Apples Never Fall

“It’s a McLaren 600LT.” Troy tried to say it in a neutral tone and ignored Logan’s inevitable faux-awed whistle.

“How much does a car like that cost?” asked Savannah. “Is that rude to ask?”

“Are you kidding?” said Logan. “He’s always looking for an excuse to bring his net worth into the conversation.”

“Fuck off,” said Troy, because as a matter of fact the very last thing he wanted discussed in front of this potential con artist was his net worth.

“What do you do, Savannah?” He turned around to look at her again. “For a living? Is that rude to ask?”

Savannah turned her head and spoke to the car window. “Bit of this, bit of that.” Her nose piercing glinted. “Mostly retail. Hospitality.”

So she’d worked as a checkout chick and a waitress.

She turned away from the window and looked at him deliberately, her chin lifted. “We’d only just moved here to Sydney, so I hadn’t lined up any work yet. Obviously, I will, once this is…” She gestured at her forehead. “I’m not intending to sponge off your parents forever, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“I didn’t mean that,” said Troy, embarrassed and wrong-footed, and irritated that he’d been made to feel that way. He turned back around to face the front and shifted in his seat as he tried to straighten his legs. He thought of the lavish leg room on his Emirates flight from JFK, the stunning flight attendant leaning down to refill his wineglass, bringing with her a cloud of seductive perfume (Baccarat Rouge 540: he knew he had it right, but had checked to be sure), and now here he was, in a car that smelled of bacon.

He shifted position in his seat. Shifted again. He sensed Logan noticing and made a decision not to move for the next minute. He counted it in his head. One elephant, two elephant, three elephant. He made it to thirty seconds and then he had to move. He was eleven years old, the Delaney kid incapable of sitting still.

“SIT STILL, TROY DELANEY!” his teachers used to roar, and sometimes, if he liked the teacher, he would try to sit still, he would try so hard, truly, but his body just moved of its own accord, as if he were a puppet with a malicious master tugging strings to jerk his limbs.

He gave up trying and let his legs jiggle and his fingers drum against his thighs.

“And what do you do, Troy?” said Savannah. “For a living?”

“I’m a trader,” said Troy.

“What do you trade?” she asked.

He knew she’d lose interest in a moment. Everyone did. “Anything that moves.”

“I don’t know what that means,” said Savannah humbly.

“Nobody does,” said Logan.

Troy didn’t look at him. “It means anything with volatility: interest rates, equities, currencies, commodities—that’s my bread and butter.”

“You’re a risk-taker, then,” said Savannah, and he looked at her in the rearview mirror again and saw that she had her head bowed and was examining her fingernails.

“A calculated risk-taker,” said Troy. His family thought he played blackjack all day long.

Logan said something under his breath.

“What?” Troy looked at him.

Logan lifted a shoulder. “Didn’t say anything.”

How could he have that smug grin while driving a car filled with Subway wrappers?

“Do you have a … partner?” asked Savannah.

“He’s straight,” said Logan. “Just likes to act camp.”

“Do you?” said Savannah to Troy. She’d lifted her head, interested. “Like to act camp?”

“Apparently so,” said Troy.

He didn’t care when people thought he was gay. He kind of liked it. Kept everyone on their toes. He didn’t do it on purpose. Or maybe he did. To differentiate himself from Logan, who was a “man’s man.” Logan thought there was only one way to be a man: their father’s way.