad and turkey burgers that we ate quietly while she and Edward P talked about an upcoming reunion of his college sailing team that they planned to attend as a family.
    â€”You’re welcome to come, too, Spall, my father said.
    â€”We’d love it if you came, Hurricane Katrina said.
    â€”Maybe I will, I said, because I thought that’s what normal sounded like.
    â€”I hate sailing, Marshall said.
    â€”That’s enough, Marshall, my father said.
    I made a point of clearing the table and helping with the dishes without being asked. Marshall jumped up to assist.
    â€”They always make me go, he said when the two of us were in the kitchen. And I just want to leap off the boat.
    We finished cleaning up and Katrina ordered the boys to take showers. The kitchen was large and airy with an island in the middle and a breakfast area that looked over the backyard. Katrina sat in a bar chair at the island and tried to talk to me which was nice but we didn’t have a lot in common. Her life revolved around looking after the boys, playing tennis, and selling houses. She told me she wasn’t crazy about sailing either but did it because you have to do things together when you’re married. When Marshall and Cody reappeared in their pajamas Katrina asked me to tell her if I needed anything then went upstairs. My brothers and I were in the den watching some movie with aliens and robots—they watched, I coped—when the text arrived.
    Dealing with forged Kandinsky. Can’t make plans.
    Even though he dodged my bullet, the return text was a major mood elevator. My mother had taught me about painting and as my brothers continued to stare at the plasma screen in the den I rifled my brain for something clever to say about Kandinsky but all I could come up with was,
    He’s no Kokoschka, though he has fans.
    At least it rhymed. I immediately texted back hoping Mr. Best would notice we had just collaborated on a quatrain. And got no response. But that was fine. Maybe he wouldn’t commit to coming to the class, but texting allowed me to believe there was some kind of connection.
    The sight of a giant robot trying to strangle a dinosaur transfixed Marshall and Cody but my thoughts kept skipping back to Mr. Best. It was impossible to not think about him. He was charming the way a poet should be, not in some tacky self-loving rap star way but like someone who drinks ouzo and smokes unfiltered cigarettes and publishes their work in literary journals under a pseudonym is charming, and super talented. (Not just my opinion either since the editors of
The Paris Review
agreed.) And for a guy who was formal and kind of stuffy, he was willing to share personal details like that story about his father. I thought it was a little peculiar that he asked me to call him Mr. Best but there weren’t a lot of people in my life I had any desire to talk to and if that was the price I was happy to pay it.
    When the movie ended Marshall and Cody scampered off to their rooms and I returned to mine. It felt like a monk’s cell. There was a narrow bed, a chest of drawers, a desk, and a chair. I had brought
Middlemarch
but didn’t feel like reading because Mr. Best . . . because Mr. Best what? Invaded my thoughts? Loomed in my vision? Hovered over my bed? Yes, all of those phrases. It was after ten o’clock, what was he doing? Composing a poem? Eating dinner? What did his apartment look like? What kind of neighborhood did he live in? What kind of food did he eat? How did he take his coffee? When did he start writing poetry? He said he didn’t have a girlfriend but maybe he met someone in a bar earlier tonight and now they were having sex. Maybe he was alone