by Lili Valente
She nods. “Totally. See you there.”
With a final smile, I turn and walk away, ignoring the pang of disappointment spreading through my balls.
Yes, I’m sure a night with Carrie would be hot as hell. But tomorrow morning we’d be smack dab in the “regrettable drama” part of the affair, sneaking around, trying not to get caught by our families, and wondering why we made things so unpleasant for ourselves. And even if we managed to avoid getting made, memories of the night would linger between us, festering and swelling like a balloon filled with botulism, primed to pop and spew poison all over our previously peaceful, uncomplicated family unit.
Better to walk away now.
Better to go to sleep alone and jerk off to ease this ache than to put my Carrie-Haverford-inspired hard-on to use with the woman herself.
Thanks to Emma, I dodged a bullet.
So, in the spirit of gratitude, I make an effort to catch the garter, reaching hard for the scrap of lace that ends up looped around my younger brother, Tristan’s, fingers. But that’s for the best. Tristan is going through a hard time in his love life, but he eventually wants to get married. Somehow, despite our identical upbringings, Tris ended up hopeful and open-hearted instead of jaded and convinced happily-ever-after is the biggest crock of shit society ever sold the collective unconscious.
But we both go home alone tonight, plodding up the hill in the dark to the farmhouse where we grew up, leaving the Haverford property behind.
And though I’m tempted, I don’t look back at the lights shining in the tiny cabin at the edge of Emma’s property or let my thoughts linger on the oh-so-tempting woman inside.
Chapter 2
Carrie
Public speaking is the most common phobia in the world, and I get why. It’s scary as hell to be up there alone, exposed to an audience full of people—but it’s something I’ve gotten used to.
Since I was first published six years ago, requests for me to speak at schools have doubled and then tripled with the release of the fifth Kingdom of Charm and Bone book. Climbing onto a stage under glaring lights and discussing how I make the magic happen in my writer’s brain shouldn’t make me want to gnaw off my own arm with anxiety anymore. It shouldn’t make my heart pound or my jaw ache or the valley of my spine become a trickling river of stress-sweat.
And maybe it wouldn’t…if I were wearing clothes.
Or if my insides were still inside of me and my intestines weren’t sliding out from a slit in my abdomen.
“So if you’ll just um…direct your attention to slide seven on the hero’s journey,” I say, pitch rising as I press my hands to the wound. But the slippery nightmare that is my lower digestive tract continues to escape through my fingers onto the worn wooden planks of Mendocino Middle School’s theater stage.
Low muttering is already audible from the first few rows of people, who are no-doubt getting an eyeful of the zombie-apocalypse level of gruesome, and it’s only a matter of time before the ruckus spreads. Soon the mutter will become chatter and the chatter a rumble and the rumble a roar of laughter as I trip over my own viscera and sprawl ass over elbows into the gaping maw of the open orchestra pit.
I’ve had this dream before.
I know how it’s going to end.
I even have a pretty good idea what caused it—walking into the wrong labor and delivery room while my sister, Emma, was giving birth. Getting an eyeful of another woman’s emergency C-section, which was just too gruesome for words, has scarred me for life and insured I take my birth control pill every morning with a fervor usually reserved for religious practice.
But knowledge won’t stop the dream.
Just like my small, cold hands won’t stop the flood pouring out quicker now, faster and faster until a little blond girl in the front row screams in horror and the principal shouts from the back of the auditorium—“What is the meaning of this, Ms. Haverford? This display isn’t appropriate for children!”
“I know it’s not appropriate,” I shout back, terror sweat pouring down my forehead to sting my eyes. “You think I planned this?”
“Disgraceful,” a teacher with a prune mouth tuts from the front, where she’s crouched down beside the girl, who is now sobbing into Pruney’s ruffled shirt. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”
“This is way too gross to be in a romance novel,” another teacher pipes up from a few rows behind her, primly shoving her glasses up her nose.
“I don’t write…romance,” I pant, knees going weak as more of my insides become outsides and a deathly chill creeps into my bones. “I write fantasy adventure stories for kids.”
“But there’s romance in them,” Prim argues, with a cock of her head.
“Beatrice and Levi are totally going to get together in the end.” Pruney rolls her eyes as she strokes the little girl’s heaving shoulders. “I knew that halfway through the first book. They’ll have to if she wants to stay in the real world.”
I start to tell Pruney that even I don’t know how the series is going to end—I don’t plot that far in advance—so there’s no way she could know, but my lungs aren’t cooperating. My lips are moving, but no sound is coming out, and the faces in the audience are starting to blur.
I take a step forward, reaching for the glass of water on the podium, naively hoping that it’s not too late for hydration to make a difference. But as I move, I trip and tumble into the orchestra pit, diving head first into a strategically placed tuba—the way I do every time I have this dream—and the room explodes with laughter because a naked woman falling into a tuba is apparently hilarious, even if she’s desperately in need of medical attention.
Or a viscera transplant.
Or a new brain, because clearly the old brain is tragically messed up.
* * *
“Oh my God.” I bolt into a seated position in the sunny guest cottage, both hands clutching my abdomen through my sweat-soaked T-shirt. And like the crazy person I am, I lift up my shirt and stare at the unblemished skin near my hip for a good thirty seconds before I’m convinced it was all a dream.
“Just a dream.” My breath rushes out in a mixture of frustration and relief. “Stop being a nutcase, Carrie. It was just a dream.”
But, of course, it wasn’t. Not entirely.
I might not have gone full horror-movie in front of hundreds of innocent children, but that probably would have played better in the press than what really happened. At the very least, I would be dead and liberated from my earthly worries, instead of hiding out in my sister’s un-air-conditioned guest cottage in the dead of summer while the sun transforms the quaint, tiny home at the edge of her vineyard into a pressure cooker.
My brain already feels like a potato about to split its skin, and it’s only nine o’clock in the morning.
Though I’m sure the multiple glasses of wine I drank last night in an attempt to enjoy my sister’s breathlessly romantic wedding, while our mother glared at me every time I happened into her line of sight—Renee Haverford does not approve of racy bridesmaid’s dresses or purple-tipped hair or any of the other decisions I’ve made since I was a toddler—might have something to do with the angry throb at my temples.
I definitely had a few too many.
My mouth feels like a desert wasteland, my eyes are puffy, and as I roll out of bed to stumble toward the mini fridge for a bottle of water, my stomach lets out a growl of protest, clamoring for something to assist in soaking up the Chardonnay still sloshing around inside it—ASAP.
I’m poking around in the shelves above the kitchen sink, nose wrinkling at all the healthy options Emma has so thoughtfully provided, when my cell bleats from the bedside table.
Thanks to the glory that is the tiny home, a crane of my neck allows me to see the text from my mother—
* * *
Renee: Breakfast starts in fifteen minutes. The rest of us are already having coffee and juice in the garden. Don’t be late to your sister’s wedding breakfast, Caroline.
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* * *
With a hard eye-roll, I return to pawing through the fig paste, gluten-free, sprouted seed bars, and bundles of bulk nuts and dried fruit. The thought of trying to ingest either coffee or juice makes my already irritable stomach bare its teeth in a warning snarl.
Nothing acidic.
I need bread, crackers, maybe some pretzels or—
* * *
Renee: And put on something decent that covers your shoulders. We haven’t had a family picture in years. I’d like to get one with you girls before I’m too old to show up on film.
* * *
My mother labors under the delusion that she will literally become invisible after a certain age—like a vampire or a ghost. I’ve tried to explain to her that the “invisibility” of older women is a symptom of our diseased culture, which insists women are no longer worthy of being seen or heard once no one wants to fuck them anymore. But Renee isn’t interested in my “man-hating” theories.
Though obviously, as evidenced by my many male friends and my sexual preferences, I don’t hate men. I enjoy men—the feel of them, the taste of them, their simple, uncomplicated expectations and the way their brains work in linear pathways, without the confusing curves and coded messages ingrained in the communication of so many women I know.
If I could wake up tomorrow and be a man, I would do it in a heartbeat. Multiple orgasms are hardly adequate compensation for all the shit women have to put up with.
Bleeding every twenty-eight days, for example. What asshole thought that was a good idea? And childbirth. Why must a child the size of a cantaloupe emerge from an exit the size of a celery stalk? Just so it hurts more? Because it increases the chances of a woman needing to be sliced open in order to fetch the squalling infant from its womb prison?
“Don’t think about that,” I groan as I settle on a package of dried dates and rip open the top of the bag, images from my dream dancing grotesquely through my head.
I pop a fig into my mouth and chew as I cross to the slim closet beside the bathroom and survey my selection of clean dresses. Nothing shoulder-covering, but I can borrow a shawl or something from Emma. Normally I would ignore my mother’s requests, but I promised my big sister I would play nice with Mom while she’s here staying in the big house and watching my niece while Emma and her husband, Dylan, head off for a short honeymoon.
I’m tugging out a sleeveless, brightly colored floral number that will pair well with just about any color shawl I can fetch from Emma’s closet, when the landline rings loud enough to make me cry out and jump a foot into the air.
I lunge for it, snatching the receiver off the wall by the sink before it can ring again, and gasp, “I’m coming, Mom. Jesus, I’m on my way out the door right now.”
“It’s not Mom, it’s me.” My sister’s sweet voice is hushed and urgent. “Just wanted to warn you not to turn on the TV. Don’t check your email, either. There’s nothing you can do about it right now, and I want you to enjoy your breakfast. I bought the chocolate and raspberry croissants you love, and you deserve to eat them in peace.”
I sit down on the edge of the bed, dress clutched too tightly in my hand. “What happened? Just tell me. Get it over with.”
“No,” Emma insists. “I don’t want to talk about it. This entire situation makes me so angry I want to stab someone, and I already want to stab Mom. If I get any more keyed up, I might do violence to her with my butter knife and have to spend my honeymoon in prison.”
“What did she do this time?”
“She said I needed to put Mercy on a diet.” Emma bites the words out. “She thinks my thirteen-month-old daughter needs to watch her figure.”
I roll my eyes so hard the room starts to spin. “Ignore her. She’s insane. Mercy is perfect, and perfectly healthy, and I’ll make sure Renee doesn’t starve her while you’re gone. Just remember it all stems from Mom’s own insecurities and that she’s in more pain than she’ll ever cause the rest of us.”
“You’re generous with her,” Emma grumbles.
“Not really. I’ve just learned to choose my battles. Hang in there, and I’ll be over to offer moral support in ten minutes. As soon as I get dressed and find out what you’re refusing to talk to me about.”
Emma sighs. “Fine. Apparently, the story broke on TMZ last night. It’s everywhere, Carrie, on all the entertainment blogs and getting picked up by some mainstream news sources. I’m sorry.”
I drop my head into my free hand, eyes squeezed shut. “It’s okay. I sort of figured this would happen. It would have been more surprising if a story that juicy had stayed buried. It’s not every day a children’s book author shows her nude photos to an auditorium full of middle school kids.”
“But it wasn’t your fault!” Emma protests. “You didn’t put those pictures in your presentation. Jordan’s the one to blame. He’s the bad guy. You’re innocent.”
“Hardly. I posed for the pictures. In some people’s minds that’s enough to make me guilty. Children’s books authors should keep their clothes on at all times, Emma. Even when bathing.”
Emma snorts. “That’s ridiculous. Just because you write for children doesn’t mean you’re not a grown-up with a sex life. People contain multitudes. And I’ve always thought it was great that you’re confident in your body. I wish I had the ovaries to pose for sexy pictures. You look beautiful in them, by the way, if that’s any consolation.”
I freeze, my blood going cold. “You’ve seen them? How? How did you see them?”
“Oh shit,” Emma says with a rush of breath.
I lift my head, eyes going wide as my foggy brain puts the pieces together.
“Forget I said that,” Emma hurries on. “Forget I even called and come have breakfast.”
“He leaked the pictures to the press?” I stand, pacing back and forth in the narrow corridor between the bed and the kitchenette. “I can’t believe he did that! What? Tanking the public-speaking side of my career wasn’t enough? He had to show the entire world my weird nipples?”
“They are not weird.”
“They’re skinny and crooked, Emma. They’re weird,” I screech, as my throat gets tighter, tighter, until it feels like anxiety is a boa constrictor looped around my neck.
“They’re jaunty and perfectly shaped and you’re beautiful. But more importantly, we shouldn’t be having this conversation because Jordan should have kept private things private instead of being an evil bastard who violated the trust that was placed in him.”
I shove another date into my mouth and whimper around it, “Shit, Emma. What am I going to do? How am I ever going to show my face in public again? I’m going to have to hide out here for the rest of my life.”
“You are not,” Emma says, steel creeping into her tone. “You have nothing to be ashamed of. You will take the time you need to heal and then you’ll come out swinging, as usual. Now get over here and get a croissant before they’re all gone.”
I whimper again but manage to gather the strength to shove my PJ pants to the floor and step into my dress.
“We’ll eat, enjoy the sunshine, and tackle next steps later,” she continues. “My plane doesn’t leave until late this afternoon. We’ll have plenty of time to make a game plan after the boys leave.”
“The boys…” I echo, a prickling sensation rippling through my brain.
“Dylan’s brothers, nephews, and Dad are all here,” Emma says. “Father Pete, too.”
Oh no, Dylan’s brothers…
Including the brother I propositioned last night.
Shit!
“I can’t come to breakfast.” I sink to the floor, knocking a fist into my stupid forehead.
“Yes, you can.”
I squinch my eyes closed. No, I can’t. I can’t face Rafe, not now. Rejection is a bitter pill to swallow on a good day, one where your nude pictures haven’t just been wallpapered all over the Internet. And cable TV. And wherever else the news has spread.
God, what was I thinkin
g? Yes, Rafe is exactly the no-strings kind of guy a girl needs to help bang an ugly breakup out of her system, but he’s also my brother-in-law. He’s off-limits. I’ve known that since the moment I met him, and not even four glasses of Chardonnay should have made me forget it.
I groan again as I remember saying something about his “gear shift” and holding forth on how humans are biologically designed to have multiple partners.
And yeah, it’s all true, but it’s not the kind of conversation you make with family. Because you don’t have casual sex with family, not even family by marriage. As tight as Emma’s husband is with his brothers and I am with Emma, Dylan’s family might as well be mine. I’m going to be seeing a lot of these people for a lot of years to come, and now I’ve ensured that I’ll be mortified in front of at least one of them for the foreseeable future.
Oh hell, who am I kidding? As soon as the Hunter men see the pictures, I’ll never be able to look any of them in the eye, ever again.
“Are you listening? I swear, if you’re not here in five minutes, I’m coming to chase you out of the house with the garden hose,” Emma says, her voice loud enough to be heard over the chaos filling my head. “We’re all family here, and there’s no reason to be embarrassed in front of family.”
Before I can reply, a voice in the background calls out, “You coming, Em? I’m serving the eggs and bacon. Mercy’s so hungry she’s eating the flowers again.”
“Be there in just a second, honey,” Emma calls back before admonishing me, “And you be here in a second, too. No more of this nonsense. Come get fed, and then we’ll form a diabolical plan for revenge. Jordan’s not going to get away with this, not if I have anything to say about it.”
Emma hangs up and I drop the phone onto the bed.
