I should leave before they see me and drag me into whatever’s happening. It’s only a few steps, I almost make it to the door when someone taps my shoulder. It’s Sam.
“Forget it. I’m not saving you from whatever shit is happening,” I say, grabbing the door handle.
“The ‘artist’ knocked her up,” he says.
“You’re making shit up,” I counteract his statement. “She won’t be happy when she hears that.”
“Nope,” he says deadpan.
I let go of the handle, groaning as I rub my temple. “Please, please, please tell me this is a fucking fever dream, or I’m on Punk’d or something.”
“I wish,” he grunts. “Charlie’s pregnant. Sound the alarms, the world’s ending. Mom and Dad are already moving her into an emergency bunker.”
I chuckle because he’s not wrong about how our parents overreact whenever Charlie’s involved. This really sounds like something that’s going to take about eighteen to twenty years to get resolved. And make no mistake. I want no part in it.
“Well, Tiger,” I call him with the nickname Dad used for him when he was younger. “Good luck with this shit. Hope you find a job before Charlie turns your room into a nursery.”
“Ha ha. Hilarious,” he says.
Obviously, he’s not in the mood for sarcasm, and I can’t believe he made it this far in the day without picking up and leaving. I’m ready to change my name, get a new face, and move to Canada, and I’ve known for all of three minutes.
But who could blame me?
One way or another, my parents are going to make me part of the solution. I salute him before opening the door. See you in a couple of decades... or never.
But before I can turn around and leave, Charlie charges at me.
“E!” She doesn’t even bother to call me by my full name. “You’re here.”
Fantastic. I look at the ceiling hoping for a miracle and nothing. The ground isn’t swallowing me either.
I’m doomed.
Charlie hugs me tightly while she continues sobbing. “You have to help me. Please. I don’t know what to do!”
Of course you don’t, I think tersely. That’s just who you are, Charlie.
Feeling somewhat dazed after dealing with my family, I decide to stay at my parents to help my sister. I’m sitting alone in their living room with nothing but a lamp, a pen, and my journal to keep me company.
I’ve been tapping my pen against my journal for the last hour, hoping it calms my nerves, annoys me out of my funk, rallies me into action... something. The rhythm keeps me company in the loneliest corner of the Earth, shielding me from the fucking bullshit that’s become my life.
I shouldn’t enable her, but that’s like the family motto. “Charlie first.”
Charlie left early with her loser boyfriend because she’s “tired.” Mom went to bed because she has to go to work tomorrow morning. Which leaves me, once again behind picking up the debris of the mayhem my sister and the rest of my family left behind.
Because of course, it’s Eileen’s responsibility to create a plan of action.
I don’t envy my sister. Sure, she drives me fucking bonkers. But she’s a grown woman who can’t even take care of herself. If anything, I feel sorry that my years of enabling have left her so sorely unprepared to have a baby.
Then again, she loves pretending to be fragile so everyone would do anything for her. I swear she just bats her eyelashes and everyone is at her feet asking what she needs. Maybe I should ignore her pleas, but if I do, my parents would be stuck doing everything for her.
In conclusion, me sitting alone in my parents’ house to plan a fucking wedding for my pregnant sister is of course, my own fault. Surfing through bridal websites, checking dresses and destination weddings isn’t something I really want to do. The cost of a wedding is outrageous.
Where are we going to find the money to afford any of this?
I look at my calendar and sigh. I thought my parents were going to cancel the trip. Logically, I knew that we’d have to cancel it. Since I insisted on buying the vacation insurance, we should have been able to recover almost everything minus the two hundred and sixty dollars of insurance. “Should have” being the operative term.
They waited until Charlie left—until I suggested we cancel the trip—to admit they hadn’t booked anything on their end.
“It was a big financial commitment. We were waiting on a few things before we finalized plans,” my mom told me.
Waiting on what?
Me to flunk grad school?
For me to break another bone... or worse?
There’s no money to recover because they’d never spent a dime on the vacation they promised me. So, if I understand everything right, the budget for the trip is going into Charlie’s wedding fund.
Camilla called me crazy. A neurotic loon. Well, here I am proving her wrong and unable to call her because she’s off of the grid.
But I knew that everything was too good to be true.
Once I have a list of websites, possible places to have the ceremony, and bridal stores, I decide it’s okay to go to bed.
Charlie insists we should hire Amanda, her best friend from high school, to plan the wedding. I don’t want to hire a wedding planner. My parents haven’t given me a final budget yet, but I know it’s not going to be enough to pay Amanda’s rates.
So long, Aruba, I think mournfully.
It was fun dreaming of you while it lasted. As I start making my way to my old room, the home phone rings. Seriously, who calls at almost two a.m.? It better not be Charlie complaining about heartburn. I have no more patience for her today.
“Hello,” I answer curtly.
“Is this the McBean residence?” a sexy, husky voice asks on the other side.
“Yes…” I confirm, staring at the phone for a second. Who is this? “Can I help you?”
“Uh, I’m looking for Marek.”
Who the fuck is Marek?
“You have the wrong number,” I say before hanging up.
Nice voice. His call doesn’t make any sense to me, but I wouldn’t mind him selling me shit over the phone if I get to hear his baritone.
The phone rings again. “Didn’t you just say that this is the McBean residence?” he argues the moment I answer.
“Yeah, but no one named Marek lives here,” I counteract.
“You have the wrong number,” I clarify, pausing between words so he can understand me.
“Look, lady, I’m looking for my cousin, Marek. He’s supposed to be with Charlie,” he explains with a condescending voice. “You know Charlie, right?”
I roll my eyes. Don’t try me buddy, I don’t have much patience left.
“Oh, that guy,” I say. “The artist Charlie’s dating.”
He chuckles and asks, “Is he there?”
“No,” I answer a little short. Why is he looking for his cousin here? “Don’t you have his cell number?”
“Duh,” he says. “But he’s not answering, and we need to talk.”
“Why would you call here then?”
“This is Charlie’s number, isn’t it?” he asks.
Yes, because my sister can’t afford to live on her own, but she can drop four hundred and fifty dollars on the Tori Burch purse she drags everywhere. Priorities, I guess.
“Nope, they’re not here. Don’t know where they went, and I don’t know when they’ll be back,” I half lie.
“He’s not answering his cell,” he says again with a resigned sigh. “Well, fuck it. This is the last time I try to save his ass.”
Well at least someone else is as annoyed with them as I am. Maybe I’m not alone in wading through their pre-marital chaos.
“Let me guess,” I infer, taking the phone with me to my room. “He needs you to bail him out of his latest problem?”
“Yep,” he says with a yawn. “News travels fast or—”
“I think I can relate,” I admit. “I just spent the last two hours doing rec
on for this wedding they just have to have.”
“Why you and not Charlie?”
I snort. “She’s allergic to responsibility. Or even, like, committing to plans beyond vague ideas.”
“Ouch,” he says with a chuckle. “That bad, huh?”
I glance over at a family portrait from a decade ago. Charlie’s crying in the center between my parents because of a bee sting, Sam’s screaming, and I’m tripping into the frame because of a mud patch no one bothered to mention.
My parents framed it because they said they wanted a reminder of who we were growing up. I’m starting to think we’ll never get past that awkward phase of life. So maybe things are meant to suck.
“Isn’t it always?” I say to him, myself, and no one in particular.
“Not sure,” he says genuinely. “People keep telling me there’s better shit out there but—”
“Where?” we say simultaneously.
I snort. “Jesus fuck, we sound tired.”
“Well it is ass o’clock.”
“I meant about life,” I explain further.
“I know,” he states, his voice a tad defeated. I’ve never seen this guy, but I imagine he pauses to shrug before he says, “But hey, you sound not terrible.”
“Thanks?” I respond to his statement, unsure if I should be offended.
“You ever planned a wedding?” he asks.
“No, but, I’m a fast learner.”
“Cool.” He sounds animated. “What’s your rate? Some charge two hundred an hour.”
What? “I’m not a hooker,” I squeak.
“I meant wedding planner,” he corrects, but he’s laughing his ass off on the other side of the line.
“Who are you?”
“Oh, shit, sorry,” he says, sobering up. “Jason, cousin of the idiot groom. And you are?”
“Eileen, sister of the idiot bride.”
“Nice to meet a future in-law,” he jokes. “Marek convince me to give him a hand with his situation.”
I nod slowly and then realize he can’t see me. “Cool, you’ll be the company to my misery then, and you don’t sound terrible either.”
He sighs. “Fair enough. I hope to meet you soon,” he says with a low, sexy voice that makes my body tingle.
“Same,” I whisper before hanging up.
8
Jason
Marek's fiancée is, in a word, yikes.
Don’t get me wrong, she’s hot. Medium height, skinny enough, nice rack, good ass, and kinda blonde just like her eyes are kinda green. Too bad you can’t see most of that over the sound of her screaming every fucking hour of the day.
And what does she even do for a living? I tuned her out after she started saying “semi-professional amateur street activism slash entrepreneurialism.”
So, in short, good body, horrible personality. On the bright side, I’ve never seen someone give an impassioned ten-minute speech about how shitty their soda is before.
“Just two cubes. If you add too many, it’s too cold and my throat hurts.” She clears her throat, pouting her lips and lowering her gaze.
I try to catch Marek’s gaze. I just want a confirmation that this woman is for real and not an actor on some shitty Punk’d reboot. But judging by the way he kisses her temple, maybe he’s just fucked.
The saying is true though, you don’t choose who you fall in love with. R.I.P. Marek’s sanity.
I’d give it a year. Maybe he’ll learn his lesson and just pay child support. Or maybe they’ll figure out they don’t live in the fucking 1950s and they don’t have to get married to raise a kid.
Who am I kidding? The poor spawn is fucked either way.
“We’ll need a house,” she says apropos of nothing. “Your studio is too tiny, and you need a place for your art.”
“He can’t afford a house,” I inform her, in case she hasn’t realized that my cousin is broke.
Woman, get a clue!
She makes some sort of whining sound, like a wounded animal. “I thought his family would be helping him.”
Listen, there’s a huge difference between helping and supporting his lifestyle for the rest of his natural life. I open my mouth to give her a lecture, but what’s the point?
“Who said anything about paying for a house?” I glare at Marek.
Seriously, dude, what the fuck did you tell her? I think, but I save it for when we are alone.
“Mar, you said we’d buy a new house for our baby,” she squeaks. “We have to give her the very best, remember?”
She’s either the dumbest person or the smartest con artist I’ve ever met. Regardless, this is hell. How do we even know she’s pregnant? Or that the baby is Marek’s?
“Yeah, I’m not buying anyone a house,” I announce.
“No worries, dude. I have a few job interviews lined up,” Marek informs with his chill voice. “We just need the initial push.”
That’s a relief to me, but Charlie gets a really weird, tight smile, so tight that I’m afraid she might pummel me.
“I won’t be moving to an apartment,” Charlie says firmly. “If it all comes to the worst, we can use Eileen’s bedroom for the baby. She doesn’t need it anymore. You can use Sam’s bedroom as your shop, or we can convince Dad to keep the cars outside and convert the garage into your studio.”
I run a hand through my hair. Marek’s studio apartment is quaint at best. At least the peeling wooden panel walls look intentional, or “stylish.” On second thought, there’s probably some health hazards around here considering how “thoughtful” these jokers are.
“What is it that you do again?” I ask her.
“I’m an assistant manager at Neiman Marcus,” she says flattening her clothes. “But I don’t think I’ll be able to continue working there.”
“She could work for Em,” I suggest. “Be a virtual assistant.”
Marek smiles and says, “That’s a great idea.”
Of course Charlie fucking pouts. “I thought we agreed I wouldn’t work for the first few years, Mar. Someone has to look after the baby.”
Gotta say, she’s fucking persistent. I sigh, kicking back the rest of the water Marek offered me like it’s beer. Where is the alcohol? Actually, I gotta get out of here before I open my big mouth.
“Well, this has been fun,” I tell Marek with a pat on the back. “Maybe start with something small like budgeting or childproofing this place a little. I’ll see what I can find in terms of cheap home rentals, but I’m not doing any heavy lifting for you.”
Charlie goes beet red. Great, she has even more emotions. What now?
“Do you think we’re not responsible enough to take care of our own kid?” she questions angrily.
I choose to ignore her tone as I head out the front door. “Glad we’re on the same page. I’ll make sure Emmeline gets in touch with you. The sooner you switch jobs, the better.”
“Cuz,” Marek calls out as I reach the door. “Don’t forget we’re having dinner at her parents’ on Sunday. They want to meet the fam.”
Fuck, these two are wearing down my patience and asking for way too much of me. “Sure, just send me the address.”
I grew up in a loud, close-knit, crazy family. There’s no other way to describe the Spearman clan. Three boys, twin girls, and lots of cousins from the Spearman side. Family reunions are fun and yet chaos.
Being the middle child has its benefits, mostly. It means I’ve seen my fair share of stupendously loud arguments and ruckus events. It also means that when Jack, fairly, escapes from bullshit situations, I’m next in line to be “the responsible one.”
I never thought there’d be a family louder than mine. Cue the McBeans, proving me wrong with every passing second. There are about twenty conversations going on at once, so I gave up early on trying to understand anything going on around me.
If I have to guess, there are easily five generations of family crammed into this four-bedroom home. I keep getting knocked into by my future in-laws, asking me
“which one” am I and “why’s your plate so empty?” I’m half convinced these people are trying to fatten me up to serve me as the main course.
Around eight, people start filtering out. I take that as my cue to finally duck out, so I look for Marek to say goodbye.
“Wait, we have to talk about the wedding and the b-a-b-y,” he says. Because nothing is ever one and done with him.
“Why are you spelling that?”
“Some of them don’t know about it yet,” he says.
I roll my eyes. Some days I’m amazed that he can get out of bed by himself. “Dude, they know how to spell.”
He shrugs. “Still, I need you to stay, please.”
I nod in resignation, getting comfortable on the couch again. What’s another hour dealing with this crowd? Seriously, what’s the worst that can happen? At least it’s gotten quieter around here.
“No, Mom,” Charlie shrieks. “Why would I want fuchsia as a color for my wedding?”
“She’s at it already. Impressive,” a woman says behind me.
When I look over my shoulder, I spot a short, curvy chick standing by the entryway. She stares at Charlie. She’s cute, her dark, curly hair tucked underneath a green beanie that matches her eyes and jacket. She glances at me, giving me a once over. She scrunches her nose.
Why haven’t I seen her before? Huh, maybe she’s a new guest.
I wave at her awkwardly and walk toward her. She quirks her lips. Pretty sure she’s laughing at me under her breath. It’s fine, I probably have a stupid look on my face.
“Come here often?” I ask. “Seems like you’re a pro.”
“Hardly,” she says while taking her things off. “I’m just the unfortunate spawn they had after that one.”
“I take it you’re the understudy?” I ask as we sit down on the couch.
She laughs. “God no. More like the shortstop.”
I chuckle. She feels so familiar, like a song I forgot I love. Then I remember my conversation over the phone a few nights ago. “Eileen, right?”
“Yep, and you must be Jason,” she states dryly. “Nice to meet you... again.”
Then He Happened Page 4
