Free Family Affair by Caprice Crane Page A

the game, which involves a serious losing streak that began as soon as I started playing and ended when I retired. I prefer my sports to require the movement of all four limbs, anyway. I don’t even consider poker a sport, honestly, though the poker activists insist that it is. And with all the money it’s generating these days—as was the case with the British Empire, the sun never sets on Texas Hold ’Em—I guess they can call it whatever the hell they want.
    “Your wife is taking Dad
downtown,”
Scott says when I return from the baseball game, with a head nod to signal that he’s impressed. As if that would be a shock. As I said, Layla is Scotty’s dream girl. Unfortunately, she’s also his sister-in-law, so
that
ain’t gonna happen. It’s sweet, though. Sometimes when I see the way he looks at her, it reminds me of what I have. He’s measured every girl he’s ever dated against the Layla stick, and sadly, few measure up for more than a couple months.
    “I know, little bro. She’s the wind beneath your wings.”
    Scott takes my cue and starts to sing the tired Bette Midler classic. “‘Did you ever know that you’re my’—hey! How awesome would that be for a gyro commercial?” he asks, all excited.
    “Like the Greek sandwich?” I question. “Did you ever know that you’re my
gyro?”
“It’s genius.”
    “Yeah,” I say. “Except
not.”
“Put down the Hateorade, dude. That is gold!”
    “They don’t make commercials for gyros.”
    “Because they don’t know me,” Scott says. “Maybe that’s my new career.”
    “Writing commercials for products that don’t advertise?”
    “Milk advertises!” he says. “It’s not a brand of milk. Just milk. And cheese does. In fact, so does soup. ‘Soup is good food’?”
    “That’s Campbell’s,” I correct.
    “Milk still does,” Scott points out, with a little less oomph than before. Then he mutters, “And so does cheese.”
    I’m already over the picnic. I’m ready to go home and have a nice quiet day with my wife. Maybe we can get over the tension that’s been dogging us lately with some time on the couch. And on the kitchen table. And on the rug. It’s hard not to get bored having sex with the same person year after year, but I will say this: Layla rocks the bedroom when she wants to. She and I always had sparks. Which is probably why I get so frustrated with the way things are now. Because they were so mind-blowing once upon a time and they’ve really faded.
    But when I glance over at Layla and catch her laughing—no doubt at one of my dad’s stupid jokes (the newest one’s about a beer, a mop, and a skeleton who can’t hold his liquor)—I know I’ll be stuck here all day. She’s got Lucy on her lap, and she’s throwing a disgusting mud-and-saliva soaked tennis ball for Sammy Davis Junior, my parents’ black Lab-terrier mix. She looks over to Scott and me and smiles.
    Great
. I guess we’re skipping the table and the rug tonight. What a surprise. She’s going to want to stick around for the long haul.

scott
    Layla is a goddess. Her hair—Jesus, it’s like you expect it to be fake. It’s sumptuous, like on a Botticelli or a Titian. But if you pull it, it’s real. Because I have. And her little fingertips? They have no creases. Like she’s carved from stone. But they’re not cold or stiff or anything. Pygmalion made her; then she kicked him in the nuts, ran away, and developed a personality.
    Layla is a
goddess
. I’ve spent more hours sketching her face than any art project I ever had in school. How the fuck did my dumbshit brother get so lucky?
    I don’t know which I hate more: the fact that I didn’t get her or the fact that he did.
    At least she and Brett stuck around for the whole barbecue. I could tell he was anxious to take off.

layla
    I’m feeling thoroughly maternal. I’m hyperaware of my ovaries. It’s unreal. I guess that’s the power of suggestion. So because I want to try harder, because I