The Walsh Brothers

by Kate Canterbary

  Patrick frowned, and leaned against the edge of the teak dining table, his arms crossing over his chest. Something about those rolled up shirtsleeves knocked my train of thought off course every time. "Would what be so bad?"

  Lowering my gaze to Patrick's eyes, I hugged my arms around my legs. "You said you wanted to wake up next to me every single day."

  Patrick nodded, the muscles in his jaw pulsing. "Yeah."

  "What does that mean?" My hand swept out, gesturing between us. "What happens at the end of my apprenticeship?"

  "What do you mean, what happens? You're staying right here. We're tearing up half of the office space in a few weeks because I'm building you your own fucking office, Andy, six and a half feet away from mine, because I can't function without you."

  My own office.

  At Walsh Associates.

  "When did you plan on mentioning that? I've spent the past three months trying to figure out what to do when this ends. You could have spared me two dozen phone interviews and some of the most ludicrous performance tasks ever conceived."

  Patrick stared at me, irritation and sadness and confusion passing over his face. "You've been interviewing?"

  "Yes," I cried, my hands slapping the wooden seat. "Life beyond June hasn't been a popular topic of conversation."

  "But you're leading Mahoney and Castavechia, and Wellesley is far from finished," he replied, his hands spread wide in front of him as if that evidence proved his point. "Plus the other nineteen projects you have going through June."

  "Right, and though those are late summer projects, you've never said 'Andy, we're hiring you at the end of your apprenticeship, so don't waste your time interviewing with morons.'"

  Patrick returned his hands to the armrests and leaned forward. We were a breath apart. "Andy. We're hiring you at the end of your apprenticeship. Don't waste your time interviewing with morons." His lips brushed over my jaw and down my throat, then up, finally stopping at my lips. "I spent all day finalizing plans for your office with Riley—"

  "Did he see my boobs?"

  "Not that he's admitting." Patrick laughed, and dropped his head to my knees. "Andy…We need to talk about…a lot of things. Let me take you inside."

  "You said there were at least five things. You can sit," I pointed across the table, "over there. Where you can behave."

  "Not happening," Patrick murmured, and he dragged an ottoman in front of my chair. Sitting, he wrapped his hands around my ankles and rubbed small circles along my calves. "We start construction at the end of the month, and we're sectioning my office to create space for you. I changed the design to put a glass wall between us, so it feels like one room and I can always see you. Deal with it. That's one. I need you in that office because you've earned it. I also don't have the patience for Mahoney or Castavechia, and you know my position on Wellesley. Don't even think about taking another interview because you're incredible and fucking gifted, and everyone agrees with me. And I'm beyond pissed that you were looking, and didn't tell me. That's two."

  My hand reached out, weaving my fingers through his hair, and he leaned into my touch. "What else?"

  "How do you feel about covering Matt's projects while he's away?"

  "That's mostly structural?" Patrick nodded. "Hm. I may need to dig out a few textbooks, but yeah. Sure."

  "I'm not worried about it. The fact that you know which textbooks to dig out proves you can handle it."

  "That's three."

  Patrick groaned, and turned his face to press a kiss in the center of my palm. "I'm going up to Ithaca next week. Fundraising photo op, basically. Thursday into Friday."

  "There's no reason to be grumpy about that, Patrick. There's nothing better than Cornell in May. I'd love to go back for a few days."

  His eyes brightened. "Come with me."

  My thoughts darted to Charlotte and some of the prevailing campus gossip. "I'm supervising demo on those rickety little windows in the attic at Wellesley next Thursday, and considering how it went with the windows in the sunroom, I'm expecting problems."

  "Then I'm sticking with grumpy."

  My hand moved to his neck, and I waited for the next item on his list. His wry humor was gone, and in its place, cords of tension tightened beneath my fingers.

  "Shannon knows. We had this huge argument today. She called me on a lot of superbly accurate shit, and…I'm sorry. For what it's worth, she had no idea, and she'll take it to the grave."

  I waited for the wave of panic, but it never crashed. "Lauren knows."

  "Lauren, what—what?" Patrick's eyes burned with uncertainty when he gripped my wrist, stilling my fingers. "Since…how?"

  I gulped loudly and concentrated on the thin, jagged scar on my right knee earned from a rusty nail on a jobsite three years ago. Focusing on the fine white line was easier than analyzing the frustration in Patrick's voice. "Since she figured it out a couple of months ago. She's very perceptive."

  "So Matt knows?"

  Shrugging, I met Patrick's eyes. "She hasn't told him, no."

  "So we're going to all this trouble to keep Matt and Sam in the dark? Two people who adore you and would give approximately zero fucks about what we do?"

  "That's one very linear way of thinking about it."

  Patrick released my wrist and his hands fell to his lap. His narrowed eyes scanned the neighboring rooftops for several minutes before he spoke again.

  "I want this. You. Us. I want the language that your eyes speak and all of your quirks, even if they drive me fucking crazy. I want you to live here with me, I want you working next to me, and I want everyone to know. I want us to be like we are now, but…I don't want any more secrets."

  I stared at him in the bright city darkness, blinking while his words caught fire in my belly. "I want that, too."

  A dazzling, childlike smile filled Patrick's face, and he laced our fingers together. "Good. Now if you don't mind, I'm taking your sweet ass to bed because you need to stop thinking and have some rough sex. Let me just get those paper clips out of your hair first."

  "Oh, Andy," Lauren whispered, tucking the card into the envelope. She stood, stretching out her arms in my direction, and I squeezed her shoulders. "Thank you. This is perfect."

  "Tell me, tell me!" Shannon demanded, her neck craning to see between us.

  "It is a book all about the Swiss Lakes District," she replied, brushing tears from the corners of her eyes. "For the honeymoon. And she included ideas for boat tours and hikes, and restaurants and everything, it's wonderful. I can't wait, and Matthew is going to love it."

  Returning to my seat, I adjusted the waist on my navy blue skirt and fiddled with my hot pink bib necklace—I couldn't get away without some brightness at a bridal shower—while Shannon gazed at me with a fond smile. It was her new thing, and I smiled in response before turning my attention to Lauren's next gift.

  Shannon created reasons to swing by Patrick's office or casually chat while I refilled my water bottle in the kitchen. Her pretenses were always sensible: she was thinking about placing a furniture order for the new offices, and wanted my thoughts, or she heard about a new farmers' market by Northeastern University for my Saturday ritual. Implicit in all of it was her closely guarded approval mixed with a fierce warning that she was keeping an eye on me.

  I begged Patrick for two more weeks of semi-secrecy but I was more than ready to drop the act with Shannon. I didn't dare tell him that. I wasn't about to see him bust a capillary over my shifting feelings. Two more weeks brought us up to the day Riley and I swapped places so I could get up to speed on Matt's projects and engineering processes. It seemed like a clean transition point, and while I wasn't looking forward to relocating to the second floor, I was ready to go public.

  Lauren plowed through a dense pile of pristine white gift wrapping to uncover more wine glasses, serving trays, and silver picture frames than any couple could ever put to good use, but she graciously complimented each gift and thanked the giver. Once the gifts were op
ened and cake served, the guests trickled out of Shannon's apartment. It wasn't long until we were alone.

  Together with Shannon and Lauren, we finished the dregs of eight champagne bottles. Shannon regaled us with another round of tragic dating stories: the guy who made his own deodorant, the guy who didn't mention he was engaged until they were naked, the guy who kept an awkwardly large collection of stuffed animals, the guy who wanted to be a lactation consultant because he was really into boobs. For a beautiful, successful woman, Shannon tapped into a special crop of Boston's most eligible bachelors.

  Later, I found myself shuttling stray champagne flutes into the kitchen when Lauren wrapped her arm around my waist. "Hear from your boy tonight?" she asked, her finger swiping a dollop of frosting off the cake.

  "I assume he's the one blowing up my phone, considering it hasn't stopped vibrating, but I haven't looked. Yours?"

  She sucked another dollop of frosting from her finger and nodded. "Yep. It's amusing that he's spending his bachelor party texting. I'm thinking about wandering down Berkeley Street soon. I wouldn't be surprised to find him chatting up an oak tree or passed out in Park Plaza."

  "I thought Nick was supervising," I whispered as Shannon approached.

  Lauren shrugged. "He was on call, and something came up."

  As much as I enjoyed Patrick's drunken texts, I was more interested in getting him home.

  "That's the last time I order a cake this size for twenty skinny bitches," Shannon muttered. "We probably could have shared a single cupcake."

  "Speak for yourself," Lauren said. "This cake and I have plans. There's nothing better than cold cake for breakfast."

  "It's all yours."

  "Thanks for such a wonderful night, Shan." Lauren folded Shannon into a tight hug. "You're the best non-maid of honor this girl could ask for."

  "You're the best sister-in-law," Shannon retorted, her eyes meeting mine over Lauren's shoulder. "You make my brother happy, and you take care of him, and that's more than I could ever ask for."

  I held her loaded gaze for a beat before excusing myself to the bathroom—that bathroom—to apply a fresh coat of lip balm and check my phone. Three texts from Jess inviting me out for drinks and dancing—declined with the promise of catching up later in the week. One from Charlotte showing off a cute new sundress. Twelve from Patrick.

  Patrick: What time is your thing finished?

  Patrick: Tell me when you're done and I'll leave

  Patrick: Three good reasons why you'd hate this restaurant

  Patrick: 1. Waiters in white jackets.

  Patrick: 2. There's pot roast on the menu. It claims to be epic but…

  Patrick: 3. All kinds of raw bar up in here

  Patrick: But you'd be all about the beet salad

  Patrick: I actually think you'd like a few things on this dessert menu

  Patrick: Is there a cake at this party?

  Patrick: How long has it been since I touched you? It feels like 400 years and I hate that

  Patrick: When I get you home, you're mine.

  Patrick: Here's the thing about whiskey: its great

  I chuckled, and typed out a quick response.

  Andy: On my way out soon, glad I missed the raw bar, you saw me this afternoon, and I'm always yours.

  Andy: Where are you?

  Emerging from the bathroom, I found Lauren belting a light raincoat while Shannon reclined on a tufted chaise. "Don't worry about this stuff," Shannon said, her hand waving toward the mountain of gifts. "I'll keep it in my guest room until Matt can drop by."

  "Yeah, he'll love doing that when he's too hungover to blink tomorrow," Lauren replied. She glanced toward me, a questioning look in her eye. "Walk with me?"

  I nodded, and we departed after another round of hugs. "Any idea where they'll be?"

  "They ate on Berkeley Street, and I'm guessing they either went to M at the Mandarin Oriental or Eastern Standard. Sam's probably the ringleader, and I bet he's all about M. That boy is hooked up at all the VIP spots."

  Thankfully, Shannon's apartment on the southern slope of Beacon Hill was only a few blocks from the Common and Boylston Street, and the trek in nude heels wasn't treacherous but it did force me to shorten my steps. I gazed at gorgeous brick homes as we strolled, thinking back to the snowy day in January when I hiked these streets after my interview with Patrick and Shannon.

  At the edge of the Common, Lauren grabbed my wrist and pointed across the intersection. "Do you see what I see?"

  And there they were: four well-dressed, strikingly handsome hooligans stumbling and shoving each other, howling with laughter, and looking like trouble. They crossed toward the park and nearly walked right by us.

  That whiskey must have been fabulous.

  "Dude, dude, it's Princess Jasmine and Miss Honey!" Riley yelled, his fist landing on Patrick's shoulder for emphasis.

  Lauren and I glanced at each other, quickly shaking our heads. "I don't know what it is about these kids and nicknames," she muttered, "but you're an official member of the club now."

  "Miss Honey?" I asked.

  "You know," she shrugged. "From Matilda? That sweet, innocent teacher?"

  "Oh yeah," I replied. "They don't know you at all."

  "Nope," Lauren giggled.

  Riley wrapped his arm around my shoulder. "You're like really high priced call girls."

  Patrick squinted, studying me as if he didn't believe I was standing five feet away before grabbing the neck of Riley's shirt. "Did you just call her a hooker?"

  "No," Riley replied, drawing the word out. "It's just funny that they're standing here, on the corner. And they're really hot. So hot."

  "Come on, Matthew," Lauren commanded, grabbing him by the belt and waving for a cab. "Time to put you to bed. And I have cake. Andy, text me tomorrow."

  "Whatever you do, do not eat that cake," Patrick yelled. "It's perverted!"

  Lauren and I exchanged another confused glance as she poured Matt into a cab. Patrick maintained his hold on Riley's collar, his gaze dark and unfocused. Against my better judgment, I pried his fingers away and wrapped my arm around his waist. "Enough of that," I murmured, and he dropped a sloppy kiss on my mouth.

  Sam wagged his finger between Patrick and me, a puzzled look crossing his face. "What…?"

  Riley clapped Sam on the back and pointed down the street. "Are we going to M or what, man? The night's young and so are we. And you said you'd introduce me to those actresses who were shooting that film in Southie."

  "Are you going to tell me what's—"

  "Nope." Riley towed Sam toward Boylston Street. "Classified information." They walked away, Sam glancing over his shoulder repeatedly before they detoured down a side street.

  "Whiskey, huh?" We wandered through the park, my arm anchored on Patrick's waist to minimize his wobbling.

  "Whiskey is great," he slurred. He was silent for a few moments, the sounds of my clicking heels echoing around us. "My aunt, my father used to say she was a tough old broad, she used to drink whiskey in bed with an alligator every night."

  "Yeah, I'm sure she did," I replied.

  "After my mother died, she came over with casseroles. So many casseroles. Chicken divan. Chicken à la king. Chicken cacciatore. Chicken pie. Chicken and dumplings. Fuckin' chicken. One time, Shannon left it in the oven too long, Jesus, Shannon should not be allowed in a chicken."

  "You mean a kitchen?"

  "That's what I said. It is a fucking public health crisis when she tries to cook. And she left it in too long, and when she tried to get it out of the pan, my hand on the bible, the dish slipped off the counter and popped Sam square in the eye. That son of a bitch had a black eye for a month, and no one believed it was a casserole. They just assumed a girl beat the shit out of him. But that was a meatloaf."

  My apartment was closer and as we made our way to my floor, it was obvious that Patrick was in no shape for steep, narrow stairs, slipping and knocking his shins against the risers every few st
eps. "Fuckin' stairs," he groaned.

  He leaned against the wall while I fished my keys from my clutch, his eyes sweeping back and forth across the landing.

  "Andy," he whispered. "Where are we?"

  I pushed him through the doorway, propping him against a wall while I stepped out of my heels. "My place."

  "No shit?" he murmured. "Final frontier. There's probably something else I don't know about you though, but I don't know what I don't know. You don't give me much, Andy. I don't even know your long name, like your real name, not Andy."

  "Andriel Ava Mazanderani Asani. You can see how I'd need to shorten that." I glanced at him while he listed precariously to the left. "And you only have to ask, Patrick."

  "'If you have to ask, you'll never know.'"

  "Not sure that quote applies to this situation." With the hot pink necklace returned to its peg in my closet, I padded into the kitchen. Patrick followed and pawed through my refrigerator.

  "I can't find any roast beef…or anything from the deli."

  "I keep a vegan kitchen here."

  Patrick slammed the refrigerator shut and stared at me, shocked. "There're so many things wrong with that statement. You're not a vegan."

  I shrugged. "Sometimes I am a vegan, and…you're not going to remember this conversation tomorrow, so let's not argue about it."

  His hand waved toward the wall of boxes. "Packing up already?"

  We didn't reach a clear agreement on my move-in date because I couldn't get out of my lease within Patrick's timeframe of right-that-second.

  "Never unpacked," I murmured, my fingers flying over the buttons of his shirt.

  "Lauren used to live a few blocks away. Chipmunk Street. Wait—no, Chestnut. Fuck, Andy, she makes him so fucking happy. He used to be so, I don't know, cold. Like he didn't care about anything. He didn't want to care. But now? Happy. Not like double rainbows every day happy, or some bullshit, but he's…I don't know. Loved. He's loved, and he loves her, and for a coupl'a kids who wouldn't know how to love a leprechaun if it fucked us in the ass, he's working at it, and doing it, and it's working."

  "A leprechaun, huh?"