by Julia Kent
So much for Rock Band. I knew this was a trap.
“—to berate me for saying the obvious. Andrew likes Amanda’s rack,” I finish.
“He is also driving her nuts with mixed signals,” Shannon hisses furiously.
“They’re grownups. Let them work it out between the two of them.”
She looks at me with utter confusion, like I’m...
Breasts.
“What are you talking about?” she asks.
“Stay out of it,” I suggest, my voice slow with intent. “Whatever attraction they have for each other will work its way out.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Don’t get involved.”
She throws her hands up in the air. “It’s like you’re speaking another language. What do you mean?”
A cold gong rings through my body.
Shannon is half Marie, right? This is the Marie part coming out.
I grab her shoulders and try a different tack, locking my eyes on hers. “What, exactly, did Andrew do?”
“Nothing.”
“Huh?”
“He did nothing.”
“He’s in trouble for doing nothing?”
“Exactly.”
My tiny little raisin balls ache with confusion. “I do not understand.”
She makes a derisive sound in the back of her throat. “Men.”
“‘Men’? What the hell does my being a man have to do with the fact that you’re skewering my brother for doing nothing with Amanda?”
“That’s the whole point!”
“Who’s on first?” I joke.
Her jaw drops as if I’ve slapped her. Shannon’s lower lip quivers and she looks away, her head bowed down.
“I think you should go, Declan. Now’s not a good time.”
That gong chimes louder inside me.
“I—” I really don’t know what to say. No, seriously. This entire hour is like something out of a Tommy Wiseau movie.
The only thing that would make this any weirder is if her mother appeared and—
“Hello!” calls out a familiar voice, the front door behind me opening.
In walks Marie.
“You on your period, too?” Shannon snaps at her mom.
“My period? No. Honey, that ship sailed a long time ago. Your poor father rode the red tide for three decades, and he can retire the crimson pirate mustache now.” Marie stands on tip toe and gives me a kiss on the cheek after leaving that statement hanging in the air like a silent-but-deadly bit of flatulence.
She really knows how to make an entrance.
The tension between me and Shannon must be palpable, because as she reaches to give Shannon a hug, Marie says to no one in particular, “Lover’s spat?” She finishes embracing Shannon and turns to look at me, her arm around her daughter.
“We’re fine, Mom,” Shannon says through clenched teeth.
Marie cranes her neck around Shannon and looks back where Amy and Amanda are whispering. She sniffs the air. “Ooo, Thai!”
“And ice cream,” I add. Shannon just looks at me, the neutrality in her stare unnerving.
“Marry a man who brings you period food and who....oh.” Marie’s voice drops off and she leans closer to me, waving Shannon in. We huddle.
“Are you two fighting because Declan doesn’t like to—”
“No,” I snap.
“I just meant were you—”
“No.”
“Are you sure? Because I understand that some men are squeamish—”
“No.”
“Do you mean no, you don’t, or no, you—”
“No. I’m not going to talk about this with you, Marie. No, I draw a boundary around certain topics with you. No, I refuse to let you bulldoze over my privacy, no matter how good your intentions.” The whispering in the other room has stopped.
My voice rises as I add, “And no, I’m not going to talk about my unwillingness to talk about it.”
I engage Resting Asshole Face.
Marie blanches.
Then she blinks slowly, turning to Shannon with a pale face but resigned eyes.
“Any Pad Thai left?”
“Declan’s half,” Shannon says, pointing to the abandoned carton on the table.
Ouch. Now I feel like a jerk. How can I go from being the Period Errand Savior to a jerk in an hour?
Because I’m in a relationship. That’s how.
I lean over and give Shannon a kiss on the cheek. “I love you. I’ll...we’ll talk later.”
“Yes. We will.” She sighs. “Love you, too.”
“Oooooooo!” Marie squeals as she holds the carton of noodles in one hand and a DVD case in another. “Return to Me. One of my favorites!”
That’s my cue to leave.
CHAPTER TWELVE
A few phones calls on the way home and by the time I get there, Andrew’s made himself comfortable on my couch, feet up on the leather, a beer sweating in his hand.
“Make yourself at home,” I grumble.
“Always,” he says with a smirk. His hand fishes around a bowl of chocolate-covered pretzels and...cheese curls.
Combined.
“You on your period, too?” I ask.
“What?” he calls out, distracted by the baseball game on my television.
“Never mind.” Beer sounds good. Great. Give me ten of them and a memory wipe and maybe I can salvage the night.
The first cold swig turns into gulping half the bottle and I plop down next to him. “So what the hell’s going on with you and Amanda?”
Have you ever seen a spit take in the movies? Yeah, me too. In the movies.
I’ve never been the recipient of a spit take.
Until now.
Andrew sprays my legs with beer.
“What?” he chokes.
I grab a fistful of his snack monstrosity and dump it in my mouth. A few chews later and I have to grudgingly confess it’s damn good. If I were a woman with monthly cycles I’d chow this stuff down.
Andrew has no hormonal excuse.
“The estrogen crew were having an Asshole Boyfriend Summit and you were the guest of honor. In absentia.”
If he had another mouthful of beer it would shoot across the room and spoil my screen. “What are you talking about?”
I shrug. “No idea. But Shannon and I are fighting now and your DNA is infecting me.”
“Speak English.” He finishes his beer and snatches the snack bowl away from me.
“I am an asshole by association. You’re a McCormick, I’m a McCormick, and you pissed them all off.”
“I’m not—I just—I...hell. What did they say I did?”
“Nothing.”
“Well, that explains everything doesn’t it?”
“What kind of ‘nothing’ did you do?”
He shifts on the sofa, suddenly uncomfortable. Uh oh. This is deeper than I expected. If Andrew were shtupping Amanda he’d make a joke, or brag about it. The quiet discomfort is unsettling.
He’s going to talk about his feelings.
I’d rather talk about riding the red tide with Marie.
“I never called. That’s all.”
“Since when?”
His face tightens. “June.”
“Two months?” Ouch. Poor Amanda, but...
“Wrong June.”
“Fourteen months? You slept with my girlfriend’s best friend and didn’t call for fourteen months? You sick bastard. I’m ready to go back to Shannon’s with a tray of crab rangoon and three dozen chocolate-dipped Oreos to beg forgiveness for my genetic waste of a brother on behalf of all men.”
“I didn’t sleep with her.”
Oh. Huh.
“Why not?”
He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing. Andrew looks like a nervous teen.
“It’s...um...”
Aw, shit.
“You’re in love with her?”
“No!” The word is fierce and desperate. Aha.
“Yo
u’re in love with her tits?” I shove the beer bottle in my mouth before he can scream at me. The long line of beer, like an unfurling ribbon, feels so good.
“I, no, well...yes. I mean, you know.”
We nod and say in unison:
“Breasts.”
“Right,” he adds. “We just had this moment and then it felt like it might turn into a thing and I don’t want a thing.”
“You don’t want a thing? You have things all the time.”
“Things without strings, sure. But not things with—”
“Women who expect actual reciprocity and mutual respect.”
“Exactly.”
For the second time tonight, I’m left wondering if I’m in a Tommy Wiseau movie.
“So you dumped her—”
“There was nothing to dump! We shared a kiss.”
“A kiss.” I snag a chocolate-covered pretzel from the bowl and ignore him as we watch the Sox score a run.
“Just a kiss,” he says absentmindedly as we watch the slow mo repeat. “And it’s all your fault.”
“My fault?”
“Your fault.”
“I forced you to shove your tongue down Amanda’s throat?”
He ponders that for a second, then shoves a handful of food in his mouth. “Yep,” he mumbles.
He looks so much like Dad right now I’m creeped out.
“How, exactly, did I manage that feat of physics?”
“By being a douchebag to Shannon.”
“When?” I’m man enough to admit that yes, I have been a douchebag to Shannon at various times. Pinpointing exactly which time is an art.
He gives me a hard look. “When you dumped her.”
Clear as a bell, because I only dumped her once. And technically, for the record, I didn’t dump her. I just, well, we had words. We had words because....
Okay. Fine. I own my stupidity.
“You mean after she pretended to be Amanda’s wife and...” I wave my hand. “That.”
“Right.” He mimics me. “That. When you were a douche.”
“We’ve established my douchebaggery. What does that have to do with you kissing Amanda?”
“I need another beer,” he mutters.
“Is this going to be a long story? Because I’m starving,” I add. And I realize I really am, because I shoveled three bites of Pad Thai in me at Shannon’s before I was so rudely uninvited because I talked about Amanda’s tits.
Andrew looks at me like he’s reading my mind. He has a look of anger worse than that time I took his Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle underwear and used them as a hat for the dog.
“Grab me two beers,” he says.
“How about a beer and a tequila chaser?” I offer. A perfectly acceptable dinner substitute. If I get him drunk he’ll spill his guts. Never underestimate the power of liquoring up your future CEO little brother and getting him to tell you all his secrets. It’s like hacking Sony, but you don’t have to deal with North Korea to get the dirt.
“Even better.”
Two beers and two shots later, I’m Andrew’s best friend. In fact, I may be his two best friends. He needs a little depth-perception assistance as I slide him a third shot.
“Her lips taste like vanilla and victory,” he groans.
We’ve slipped into ‘bad poet’ territory here. I surreptitiously take back the third shot.
“Like sugar and spice,” he adds.
“Like snails and puppy dog tails,” I mutter.
“No.” He frowns. “They really don’t.”
“Why didn’t you call her?”
“Why did you ditch Shannon?” He gives me an unfocused eye. “Then again, I wouldn’t date a woman who drove a car with a giant piece of shit on it, either.”
“She doesn’t drive that anymore,” I say, tensing. Andrew made fun of that promotional car every chance he got. “Besides, your woman has a bad case of crabs on her—”
“She’s not my woman,” Andrew argues, fierce and clear suddenly.
I hold up my palms and give him some respect. “Sure. Fine.”
He stands up from the tall stool at the long counter that separates my kitchen from the open-concept living room. The counter is one enormous piece of sliced tree, varnished and polished to a high shine, with evenly-spaced lamps that hang from the ceiling, elongated, hand-blown glass from an artisan out in Shelburne Falls near the Berkshires.
I had nothing to do with any of these choices. That’s what interior designers are for. But as Andrew stands he bangs his head on one of the glass lamp shades and it goes swinging like Jeffrey at a Little League game, up at bat and whiffing out with majestic grandeur.
I catch the globe as Andrew shakes it out of its coupling, saving it from hitting the mature wood and shattering into thousands of tiny slivers that would bedevil me for months and consign me to no bare feet.
“Nice reflexes.”
“That’s what she said.”
Without a word, Andrew staggers to the couch and stretches out. He groans, then says, “That is the most overdone joke. If another guy says that in a business meeting I’m going to zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.”
And he’s out.
If I were the warm, loving, caring kind of brother who nurtured Andrew and really wanted what was best for him, I’d rouse him and make him sleep in the guest bedroom. His neck is bent at an angle and he’s going to wake up dehydrated, with a pounding head and a nasty spasm.
Or two. I’m pretty sure that torch he’s carrying for Amanda is damn heavy.
Instead, I grab a fleece blanket from the closet and toss it over him, turning out the lights. The hanging lamp still rocks back and forth, millimeter by millimeter, the only movement in my apartment.
I finish my beer, the soundtrack of my life right now the heavy breath of Andrew in slumber. If I want to listen to someone almost snore, I’d prefer they be naked, spooned against me, generous ass a half-promise for more nookie in the morning, and protesting that she doesn’t snore as we go for round four as dawn breaks.
Instead, I get my drunk power-broker little brother blathering on about my girlfriend’s best friend and a single kiss from fourteen months ago. How is it that one woman can turn us into idiots when hundreds...er, tens...can flow through our lives without attachment?
I take stock of the night.
First, the Period Errand. Then the Asshole Boyfriend Summit.
And, finally, the Bromigod. As oh, my God, what is going on with my brother? Because what the hell was that? My night started with a group of weepy lovesick women and ended with a weepy lovesick man.
Can this day be over?
Fuck it. I declare it over, walking into my empty bedroom, stripping down naked and crawling between cold sheets that don’t make any sense.
Luckily, sleep doesn’t have to.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Something feels off. I sit up, moonlight streaming through the expanse of glass behind my headboard, the ticking silence of the middle of the night grey and ethereal. My mouth is dry and my skin tingles with danger.
My own home isn’t safe.
Clicking sounds in the distance pierce my closed bedroom door. I quietly open my closet and pull out the aluminum baseball bat I store in there for moments like this.
Whatever this is.
Later, I realize I should have called 911. But when you’re in the haze of being woken by a home invasion, you don’t think clearly.
Besides, evolution has primed me for this very moment. Testosterone oozes out of my pores. This is a moment men imagine from the time they’re small little beasts with superhero capes and nerf guns.
Defending our turf.
Quiet as a ninja, I walk on the balls of my feet, opening my bedroom door and proceeding down the hall. Andrew is silent, too, his feet hanging off the end of my couch, the blanket pooled on the floor beneath him. His mouth is open and he’s drooling a little, my nice leather sleek and shiny in the moonlight.
He’s useless against the s
even-foot, muscled cat burglar who is obviously here to steal my soul and my valuable electronics.
My eyes dart to the door, where an inch of light from the hallway peeks in, illuminating the library table where I dump my mail.
A knee appears, with a shiny high heel at the foot.
Interesting cat burglar.
Then more knee. A thigh. Hips that make hot blood pound through me, the rest of Shannon entering the room on tip toes. She rotates and closes the door with such precision I start to wonder if she breaks into people’s houses for a living.
I flatten myself against the wall where she can’t see me, and slowly set the baseball bat on a small wool area carpet. We’re both creeping around my apartment in silence, but for very different reasons now.
She cuts behind the couch and stands in front of the breakfast bar, slipping off her trench coat.
Oh, sweet merciful universe.
She is naked except for the high heels.
Merry Christmas in August.
Those come-fuck-me pumps are candy apple red and scream out my name. No, really. I can hear them, tiny little voices that only my now-rising-to-the-occasion little head can hear. It’s like those shoes communicate on a radio frequency that my testicles can tune into.
And...I’m at attention.
What is she doing here?
“Shannon?” I whisper, stepping out into the moonlight, hoping I don’t scare her.
She startles and freezes, hand on one breast over her heart. Her hair is loose and flowing, and she’s curled it. She painted her face, eyes big and bright, lips red and stunning.
She shifts her weight to one hip, eager and a little shy, but also bold.
“Let’s make up,” she says, squaring her shoulders. “And happy birthday!”
Happy Birthday?
Oh, man. That’s right. I’d completely forgotten.
Andrew’s head pops up from the other side of the couch and he gapes at Shannon. “Dec? You hired a stripper? I knew you and Shannon were on the outs, but damn, man, you can’t just—”
“AAAAIIIIEEEEEEEE!” Shannon screams. If this whole marrying a billionaire and working in corporate America thing doesn’t work for her, she has a future in horror films.
“Are you naked?” Andrew asks me, hair standing on end like a Yorkshire terrier got into a fight with a glue gun. “Dude, put your junk away. I don’t need to see that,” he adds with disgust.
