Down with Love

by Kate Meader

  I would normally ask her to join us—I miss her like hell—but I know it won’t go over well.

  “Hey, princess,” Lucas says. “Heard you did good work for Gullickson.”

  Aubrey cracks a brief smile. “Someone had to. You boys wouldn’t have been up for the task.”

  Peter Gullickson is a local news anchor who just went through a bitter divorce. He’d shopped around, coming to us for a consult, but ended up with Aubrey over at Kendall Inc., a big corporate outfit she’d recently joined as their star giant-killer.

  “He needed a woman in his corner to make him look good,” Grant says quietly to his ex-wife.

  Aubrey considers this, waits a beat, and finally says, “All men do.”

  They hold each other’s gaze for an unbearably long moment before she turns to me, as cool as can be. “Heard you got a dog, Henderson. And you were playing tongue hockey with a wedding planner in Cubs jail.”

  I turn slitty eyes of disgust on Lucas. “Really? I just told you. Like five minutes ago.” He does have an uncanny ability to text and look like he’s paying attention at the same time.

  “Can I help it if word of your lawless deviance gets around? It was on camera, mate!”

  “But not the fact I was kissing her. In private.”

  “With her foster dad in the room,” Grant says.

  “Sounds kinky,” Aubrey replies, and Grant turns away slightly, hiding a smile. A flicker of light burns inside me at the thought there might be hope for my friends.

  See, I’m not a complete asshole. I love these people, and I want the best for them. I truly believe the best is for them to be together because there are no two people who deserve more to be happy.

  Unfortunately, we don’t always get what we deserve.

  Charlie

  “Oh, wow! This place is something else.”

  Gina takes in the vaulted ceilings, the dripping-with-crystals light fixtures, and the romantic ambience. Lili’s Bridal, the salon in Lincoln Park, boasts beautiful windows with natural light and velvet-tufted couches, the perfect spot to get lost in finding a girl’s dream dress.

  Lili herself steps forward, kisses me on the cheek, and grabs Gina’s hand.

  “Congratulations! I can’t wait to work with you.”

  Gina grimaces. “I know it’s short notice. I really don’t need anything too fancy.” She looks around, her eyes troubled now by all the fancy. “I’m not really sure what I’d like.”

  I grip her hand and squeeze it. I know she’s feeling out of her depth but I’m here to guide her through it. I can’t imagine not having a friend or mom-figure to help me choose my wedding dress.

  “Maybe a glass of champagne to get you settled?”

  Gina nods. “That I can do.”

  Forty-five minutes later, I turn to Lili and pronounce, “That’s it.”

  We’ve gone through two Olegs, a Zac Posen, and a Maggie Sottero, and arrived where I figured we’d end up: a strapless Vera Wang princess gown with a scalloped neckline and a beaded bodice. It has an understated simplicity that will highlight Gina’s olive coloring, mahogany hair, and Hershey-drop eyes.

  I stand to lead her to the triptych mirror. “What do you think?”

  “I think it’s four thousand dollars.”

  This is true, but we’ve already gone over this. The budget for this wedding can handle an off-the-rack Vera Wang.

  “Do you like it?”

  Gina rubs her tummy, then adjusts her stance to take in her reflection from a side pose. “It’s beautiful.”

  “You’re beautiful,” Lili says, handing off another glass of champagne.

  I frown at Lili, who merely shrugs, then I remove the glass from Gina’s hand. She’s only had one glass, but I don’t want anyone accusing me of shenanigans later. And by anyone, I mean Max Henderson.

  It’s been three days since the Cubs game, and I can’t stop thinking about that kiss. I’ve even been on a date since (a CPA who was “ready to go wild!” now tax season was over) and frankly it was ruined because Max was there in my head, telling me he’s just doing his job. Not the one where he tears couples apart with relish but that side hustle of his, protecting me.

  I know it’s just a thing that alpha guys say to make a point or a girl swoon. Well, point taken and girl toppled. No amount of champagne can remove the taste of him from my mouth. I think of that kiss, and my taste receptors water with awareness.

  With the mindset of someone who’s tried the same thing over and over, expecting different results—you know, the definition of insanity—I knock back the champagne in my hand. I have no reason to see much of him until the wedding day in nine weeks. And not seeing him will return my taste buds to normal and kick-start my dating life to where it belongs.

  Pleased with my determined approach, I redirect my attention to Gina. She’s assessing herself in the mirror, but during my time-out to think on my Max problem, she’s gone pale.

  “Gina, are you okay?”

  “I’m—” She swallows and screws up her face.

  I recognize that look, but not in time.

  She promptly upchucks all over the Vera Wang.

  * * *

  —

  I hand Gina a glass of ginger ale and take a seat beside her on the couch in my condo. I still have some stuff in boxes, but I’m mostly unpacked. My home, bought with my money. It’s an achievement I’m inordinately proud of.

  But right now, I have other things on my mind. After Gina hurled all over the wedding dress—a sample (thank God) that can be cleaned (I hope)—we left Lili’s Salon with the intention of taking her home. I’d assumed she was hungover because she’d looked a little peaky from the get-go, but Gina asked if she could go to my place, which I’d already mentioned was nearby.

  Then she relayed another surprising request.

  Now, if you haven’t gotten this by now, I hope you realize that my client is number one. I’ll accompany her to wedding dress fittings and cake tastings. I’ll work my ass off to book that bluegrass-Zydeco band he has to have for the reception. And I’ll happily pop into Walgreens, buy an early pregnancy test, and hold her hand while she waits for the results.

  “So, what makes you think you’re pregnant? Other than the throwing-up-all-over-a-wedding-dress thing?”

  Gina gives a tight smile. “Believe me, if I’d known, I would not be knocking back ballpark beer and bridal salon bubbly.”

  “Hey, I’m not judging.”

  She sighs. “I haven’t felt well for a couple of days but I thought it was prep school flu. I pick up all sorts from the little bastards. I was okay this morning until I started trying on the dresses.”

  “It could be stress. I see it a lot. The reality of it all hits you and then—”

  “The puke hits the dress.”

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  Gina covers her face with her hands. “I’m so embarrassed. Lili must hate me, and while I’d like to say I’ll pay for it and buy another one, I’m not sure that’s possible.”

  “Don’t worry about it. They have coverage.”

  The timer on my phone goes off. Our joint gaze magnetizes to the bathroom door.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to call James? Maybe FaceTime him in?”

  She looks at me in horror. “No, he’s with Max right now, getting his tux fitted. If I call him, he’ll be upchucking all over his Armani. Besides, Max is the last person I want to hear this.”

  I agree wholeheartedly on the Max comment. The Cynic™ does not need to hear about this yet.

  Gina stands, a little sway to her frame I attribute to nerves. “Just don’t let me do it alone, okay?”

  “I’m here for you.”

  * * *

  —

 
Thirty seconds later…

  We’re having a baby! (Did you really think it would end any other way?) The tears arrive in full force along with recriminations and some fairly X-rated memories about when conception might have occurred. In a situation with a girlfriend in distress, I’d normally be offering quarts of wine. Instead, I’m the dispenser of ginger ale and back rubs and soothing words.

  When she finally wears herself out and dozes off, I send a text to James, telling him to come to my place.

  Alone.

  Chapter 11

  “Obviously, if I was serious about having a relationship with someone long-term, the last people I would introduce him to would be my family.”

  —Chelsea Handler

  Charlie

  James and Gina left an hour ago, with Gina feeling a lot better than when she saw the plus sign on the pee stick. Her improved mood might’ve had something to do with James’s reaction.

  The man was happiness personified.

  Witnessing his joy made my heart swell to epic proportions. He was so gentle with her that my faith in love—a little rattled lately by my own bad memories—was instantly restored. We’ll just have to make sure the dress has breathing room and that she’s well looked after for the next couple of months.

  He and I also had The Talk while Gina was in the bathroom. (The demon’s already playing havoc with my bladder, she said with sniff.)

  Him: So, rules of the confessional here, right?

  Me: I won’t breathe a word to anyone, especially your brother.

  Him: Cool.

  I’m settling in with a second glass of sauv blanc and what I figure will be an epic binge-watch of Orange Is the New Black (I’m two seasons behind!) when my phone rings.

  The screen shows Donna’s smiling face. My foster mom is one in a trillion and a saint for putting up with me. I know she’s proud of me now, but I also know I put her through the wringer.

  “Hey, Donna.” I was fourteen years old when I went to live with Donna and Sully, too old to develop a habit of calling her “Mom.”

  “He’s not eating, Charlie.”

  “You mean he’s not eating salads and rice cakes.” Sully’s diet since the heart attack has left a lot to be desired. Donna is worried, and I can’t blame her. “Is he there now?”

  “Playing cards in the basement. Three nights this week, though he’s usually over at Jimmy Finster’s and ordering food from Portillo’s!”

  Hmm. Three times a week seems sort of excessive, especially if all he’s eating is Portillo’s dogs.

  “What’s on tonight’s menu?”

  “I’ve got a nice chicken breast with a wedge of lemon and a side salad, but he won’t come up to the kitchen to eat it.”

  “Tell him you made pot roast. He loves your pot roast.” It’s the only dish she can make with any consistency. God love the woman, but she’s a terrorist in the kitchen.

  “I know! But he can’t eat it anymore.”

  It’s a tragedy, for sure. I wait for her to ask.

  “Could you stop by?”

  “And spy on him? Tell you how many cigar stubs I see, how many French fries are lying around, how much money’s in the pot?”

  “He’s always listened to you, Charlie. If you say you’re worried, it’ll make a difference.”

  I look at the TV screen, frozen on the rough, careworn face of one of the prison inmates they use in the credits. Real inmates, apparently. There but for the grace of Donna and Sully…I owe them so much, the least I can do is carry some food fifty feet and do a little snooping.

  “Break out the Entenmann’s. I’ll be there in twenty.”

  * * *

  —

  I head down the stairs to the den. The scent of cigar smoke should have me screwing up my nose in disgust but instead, it reminds me of those early days when I first arrived at the Sullivans’, my fourteen-year-old self in a metaphorical boxer’s stance with fists raised and ready. I was determined to make them hate me. Sully was determined to teach me poker.

  He didn’t smoke fat stogies, but instead preferred cigarillos. Less ostentatious, he’d say. I didn’t know what that word meant, but I liked it. I liked Sully, and I especially liked that he treated me as an adult. Poker was for grown-ups and it taught me a lot about strategy, patience, and expectations.

  When Sully had his heart attack, the bottom of my world dropped out. Seeing him lying there in the ICU at Northwestern Memorial, tubed up and attached to machines, I almost faded out, unable to handle it. But I needed to be strong for Donna, who was staring down the possibility of life without the man she’d loved for over thirty years.

  He made it through, but not before we had a few bedside heart-to-hearts, the upshot of which was I needed to stop working so hard and find myself a man. Sully wants to see me happy and for him, happiness doesn’t come from a career, but from marriage and children. Old-fashioned, perhaps, but I took it to heart. I was already coming to that conclusion with each couple I helped on the road to their happily-ever-after.

  I was ready. The dating pool of Chicago was not.

  The scent gets stronger as I descend, my steps quiet on the carpeted rungs. I don’t want to surprise anyone—these guys are in their prime heart-attack years, after all—so I call out.

  “Get your pants on, gentlemen. You’ve got company.”

  On hitting the bottom step, I arc my gaze over the seventies-style decor, including a wall-mounted moose (not ironic), pennant flags of the Cubs, and the round table of graying, out-of-shape men amid Pabst Blue Ribbon bottles and poker chips.

  Sully squints at me, knowing full well why I’m here, but he’s not the player I’m focused on. That honor goes to the last person I expect to see at a poker game in my parents’ basement.

  The man, the legend. Max Henderson.

  Max

  I could pretend that me playing poker with a bunch of old dudes I don’t know is just another day in the life. Spinning it that way would certainly piss off Charlie, and I find myself wanting to piss her off. I’d like to see her lose her shit, especially as losing her shit will likely lead to us working our friction out horizontally.

  Sully called me up at the office and asked me outright what my intentions were toward his daughter. That takes balls, especially considering said intentions could be readily inferred by the sight of my hand crushing her ass and my mouth eating hers alive. That’s not to say I couldn’t have more long-term plans, but this was his first impression. The man’s not an idiot. He knows what I’m after.

  She’s my brother’s wedding planner, I explained, as if there was some professional code of ethics that prohibited fraternization with the enemy. Then he asked me to hang with him and his crew playing poker.

  I should have made an excuse, but I was curious. This guy spent twenty-eight years changing the score on the manual board at Wrigley. There are stories here. He also spent fifteen years playing dad to Charlie, and I know there are stories here, too. I find myself curious about those stories and about this woman who’s keeping me awake at night.

  The moose head on the wall had thrown me, but I’d recovered enough to weather cigar smoke and weak-as-piss beer and at least three fairly lethal farts from Finster to my right. A bit rusty, I lost the first couple of hands but I’ve made up for it and am now holding my own.

  All the boys shout out, “Charlie!”

  She stares at me, evidently wishing the moose head would fall on my head or at minimum, that I’d develop some god-awful disease. Preferably, of the scrotum.

  “Ms. Love, you look well.” Understatement of the century. She looks fine in red shorts that stop at mid-thigh. Up top she’s wearing one of those halter thingies that require a strapless bra or no bra at all. She’s stopped in place, not giving me a chance to assess jiggle quotient and m
ake a definitive statement on the bra-or-no-bra situation. Her hair is in a messy pile on top of her head, as if she’d thrown it together quickly in her hurry to get over here.

  I slide a look at Sully, who’s sporting a frown.

  “Yeah, you know why I’m here,” she says with a hop off the last stair. Strapless bra is the winner. My dick doesn’t mind because it’s already imagining unhooking that halter, my fingertips skimming the side of her breast, my lips trailing shiver-shocking kisses over her collarbones.

  Charlie walks in farther, passing me by and leaving a scent of strawberries and cream in her wake before Finster expels a puff of cigar smoke so toxic I’m pretty sure I just developed cancer. Standing behind her father, Charlie raises an eyebrow—whether at his hand or the “food” options on display I can’t tell. The table is host to Chex mix, beef jerky, and oddly enough, olives, a contribution from Jerry, the guy who works for ComEd. I know this because he introduced himself with “I’m Jerry from ComEd.” He’s been chomping on olives and spitting the pits into a handkerchief, then stuffing it into his pocket. Kind of weird, but we’re men doing manly things, and I’ve seen a lot worse.

  “You still on the Mediterranean diet, Jerry?” Charlie asks.

  “Sure am, Charlie. Keeps me in fine fettle.”

  “Did Sully eat any olives?”

  Jerry looks uncomfortable at being put on the spot. Sully lets him off the hook with, “You know I can’t stand ’em.” He throws down a card and gets another from Finster. On sliding it into the fan in his hand, he sniffs and puts in five one-dollar chips. “Raise you five.”