by Julie Olivia
I look up and see the corner of his mouth quirked up in a smoldering smile, and I relive every word he said last night.
Asshole. Remember he’s an asshole.
“You okay, Polly?” he asks, his eyebrows joining in the center. I must have been glaring.
“I don’t think she prefers that name,” Corinne says from behind me with a giggle.
Ian’s eyes dart away from mine and his face immediately brightens. His eyebrows shoot up and a grin spreads across his whole mouth.
“Corinne!” he yells, rushing over to her and wrapping her in a large bear hug. She’s just tall enough to look picturesque beside him. Yes, just two models waiting to pose naked on a beach. I feel sick at the thought. “Wow, it’s been…what? Three or four years?”
Why is everyone so hung up on the number of years they’ve been apart?
“Still a knockout,” he says, and my stomach drops.
“You’re exactly the same,” she says, and I feel like such a third wheel and the most naïve woman in the world. I’m falling into the same trap as I did years ago. He was flirting with me and then found another younger woman.
What’s new?
“I should go,” I say, pointing my thumb to the door. At this, Ian’s expression goes from absolute joy back to concern. “I’ll meet you guys downstairs after I change.”
Corinne’s arms are still wrapped around Ian’s neck as I wave my goodbye. I unlock my door and close it behind me, glancing one more time at Ian’s mockingly ice-cold blues before letting it shut and eliminating my perfect view of his stare.
I exhale the moment I enter my room, resting my back against the door and closing my eyes. What am I thinking? What are these stupid thoughts ripping through my brain? Am I jealous? There’s no way I can be jealous. It’s just Ian. He’s the classic image of a tall, dark, and handsome man, but he’s also annoying, judgmental, and a complete, absolute tease.
And yet… how do he and Corinne know each other?
I hear my phone buzz in my purse, and I pull it out. Harry.
“Hi,” I say, relieved to have the distraction.
“Heh-lo,” he answers, a slight singsong tone to his voice. “How’s vacation?” he asks. I can hear clinking on the other line. He must be in his workshop.
“Just came back from brunch.”
He gasps. “Dare I ask if there were mimosas? Drinking during the day?” He tsks. “Who even are you?”
“I’m on vacation,” I say, bouncing down on the bed. “And I only had half a mimosa, so no worries, I’m still a prude.”
“A delightful prude, though.”
I think back to the sex shop with Ian…a prude who likes control…
“Why did you call?” I ask, clearing my throat.
“Well, I’m about to ruin that post-brunch high of yours,” he says. I hear a rolling sound and imagine him scooting out from under a car. “Guess who is staying on the couch as we speak?”
“It’s not my sweet niece, is it?”
“Guess again.”
“I’d rather not.”
“It’s Grant.”
My breath catches. “He’s home?”
“Yeah, and he looks like a mess,” Harry says.
“How bad?”
“Well…” He exhales for a moment, and I’m a second away from insisting he continue when he finally answers me. “From what he’s told me, his wife left him.”
“He still has a wife? Bless that woman.”
“Well, not anymore.”
“Why?”
“Why do any wives leave their husbands?”
“Please don’t tell me he cheated.” I know it’s true the second the words leave my mouth.
“Okay, then I won’t.” But there it is. My mouth opens and closes, trying to find words, but I can’t. There we go. I guess my oldest brother really was—well, is a prick.
Grant has always been a ladies’ man. He’s provoked girls with sentiments that remind me of Ian’s constant barrage of compliments, so why am I surprised? I remember being in elementary school and him half babysitting me at the park while handing a mixtape to some swooning senior clutching her heart over his sensitive “I’ll Be Yours Forever” persona.
“Oh, and not to make it worse,” Harry says, “but I’m pretty sure he’s coming down from some high.”
My chest drops and my head swims. Drugs have never been much of an issue in our family unless you count Mom and Dad’s recent foray into “medicinal” solutions with plants. Sometimes I look at their lone plant in the refurbished garbage can with a heat lamp overtop and think, Maybe it’s just parsley.
Maybe Grant just likes parsley.
“What? High? Since when?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” he says. “He said something about it last night but then he fell asleep. Eyes red, kind of out of it… I don’t know.”
I run my hand through my hair and shake it out. The buzz of a text breaks the silence, but neither of us can seem to find the words.
I haven’t spoken to my older brother in years. I couldn’t even tell you what he looks like now. Probably streaks of gray and some aging, but mostly a mystery.
“You’re really letting him stay with you?” I ask with a tone of reverence I’m unwilling to hide.
“He has nowhere else to go. Cara just started school, so she’s gone most of the day anyway. Plus, Mom and Dad don’t know about…the things.”
“That’s what we’re calling the problems of our mess of a brother? ‘The Things’?”
“It’s probably best to keep it a secret from them,” Harry says. “They’re just happy he’s home. Mom is even agreeing to relinquish the remote.”
“At least there’s that,” I groan, and Harry chuckles.
“Listen, I was just filling you in, but don’t worry about us,” he says. “He’ll definitely be here when you get back, so you can give him a stern talking-to then.”
“I’d rather punch him in the face.”
“Nia…” he warns.
“Fine.” I exhale. “I’ll talk to you later. Let me know if you guys need anything.” I feel another vibration of a text against my ear.
I look down at my phone as it returns to my home screen after the call ends. Texts come barreling through from Grace, and I’m unsurprised by the words.
Grace: KARAROKE!
Maybe karaoke will be a good distraction. I’m still trying to process whatever I just heard. It’s hard to not feel some sort of disdain for Grant. He’s always gotten everything he wants—every woman, every job, and every bit of success he can reach for. The rest of us Smiths are just as motivated, but it’s like he’s been blessed with something more, like he made some deal with the devil.
Tonight, I think I need to indulge in my own sins. I need a drink.
13
Ian
Corinne suggested we all go to a karaoke bar tonight and, while I had planned for karaoke to be at the rehearsal dinner outing, I will never protest performing karaoke two nights in one week.
Grace’s cousin knows my drinking habits—or lack thereof—and she’s considerate enough to suggest activities even the sober people can enjoy. Plus, Corinne is a great karaoke partner, and it’s been much too long.
So far tonight, I’ve been on and off the stage three times, sometimes with the addition of someone for a duet and sometimes just rocking out on my own. All the same, I still have the wedding party to cheer me on from the bar. Cam and Grace are chatting; Nia and Corinne hang out beside them, sipping their mixed drinks together; and Ramona and Wes order new drinks, joining the conversation as well.
I let my gaze settle on the two blondes in the middle. It’s hard to ignore the similarities between Nia and Corinne. They’re both beautiful, yet they’re each confident in their own way. There’s Corinne with her jubilant smile, bouncing on the bar stool enthusiastically, with every single man—maybe even the married men—looking her way. She’s youthful with long, model-length legs that have this sheen about the
m, and she seems happy.
Then there’s Nia, small and petite with her body leaned against the bar and chest stuck out in a no-nonsense pose. She’s all attitude, and I eat that shit up. Men look at her, but she’s definitely getting fewer glances than Corinne. When she’s standing with such an off-putting demeanor next to the girl in her twenties who is excited to be here, complete with bouncing tits, I can’t help but understand why she’s subsequently getting less attention.
But that’s just my kind of woman.
Ramona was right: I can’t pin Nia’s personality down, but that’s the last thing I would want to do. I like how much she challenges me. She’s intelligent. Sexy.
Corinne is just another sister to me at this point. My little sister’s best friend’s cousin. Yeah, basically just another sister. We can sing karaoke together or joke about tits on other women, but Nia is the mystery, the fire I would beg to burn me inside and out.
When I walk up to the group at the bar—the bride and groom excluded given that they’re now in a competition to see who can eat whose face harder—Corinne is distributing bright, lime-tinted shots from a tray. Ramona, Wes, and Corinne clink their glasses together, nudging Nia to insert hers into the toasting circle. After doing so, three of them slam their drinks on the counter and slosh them back with gusto. They’re drinking pros. Nia, on the other hand, is still attempting to gulp hers down with one hand pinching her nose and the other clenched around the glass in a vicelike grip as the contents slowly drain out. Once she finishes, they pat her on the back, and Ramona twists her finger in a circular motion to order another round.
Nia coughs, waving her hand in front of her face and shaking her head side to side.
“Not much of a drinker?” I ask, tilting my head, and she rolls her eyes in response. “Come on, back to square one? I said I was sorry.”
“Actually, you didn’t,” she says.
“I’m sorry,” I amend.
She takes the drink Ramona gingerly slides to her around my back since I’ve nestled in between the two of them.
“You should have apologized sooner,” Ramona mumbles out of the side of her mouth.
Nia says nothing, but she does smirk. Even in the dim glow from the string lights roped around the exposed beams in the bar, I can see the glimmer of her captivating brown eyes. The color is rich, like a pure cocoa treat from the chocolatiers in those tourist trap fudge shops I have yet to hit up and let rob me blind.
“Ramona can vouch for me, right, Ray?” I say, lifting my arm to wrap my sister in a side hug. Her arms wrap tightly around me in return, and she flashes a grin at Nia.
“He’s an ass,” Ramona mumbles through a puckered mouth as our cheeks smush together.
The glass, now filled with misty pink liquid, touches Nia’s plump lips. I’d kill to be that fucking glass. In a few determined gulps, it’s empty, and she’s already turning to order another.
“Going a bit fast, huh?” I observe, releasing my grip on Ramona, who splays her hand across my cheek to push me away from her. I’m too entranced by Nia’s new habit to notice.
“It’s been a weird day,” Nia responds, tapping her finger on the counter as I slowly nod in response.
“Want to talk about it?” I ask.
“Poor people problems,” she replies. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“I deserve that,” I say, and she nods in agreement, her small smile lifting her cheeks. I’m fine with the blunt trauma of her insults if it grants me a smile. Probably not healthy, but I never claimed to be a well-adjusted man.
She snatches her next drink off the counter once it arrives, black napkin stuck to the bottom and all. It’s down in one go, and I’m noticing she’s getting bolder with each drink.
“So, is everything okay?” I ask, trying to get the conversation rolling again. She looks up at me, and I can see the gears turning in her mind, the flutter of her lashes. I wonder if I’m close to having her open up to me…but then the moment is broken by a shove into Nia’s shoulder.
A man pushes past her shoulder with gnarled, leathery hands coated in a layer of thin white hair and a face that is the human equivalent of a mountain goat, hair on his chinny chin chin and all.
“Excuse me,” he grunts with zero actual regard as to whether Nia has budged at all.
“Rude,” Ramona mutters from the other side of me, leaning her head back to catch a glimpse at this hobbit-sized man and placing a hand on her hip.
“What was that?” the man snaps, his jowls jiggling under his sloped chin.
“She said you’re being rude,” Nia says, straightening her back. “Why don’t you just let us order your drink for you? That would be the most productive option considering we’re women and this is a bar.”
The goat man narrows his eyes at her, and honestly, I’m impressed she’s still as loquacious as she is given what drink number she is on. But, I’m also clenching my fists, readying my reflexes to reach for Nia should I need to steal her away from the irrational drunk goat man.
Maybe he bleats when he’s angry.
Okay, now I kind of want to find out…
“Fine. Let me get a drink,” he grumbles. The old man gestures to the bar, sweeping his arm across the exposed wood where Nia was leaning just a second ago. “Are you finished, ma’am?” he asks, his unwavering sarcasm echoing through the insincere nicety.
“No,” she replies, knocking her hip against his to move him out of the way so she can hop on the bar stool his stance was blocking, diplomacy gone. I can’t help but let out a laugh.
“Charming,” he sneers. The goat man is looking between the two women, then to me and Wes, who hold our hands in the air, ready to let them handle the situation on their own.
Finally, a grin cracks the goat man’s stubbled face, showing dirty teeth, as well as his lack thereof and the dregs of God knows what remaining in the gaps. “Girly, I could drink you under the table.” He chuckles, rapping his knuckles on the bar and whistling to get the full attention of the bartender at the opposite end.
“That’s a weird challenge to make,” I say.
“I’m a weird man,” he grumbles toward me.
Nia’s hand suddenly slaps the counter beside her, making all of us jump.
“Listen here, sir.” Her faux pleasantries are just as convincing as his, though she has a wild grin on her face. “We’re trying to enjoy karaoke. Now are you going to sing or what?”
“Sing?”
“Sing, sir,” she repeats.
Yeah, she’s definitely drunk.
An hour later, we’re all singing, even Nia, whose voice is quite possibly the worst I’ve heard all night. She’s like an angel with a broken harp and missing sheet music, but she’s putting her all into every belted note and each Celine Dion impersonation. She butchers it like any good karaoke performer. I’d almost be disappointed if she didn’t.
Her high bun has slowly deflated into a mid-to-low tangled mess of hair somehow still secured in the hairband. Her makeup is bleeding a bit to reveal the light spattering of freckles on the bridge of her nose granted to her from her short stint in the sun yesterday. It’s adorable.
“You want that broad,” a voice says beside me through a wheezed laugh. I turn and there he is, the goat himself, with his crooked smile and equally crooked teeth.
“You’re terrifying,” I say.
“I get that a lot.” He nods solemnly as if mourning his own appearance then nudges my arm with his scrawny elbow. “So, when are you bagging that?” He tips his drink toward the stage, where Nia is now bending in half trying to belt out the lyrics to “I Will Always Love You.” It’s both horrific and fantastic.
I smile. “‘Bagging’ simplifies it a bit too much.”
“You’re a good-lookin’ fella, though.” He squints, making me bark out a laugh.
“She has higher standards than me. Much higher standards.”
“Let me tell you a story,” he starts, swaying closer to me, lifting his drink into the air
again and breathing straight vodka into my face. “I was a gross younger man.”
“Infinitely difficult to imagine,” I mumble, tipping my glass of water to my lips.
“Thank you. But I dated this woman named…god, what was her name…my first wife…”
“Jesus.” I sigh, and he lifts his hand to hush me.
“Stella!” he says, his eyes bulging in realization. “I loved that woman. I loved her so much. She wanted nothing to do with me. Gorgeous woman. Tall, lean, gorgeous.”
“You’ve said that.”
“Gorgeous.”
“Uh huh, and?”
“Wanted nothing to do with me, but I just…let go, you know?”
“No.”
“I told her everything about me. I let her in,” he says, emphasizing the last word, and to be honest, I’m actually not sure if that’s a double entendre or not, but half of what he’s saying isn’t making sense anyway. I doubt he’s lucid enough to complicate his speech any more than he already is.
“How’d that work out for you?” I ask.
“We married,” he says, slowly moving his head up and down. “Best years of my life. Then she left me.”
“I’m sorry, man.”
“My fault. We all have our vices,” he says, exhaling, and I feel like I see him sober up in the split second it takes for him to admit that.
“We all have things to atone for,” I agree, patting him on the back. He knocks me in the shoulders in return. His eyes glaze over, hat twisted so I think the back is now the front—although it’s hard to tell with these fishing hats—and his hand is shaking to the point where his drink is spilling a bit.
We do all have things to atone for, and I’ll be trying to pay mine forward for the rest of my life.
“Let me give you a ride,” I say, more of a demand than an offer.
“Nah, I’ve got my keys,” he says with a wink.
