Trent Henshaw was waiting for his brother Ian at the old tract house where they both grew up.
Ian had since moved into an exclusive apartment building in Scarsdale. Hope was gone.
The rundown house full of painful memories. It was where their grandfather made their father live to pay his dues. To the company. To the family.
It was where they grew up.
All of Ian Henshaw Senior’s sons had to go through the same trial by fire. The same humiliation that Ian Henshaw Senior felt when he lived there. In poverty. In filth. In humiliation.
Living there broke Ian’s father. He accepted the compensation package their grandfather offered when he failed at Henshaw Industries. It was a buyout. It was shame. It was separation from the family.
Things eased up for Trent’s family when he gave up as well. He was given a large house for his family in an exclusive neighborhood in Rye.
Because his father had failed at Henshaw Industries, Trent wasn’t welcomed there in the first place. Even after earning an MBA with honors, he was only accepted at Henshaw Industries as a meaningless figurehead. Ian Henshaw Senior gave Trent a failing division to manage and said, ‘I told you so’ when it collapsed.
Then along came Ian Henshaw III, the legacy that Ian Henshaw Senior wanted all along. Ian was a troubled, rebellious youth. He barely graduated from high school, but his grandfather saw the same piss and vinegar that he saw in himself when he was that age.
He gave Ian a profitable division of Henshaw Industries and took him under his wing to teach him how to manage it. At home, Ian made a point of surviving in this rundown old house with his wife to win his grandfather's favor.
When Ian started the therapy program at his grandfather’s insistence, it was the final insult Trent couldn’t rationalize away. Recommending Ian to therapy meant that their grandfather was looking out for Ian’s well-being. He had never cared like that for anyone. Trent wanted to be jealous, but he was hurt more than anything.
Then came Ian’s promotion. It was done quietly. One moment, Ian was on the floor of a factory; the next, he was in Ian Senior’s office.
Trent was treated the exact opposite of his younger brother. He was fired quietly, no warning, no heads-up. Ian Senior called him to his office and fired him point-blank.
Trent got the same severance package his father got. A lifelong salary to stay away from the company and a beautiful home to live in. Trent decided to exact his revenge on Ian, beat the hell out of him for the hell of it, for empty satisfaction.
To get back at the brother who had stolen everything that was his. No, wait, that wasn’t quite right; he was going to fight the brother who was given everything that should have been his.
Ian wasn't taking Trent’s calls. Had his number blocked. But Trent left word with Ian’s secretary that he needed to meet him at the old tract house where it had all started. He knew Ian would show. He had to protect his standing in the family.
Trent was looking around the house that he and his brother had grown up in. Their family home. The one their disgraced father had to live in because he wasn’t worthy of the family name.
The cracked walls. The worn linoleum. Even the same ratty couch no one had bothered to replace. It hadn’t changed a bit since Ian and Trent had lived there as children.
Trent heard a car pull up in the driveway. It had to be Ian. Then he heard a car door open and shut. Footsteps on the gravel driveway, coming up to the house.
The front door handle jiggled open, and then, in the doorway, stood his brother Ian, looking calm and cold. He was back to wearing jeans and a jacket, as if this visit was an errand he was running for the company on his day off.
Their eyes met.
Neither of them spoke.
Then Trent smiled. A cold, sarcastic smile. A smile that said, “So you finally got the nerve to show up here.”
“Welcome home,” he said.
Ian said nothing.
Ian had blocked Trent’s phone, so he left a message for Ian at his office to meet him here, at the house where it all began.
Ian had his secretary call Trent to let him know it was on.
“Coward,” Trent thought.
Trent stood in the living room, hands in his coat pockets, shoulders squared.
“You came,” Trent said.
“You asked me here,” Ian replied. “Say what you need to say.”
“Still pretending you’re the reasonable one, Ian?”
Trent was goading Ian into a fight. It wasn’t working.
“I’m not pretending,” Ian said. “I’m done.”
The fight was over before it started, but Trent wasn’t going to let it go.
“You think you can just walk away after taking everything from me?”
Trent was a coiled spring, ready to pounce as soon as Ian said the wrong thing.
“I didn’t take it,” Ian said. “I did the work. You were given chances—”
“Oh, don’t,” Trent snapped. “Don’t you dare talk to me about chances. You were handed the company because Grandfather saw himself in you. You didn’t earn that. He projected it onto you.”
“Maybe. But I didn’t waste it.”
“That’s because you didn’t know enough to be arrogant. You were obedient. You lived here. You humiliated yourself for him.”
Ian glanced around the room at the cracked walls, the threadbare carpet. “This place didn’t humble me,” he said. “It showed me what he values. To start from nothing. I chose to survive it. You chose to impress him. You ran over him with your college education. You had to know how much he hated that.”
“He hated me long before that,” Trent said. “He hated me since the day I was born.”
Ian didn’t respond. He knew that part was true.
“And you, now you think you’re better than me,” Trent said.
“No,” Ian said. “I think I’m free of you. Of your hate. Of your rivalry. ”
That did it.
Trent stepped forward, closing the distance between them. “You blocked me on your phone. You hid behind lawyers and therapists and secretaries.”
“I blocked you because you threatened me,” Ian said. “And because I’m not fighting you anymore.”
“That’s all I have left, Ian. Fighting you.”
“Then that’s your problem. Not mine.”
“I’m going to make it yours now.” Trent took a swing at Ian and landed a punch squarely on his jaw. Ian fell back across the coffee table and onto the old couch.
Ian felt the full force of the blow. Pain shot through his jaw. He tasted blood in his mouth. The coffee table broke under his weight as he fell back; the couch took the brunt of his fall.
Ian stayed down for a moment.
Not because he was stunned, but because he realized this moment had been coming for a long time.
This was the fight Trent was looking for. The one where Trent finally got what he wanted: a fight, a justification, proof that Ian was no better than him.
“Get up,” Trent snarled. “Fight me like a man.”
Ian wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and looked at the blood there. He exhaled slowly and stood.
The second punch came faster. Ian barely had time to brace before Trent slammed into him, driving him backward into the wall.
Trent fought ugly because his rage was vile. Every punch he landed was filled with the resentment, the jealousy, the hurt feelings from years of abuse from Ian Henshaw Senior.
He landed another blow to Ian’s ribs, then another to his shoulder.
Ian staggered, but he didn’t go down.
He grabbed Trent’s wrist mid-swing, twisting hard. Trent cried out, more in fury than pain, and tried to knee Ian in the gut.
Ian caught Trent’s leg and used his leverage to push him over the sofa and onto the hard linoleum floor of the dining area.
Trent was lying on the floor, trying to get up when Ian walked around the sofa to kick him in the side, but Trent used the sofa to pull himself up and was facing Ian again. He hit Ian square in the jaw, sending Ian a foot back, far enough away for Trent to get a firm stance to block the next blow coming at him.
But Ian was done with the fight. He went in quickly and hit Trent hard enough in the stomach to make him bend over in pain. All that was left to do was elbow Trent so hard on the back that he fell over.
Ian didn’t want to, but he kicked his brother hard in the gut while he was down and left him there, crying out in pain.
The final battle was over. Ian had won.
Ian left the house through the front door and stepped out into the bright sunlight.
Unaffected by the pain inside, he put his hand to his forehead to shade his eyes.
Behind him, the old tract house stayed silent.
The world before him looked brand new.
He looked around at the old neighborhood. Everything seemed so small now, so dirty. Ian remembered the street and all the awful days he spent there as a child. He was sorry he had made Hope live there, but that was the past; he would never come back to this neighborhood again.
When Ian got into his car and drove away, he didn’t look in the rearview mirror. Trent Henshaw lay alone on the floor of the house that had forged his bitterness, finally defeated, not by fists, but by being left behind.
Ian went to the country club to have a drink. To let things sink in. The bartender asked him what had happened.
“Life happened,” Ian said.
Now that Trent was no longer a threat and Ian had earned his permanent place as the leader of Henshaw Industries, he didn’t feel avenged like he thought he would. He felt at peace. At one with the world. Settled and calm.
Thanks to Dr. Prentice.
She was the missing piece in his new life. The woman he needed to complete him. He had heard at the country club that she was having problems with her husband, Foster.
Was she ready for a new relationship?
He didn’t want to call her directly to find out her situation. Not until he knew more. He called the office, hoping Jennifer was free to talk.
“Jennifer? This is Ian.”
“Hi Ian. Did you need to make an appointment?”
“No,” Ian sighed. “I need to talk to you privately. Is Dr. Prentice there?”
“No, she’s gone for the day. What did you need from me?”
“To ask about her situation with her husband, Foster. Is she thinking of leaving him?”
Jennifer was stunned. What was she supposed to say? A million things went through her mind.
“I don’t know. What have you heard?”
“Rumors are buzzing around the club.”
“What kind of rumors?”
“That he is some kind of sick bastard.”
“Oh. I see.”
Ian paused. “I don’t want to put you on the spot, but what do you think she would say if I asked her out?”
Jennifer’s mind was swimming.
“Are you there?”
“Yes, I’m here. I think that if you approached the subject delicately, she might consider it. But don’t tell her I told you that it was okay. That is between you and her.”
“Fine. I think I’ll start by asking Dr. Prentice if I can call her Aubrey.”