Chapter 7 - The Trophy Car in the Driveway
Before Mom could unleash another torrent of guilt, the heavy exterior door from the back porch slammed open. Jason marched out onto the gravel driveway, his phone pressed violently to his ear.
"Pick up, pick up, pick up..." he was muttering, pacing back and forth near the line of parked cars in the chilly November air.
Through the kitchen window, I watched as Dad walked outside, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, his shoulders hunched against the biting wind. Dad walked over to Jason, tapping his arm, trying to speak, but Jason violently shook his hand off, shouting into the phone as voicemail picked up again.
I walked out through the back door, feeling the crisp autumn breeze cool the heat in my face.
Jason saw me step onto the porch and immediately terminated the call, whirling around with bared teeth. "You think you're clever, don't you? You think because you hooked up with some blue-blood architect you're suddenly a master of the universe?"
"Jason, stop it," Dad warned, his voice weary. "Look at what you're doing. Look at yourself."
"No, Dad! I'm sick of him acting like he's better than me!" Jason sneered, pointing toward the end of the driveway where his sleek, metallic-gray Mercedes sedan sat gleaming beneath the streetlights. "Look at that car! That’s an eighty-thousand-dollar machine! I earned that! I spent sixty hours a week networking, closing deals, while Brian was getting his hands dirty playing with grease and rust! What did you drive here in, Brian? Huh? Did you park your beat-up 2008 pickup around the block so your fancy wife wouldn't feel embarrassed?"
I didn't answer. I simply pulled my key fob from my coat pocket and clicked the unlock button.
Ten feet to the right of Jason's leased Mercedes, the headlights of a pristine, custom-built dark green Land Rover Defender flashed to life. The amber running lights illuminated the driveway, casting long shadows across the gravel. It wasn't flashy or ostentatious—it was rugged, immaculate, and possessed a quiet authority that made Jason’s sports sedan look like a plastic toy.
Jason’s mouth fell open once more. "That's... that's a hundred-and-twenty-thousand-dollar custom build."
"It has custom chassis reinforcements," I said evenly. "I machined the suspension components myself in my shop. It’s practical for the Berkshire winters. It carries our groceries, Nathan’s stroller, and tows my work trailer without breaking a sweat."
Jason looked from the Defender to the key fob in my hand, his chest heaving with ragged breaths. The foundation of his entire world—the idea that material possessions defined human worth—was actively suffocating him, because even in the shallow game he had spent his life playing, he was losing.
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"You hid all of this," Jason whispered, his voice shaking with a terrifying cocktail of envy and humiliation. "You pretended to be the humble, quiet brother who didn't care about money... just so you could show up today and humiliate me."
"I didn't hide anything from you, Jason," I replied, holding his gaze without blinking. "You just never cared enough to ask."
