by Cecy Robson
“I remember that much. Hey, what was Declan?”
“Dear boy. That kiss-ass was always the favorite.”
“Bastard,” we both mutter.
I pull up in front of the bakery and start to parallel park, only for some shithead to try to take my spot. He gets out of the car and so do I. He takes one look at me, gets back in his car, and leaves.
“Did you hear me, Seamus?”
“Nah, some dipshit just tried to steal my parking spot.”
She pauses. “Did you get it back?”
“Ah, yeah,” I reply like it’s obvious, because it damn well is. “What were you saying?”
“I was asking you if you are going to bring someone to the wedding, the rehearsal dinner, and all the other shenanigans I’m supposed to be a part of.”
“Do I have to?”
There’s a long dramatic pause. Never a good thing with Wren. “Listen Seamus, I know we gave you a hard time the other day about being old as fuck, still being single, and no woman in sight without a long list of baby daddies. But our hearts were in the right place.”
“Sounds it,” I say.
She sighs. “We just don’t want you to be alone, you know? You hear about those spinster women found dead, their faces half-eaten by their twenty cats. We don’t want that to be you. We don’t want to find you dead, alone, surrounded by asshole cats licking their whiskers.”
How did I go from being the reigning stud in the family to my family stressing I’ll die a death by pussy?
“Why the hell is it when everyone has someone they need, everybody needs to have someone, too?”
“I wasn’t supposed to find someone nice,” she replies by way of an answer. “I was supposed to be that spinster, Seamus. I don’t even like cats. It was okay for you to be alone, because you’re a man and men supposedly have more opportunities.”
I turn off my car, because I know Wren isn’t done yet. She doesn’t disappoint.
“But then I did find someone, proving I wasn’t such a lost cause. You hear what I’m saying? If I can, by the grace of God and our dead grandmother—God rest her soul—find someone good and kind, you can too.”
“Thanks for the pep talk there, Wren. I’m glad we had this heart to heart.” I start to open my door when she stops me with her words.
“Are you trying to kill Ma?”
“Are you seriously asking me this question, again? For someone who is trying to help, you’re not helping.”
“My point is, there is someone out there for you. You just have to find her. Forget all the skanks. Stop spending your weekends watching football at Killian’s and eating your weight in nachos. Go to church and find someone. Someone nice. Someone who isn’t going to steal my purse.”
“It was one time,” I insist. “And I paid you back the bills she stole.”
“Seamus.”
“And the clothes.”
“Seamus.”
“And your panties.”
“Seamus! I don’t care about all that.” She pauses. “Okay, the panties were a big deal, because honestly, what the fuck? But all that aside, I care about you. What’s going to happen if you don’t find someone in the next few years? Or worse, if you end up with some psycho you don’t deserve?”
I slump into my seat, every curse word I know falling into my mouth like a landslide. Wren is feeling a lot of pressure. Finnie’s fiancée, Sol, is too. Ma isn’t doing so hot, either. They have weddings to plan and a long list of nightmares that I can’t possibly relate to.
I don’t get their preoccupation with me. They have better things to do. I want to yell at everyone to mind their damn business. Except I can’t. Pains in the ass or not, in their own demented way, my family means well. I try to ease at least one worry the best way I know how. I lie.
“You’re worried over nothing. I already have someone lined up to bring to all your shit.”
Instead of shutting Wren up, she gets more nuts. “Who are you going to bring?” she asks slowly. “Seamus, it can’t be just anyone. I don’t want any drama. I want a decent meal, say hello to few people, and get the hell out so I can have naked time with Evan.”
“Don’t worry about it. She’s . . . nice.”
“When you say ‘nice,’ do you mean all her tats are spelled correctly, or she won’t burst into flames if she walks into church?”
“There won’t be any flames,” I assure her. “And she’s got no tats.” I grimace. Now I’ve gone too far.
“Who is she?” she presses. “This can’t be some woman you met at a bar.”
Well, there goes Plan A.
“She has to be a decent human being,” Wren says, laying it out. “Someone you wouldn’t be afraid to tell Father Flanagan you were with the night before.”
Shit. Is she kidding? It’s bad enough I can’t pick up someone at a bar. Now she’s expecting someone with morals, too? I was just going to hit someone up on speed dial. But by the way she’s acting, it won’t be enough to get Wren or Ma off my back.
“I’m bringing the woman I’m seeing,” I blurt out.
I know I’m screwed even before she says anything. “You’re seeing someone?”
“Sure.”
“Someone who doesn’t deflate when you’re done for the night?”
“That was one time!” It was also a joke. We blew up a bunch of adult dolls and shoved them in Curran’s patrol car. But we’re men and that’s what men do to other men at their brother’s bachelor party.
“Then who is it?”
“Who’s who?” I ask, trying to buy myself some time.
“Who is the woman you’re planning to bring to all the events I have to attend so the Four Horsemen don’t gallop across the dead remains of my wedding party?”
I look around like she’s somehow spying on me from the next building. I used to be a great liar when I was a kid. Don’t judge. If you grew up in my family, you had to learn to lie to survive, to have somewhat of a social life, without your mother kicking down a door and dragging you out of an underage drinking party by the hair. But since turning legal, and Ma retiring to Florida, I haven’t really had anything to lie about.
“Ah, Georgina . . . Glass.” I smack myself on the forehead for being such an idiot.
“Georgina Glass,” Wren says. She’s not impressed by my Brady Bunch reference. Truth be told, neither am I. “Tell me you’re screwing with me.”
“Course I am.” I scroll through my contacts as I speak to her on my phone.
Most of the women on my list are, by some miracle of God, married. Some are on their second marriages and possibly third. One is on probation, but I think she’s doing real good now, learning computers and shit. The hottest one is in prison, but the crazy psycho needs to be there for the safety of Philadelphia and any man in the vicinity with a penis. One, I definitely can’t call, because I accidentally made out with her mother. I know what it sounds like, but you ain’t perfect, either.
“You’re not seeing anyone. Are you?” Wren asks, sounding disappointed and maybe a little heartbroken, too. “This is all bullshit to keep Ma alive.”
Sweat gathers along my crown. I start to panic, but try not to let it show in my voice. “Have I ever lied to you? Scratch that. Have I ever lied to you about a woman? Never mind,” I add, realizing I’m only digging myself into a bigger hole. “The thing is, I can’t really tell anyone.”
“You’re gay, aren’t you? Come out of the closet, Seamus. The rest of us pretty much figured as much. God, I’ve never met a blue-collar man who obsesses over hair gel more than you do.”
“I’m not gay, Wren.” In a way, I wish I was. Then I wouldn’t have to deal with psycho women. “It’s just that . . . I just met this girl. She’s real shy and stuff, and I didn’t want to put any pressure on her by attending all these family events. We’re just getting to know each other. I don’t want to scare her off. Hear what I’m saying? This girl is special.”
&nbs
p; It’s a line of bullshit I don’t even buy myself. The O’Briens have this thing, a curse if you will, once we get to talking there’s no stopping us. Words fly out of our mouths before we give it much thought and next thing you know we’re in confession giving Father Flanagan an earful. For the most, part it’s harmless and only adds to our rather spectacular personalities. Today, all it does is bend me over a table and give my rock-hard ass a good smack.
“If this girl is so special, how come we haven’t heard about her before?”
“Did you hear me? It’s new and we’re getting to know each other.”
“Did she just get out of prison?”
I’ll give her this, it’s a fair question.
“No, she’s a nice girl. A good girl. She goes to church and helps out in soup kitchens and shit.”
Wren doesn’t believe me and neither do I. Where is such a magical creature found? Not in Philly, I’ll tell you that much.
I’m ready to take it all back. Let Wren know this is what she’s reduced me to, a lying idiot with a make-believe girlfriend
“And she likes you?” she asks.
I should stop right where I am. But I don’t. My lie takes on a life of its own. “Why wouldn’t she? I’m a catch.”
My mouth is out of control. I didn’t sound believable at first, but now I find myself getting defensive and needing to protect my pretend girlfriend. What the hell’s wrong with me?
Stop speaking, asshole, I tell myself. But here I go, kicking myself in the balls to save Wren and my family the trouble. “I make a decent living,” I remind her. “I’ve got some money put away and I’m the best looking one of us.”
“Seamus, I’m not saying anyone wouldn’t be lucky to have you—”
“You’re not?” Hey, that’s kind of nice.
“I’m only saying most of the women you run around with suck, leaving you with nothing but a restraining order and a new security system.” She pauses, and as if it pains her, asks, “So, what’s her name?”
“I’m not telling you.” Because I don’t know my own damn self and Jesus God in heaven, make it all stop.
“Why? If this girl is so amazing, why can’t you just tell me her name or who she is? Is it someone I know?”
“I want it to be a surprise.”
“Why?”
“Because few things are anymore.” I open my glove compartment, hoping to find that roll of duct tape so I can tape my mouth shut.
“Do I know her?”
“Maybe, maybe not,” I say. Damn. It’s like I’m possessed or something.
“Seamus, I’m really stressed here. If you’re lying to me or playing games, it’s not funny. We’re all worried about you dying alone and those damn mutant cats munching on what’s left of your toes.”
“Eh, you have nothing to worry about. I’m bringing someone. Promise.” I rub my face, hoping to rub the last few minutes from my mind. “You can trust me, Wren.”
“Okay . . . I believe you. Just—”
“Just what?” I ask.
The other end of the line grows eerily quiet before the distant sound of Evan’s voice echoes through, dripping with worry and something else.
“Darling, are you all right?” he whispers in his thick British accent.
“Fine,” Wren says, forcing out the word and allowing another seep of that tension to cut through the mic. “Just finishing up with Seamus.” Her voice is heavy. “Seamus, just pick out whatever you think will look good on the dessert table. If you need anything, call me.”
The way she says, “If you need anything,” makes me think she’s no longer talking pastries.
“I won’t let you down,” I say, staring at the sign to the bakery.
I mean what I say. Now, all I have to do is fly to Oz and swap out some red shoes for a girlfriend.
CHAPTER 4
Allie
“You haven’t called your sister.”
My mother’s voice bellows over my Bluetooth like a looming storm. A very dark storm determined to kill me via a lightning bolt through my heart.
My mother can’t be this naïve or heartless. I’ve been a wreck following the conversation we had the other day. I helped Andres through thick and thin, only for him to help himself to my sister. Mom knew this would devastate me, so why does she keep calling me to discuss all the wedding festivities?
“Alegria? Are you still there?”
“Yes, Mom,” I reply. “I’m still here.”
“Then why do you seem so distant? Why does it feel like you’re not listening at all?”
This is the moment where I express how hurt I am. But different rules have always applied to my sister and me. I’m the sponge, the one they cyclically squeeze dry. Valentina remains the queen. This time, I can’t bow down. Valentina wears a very tarnished crown and for once my mother needs to see it.
“This is a lot to take in. This was someone I was once very close to.”
“This doesn’t change your relationship with Valentina,” my mother interrupts. “You’ll always be best friends.”
If I was driving in the coal regions and not into Philly, I might very well consider ramming down on the accelerator and driving over the edge. This is where my mother always takes me; to the very edge of sanity where all that separates me from men in white scrubs wielding restraints is a minute thread of reason.
My mother’s voice continues in that animated and bizarre speech pattern she’s adopted over the years, feigning that she’s a worldly socialite and not a first-generation Latina who worked at a canning plant most of her life.
“You’re worried Valentina will forget about you, aren’t you?” she asks.
She doesn’t even consider that perhaps I meant Andres. Nor does she acknowledge Valentina and I haven’t spoken in years. Valentina knew what Andres meant to me. Everyone did.
I take a breath, gathering courage that abandoned me long ago. “Mom, I was talking about Andres.”
It’s my last attempt to share what I’m feeling. To show her I’m hurt. Me, the woman who saw past Andres’s idiosyncrasies and promised to marry him.
“Niña,” Mom says. “You knew that was never going to work out.”
No. I didn’t. Not then.
Traffic eases to a slow crawl. “You used to complain about Andres,” I remind her, unable to let the conversation drop. “When we were together, you used to tell me I was wasting my time on someone who wouldn’t amount to anything.”
“I don’t remember that,” my mother says. “Did I tell you they’re having the wedding at the Montana Elite?”
“Yes, you’ve mentioned it.”
“Oh, don’t worry about the price,” my mother insists, as if that’s the problem. “Andres can afford any reception hall after obtaining his doctorate in physics.”
I should remind her I helped pay for that degree, but I don’t want to sound bitter. I’m better than that. At least that’s what I thought until my mother shared the big news.
“Andres promised Valentina everything she deserves,” my mother gushes.
“Great,” I say, through bared teeth.
I think I growl. This is what my family has finally reduced me to, a growling, crazy woman who’s contemplating biting someone.
“The waiting list for the Montana Elite is years. Did you hear me? Years!” My mother happily declares. She laughs. “But, once they knew who the bride was . . . Well, they weren’t going to let a celebrity of Valentina’s status slip through their fingers, now were they?”
“Heaven forbid,” I agree.
Andres isn’t the man for me. I knew it when he confessed he’d spent the afternoon in Valentina’s bed. As much as it killed me, I couldn’t stay with a man who traded me in so easily.
My mother rambles on about Valentina’s meeting with the designer who fitted her for the last Oscar ceremony. I shake my head, the motion giving the young women standing in front of a deli pause, as if I’m some
how judging them. I wouldn’t do that. But I am judging the situation in my family.
There are several things not allowed in my household. The main one is any negativity aimed at Valentina. The second is to speak up against an elder. It’s been ingrained in me and perhaps in Valentina, as well. The difference is, I was berated into silence. Valentina knew how to use her words, so they were encouraged rather than dismissed.
“The cake,” my mother says, remembering I’m still here. “Oh, the cake! That celebrity cake boss has agreed to make one with the groom proposing to Valentina in front of the fountain, just as Andres proposed to Valentina at that famous fountain in Paris.”
“Les fontaines de la Concorde?” I offer. That’s wonderful and coincidently where Andres promised to propose to me.
“Yes, that’s the one.”
Or two, I don’t bother to explain.
I say nothing more. My entire family sees Valentina as a hero, the epitome of the American dream my grandparents, immigrants from Honduras, wanted for their children.
“Where are you?” Mom asks.
I’m barely listening at this point, but manage to answer and keep my emotions from my voice. “I’m driving.”
“Where to? Valentina wants to see you. Are you available for lunch?”
She can’t be serious. “No,” I reply, speaking a little too fast. “I have a very busy day.”
That’s a lie. Today is one of those days set aside for catching up on emails and treating my staff to something nice.
“It’s been years since you’ve seen your sister. What’s so important you can’t make a little time for her?”
Um, perhaps everything? I’d rather cover my naked body with honey and jump into the closest bear enclosure.
“Work. I told you, I’m very busy. I’ll be in the office all afternoon.”
“And now?” she asks unable to drop the subject.
“I’m on my way to Termini’s Bakery,” I say without giving it much thought.
“That’s completely out of your way.”
“I know,” I reply.
“Then why are you going there? Why drive so far out of your way if you’re too busy to see your family?”
