The Walsh Brothers

by Kate Canterbary

  "Yeah, I'm sorry about that," I said. "I've been a little…disorganized recently."

  "You should consider purchasing a day planner," he said. "You're well?"

  I wasn't starting a discussion about the nine million things I managed on a regular basis or whether "disorganized" was code for "I didn't want to talk to you."

  "Very well. Things are good. How are things there?"

  "We had the christening for Melina's new baby this morning, and it was beautiful. There's a party tonight," he added.

  I pulled my lip between my teeth and hummed. I didn't even know my cousin had been pregnant, let alone given birth. That was the price I paid for taking a gigantic, purposeful step away from my family, and shit, every time I heard stories about births and weddings and joyful, together moments, I doubted my decisions. Being the outsider hurt, and it wasn't like breaking up with a significant other or growing apart from friends. It was cutting that blood-thick kinship and feeling like a traitor every day, and accepting that the pain was good. Healthy. Necessary.

  "But I'm calling about Diwali," he said.

  He didn't have to say anything else; the question was implied.

  When I was younger, we'd go to certain Hindu celebrations in the region. Diwali for the new year, Holi to welcome springtime, Navratri in the fall, and others when the dates worked with our other commitments.

  Agapi never expressed much interest in my father's culture, preferring instead to spend her time helping at the restaurant and getting involved with our neighborhood church and its Greek Orthodox Youth Association. These celebrations became the special thing we did together, just me and Dad.

  But family was complicated.

  My parents were mortified when I got married, and insisted I come home immediately because—obviously—New York City was a bad influence on me. That, and music was an absurd waste of time, and I'd never succeed, and I should be more like my sister and work at the restaurant before I ended up addicted to drugs or pregnant or homeless, or all of the above.

  I didn't return home, and we didn't speak for nearly three years.

  I was dead to them, or that was what I was left to believe. Not a single word from my parents, my sister, or anyone in my extended family. No birthday cards, no calls on Christmas, not even an email when my great aunt Iris died. Nothing.

  Then I received a letter from my father with an invitation to a Diwali party. I was divorced, sharing a two-bedroom apartment with five other band geeks outside of Boston, and working no fewer than eight jobs, but I spent the last few dollars in my bank account for the train fare to Newark.

  I needed to believe they hadn't abandoned me entirely.

  It was good to see him again but it was strained, loaded down with layers of disapproval. I wasn't first chair in the Boston Symphony Orchestra—or any orchestra, for that matter—and, from his perspective, this music endeavor was an apparent failure. According to my father, it was time to put this all behind me. He even offered to let me perform in the restaurant on Saturday evenings.

  Maybe it was pride or maybe it was my diehard belief that a Greek restaurant in Jersey would never be my home, but I hugged him goodbye and knew part of me was actually, really, truly dead to them.

  Since then, I'd been home twice: Agapi's wedding and my grandfather's funeral.

  He made a point of calling me at least once a month, and though the conversations became less tense, none of this got any easier.

  "I wish I could, Dad," I said. I ran my fingers through the brittle grass and sighed. "Really. But I can't get away that week. I have midterms to grade, and one of my little friends, Lillian, is having a piano recital."

  "That sounds like something that's important to you," he said. "There will always be another Diwali."

  When we disconnected, I toggled through my phone to find tonight's live music listings. Talking to my father stole my energy and the pounding delight of a concert was the only thing to refill my tank. I tagged several intriguing shows and sent a text to Sam.

  Tiel: Let's go out tonight. Too many good shows to miss.

  Sam: I wish I could. Business dinner with the landscape architect on my next big project.

  Tiel: I wouldn't think you'd be a fan of business dinners

  Sam: Eh. I'm not but I am a fan of this architect.

  Tiel: Ok. I'll be at the Roxy if you finish early or whatever.

  The only thing that message was missing was a starry-eyed emoticon to go along with my aggressively casual tone. My preference was spending every night with Sam, and I think that inclination went all the way back to our first night together. There wasn't a point when I wanted it to end.

  Sam: Do you…miss me?

  Tiel: Of course not but you still don't know the difference between folk and funk, and that's a crisis

  Sam: I think you miss me and want me to tell you some dirty stories

  I really, really did. On both counts.

  Tiel: I've always been a captive audience

  Sam: Unfortunately for you, I have to present a proposal but believe me when I say I'd rather talk about your tits than a 3 million dollar renovation

  Tiel: I'll find a way to survive without

  Needing more coffee, I headed down the street to the café I favored in this neighborhood. I was happiest with a cappuccino in my hand, and a steady stream of caffeine was my only real luxury. It wasn't like I could afford many more luxuries; playing music and going to grad school were damn expensive, and it looked as though I'd be paying for my education for several decades. That fact gave me periodic flashes of panic, and it proved I didn't have a plan for dealing with life yet.

  When I came down from those bouts of hysteria, I reminded myself I preferred the unplanned life. I knew there'd always be special kids who needed my help, and I could figure it all out as I went along. There was no need to carve a future into stone or declare myself, forever and always, for any particular path. I craved the freedom to wander: travel the world, get a different degree, learn another family of instruments, join the circus, or whatever.

  That didn't mean I was blowing off my dissertation. I liked academia enough, but I wasn't sure I was willing to kill myself for a tenure-track professorship. It was an enormous commitment, and I worried that I'd drift away from the things I loved: working with kids, and playing and sharing my music.

  But there was a convenience associated with the never-ending story of my doctorate. My schedule gave me the flexibility to work one-on-one with kids, and spend the summer with a noisy crew of geeks at band camp, and the fluidity of my research allowed me the space to study and explore.

  When I stepped away from all that and looked at it from a squinty side view, I knew I was also building a life free from expectations. No real obligations or responsibilities of any kind. I couldn't disappoint anyone if I didn't commit to anything, and no one could reject me if I didn't stick around long enough to be rejected.

  Most days I told myself I was unfettered by materialism or career-obsession, and that was a joyous gift in this world, but I knew it was so much deeper than that.

  I could handle any amount of criticism of my work—the music, the therapeutic sessions, the teaching—but I couldn't deal with rejection. It was less devastating to walk away from relationships, to be the one who stopped calling or broke it off with vague clichés about focusing on myself or not looking for anything serious right now.

  I slept better when I wasn't worried whether I was good enough for anyone else. I chose not to worry about the future, and the possibility that I'd end up sad and lonely and wishing I'd done it all differently.

  With my iced cappuccino, I wandered through stylish shops on Newbury Street. As I ran my fingers over a display of vibrant ties, it occurred to me that Sam hid from rejection, too. The cavalier attitude, the consumerist approach to sex, the distance he required.

  Perhaps that was what I recognized in him: the bitter taste of abandonment, the one that never fully dissipated.

  That was ho
w I knew him.

  9

  Sam

  "All right, just a few more things on my list," Shannon said.

  Those exact words had passed her lips twice already, and I was tempted to clarify her definition of few. I was tired and irritable, and after lifting weights for two hours in the middle of the night, my arms protested every time I reached for my coffee.

  I loved Shannon, I really did, but there were moments when I was convinced she just liked hearing herself speak. It was phenomenal that she managed all the non-architectural elements of the business by herself, but that didn't mean I needed to hear about it every goddamn week.

  Shannon turned toward Patrick. "Do you want to talk through the Wellesley issues?"

  He rolled his eyes, murmuring something to himself while he shook his head at his laptop screen.

  "I'll take this," Andy said. "We've updated the energy systems and done a fair amount of restoration on the interior, but there's quite a bit more that should be done. I would argue that, given the age and craftsmanship, we should be talking about more extensive preservation. I see this as a project we'll carry for a longer term."

  When that quiet bomb detonated, the temperature in the room dropped. Everyone sat back in their chairs, eyes were averted, and silence lingered.

  I knew it was just a house, but I also knew this house was much more than four walls, a roof, and some dirt.

  It was true what they said about never being able to go home, and not just because my father told me never to step foot on his land again when I was eighteen. If, by some fantastical turn of events, I found myself at Wellesley—the shorthand we used to refer to our childhood home—it wouldn't be the same place that spawned my fondest memories and worst nightmares.

  I alternately loved it and hated it, wanted to keep it in our family for eternity and wanted it burned to the ground, thought about visiting and promised myself I'd never pass through those doors again.

  Shannon cleared her throat, a sure sign for everyone's attention. She said, "The real question, at least from my perspective, is whether we want to carry the property for another calendar year. Knowing that we can't close out Angus's estate until the house is sold. Any additional work means we're leaving the estate open longer. We're also paying property taxes on the house."

  Angus and his fucking will.

  It wasn't bad enough that the bastard took three full weeks to die after his stroke, but he needed to leave us with an obstacle course of a will, too. He wanted his money given to certain people (his non-existent future grandchildren, of course) and spent on specific things (restoring that godforsaken house), and even in death, he wanted to maintain his public appearance with contributions to all the right institutions (Cornell, the regional hospital).

  "And what are the implications of that?" Patrick asked.

  Shannon shrugged. "It's mostly a pain in the ass for me. But—"

  "Do we have to talk about this?" I asked. Every time Shannon brought it up, I could hear my blood rushing through my head like a water cannon, and I had to talk myself out of imploding on the spot. Angus owned enough real estate in my head already. "Can't you just let Andy keep working and not bring it up?"

  "Shouldn't we figure out how we're paying for this?" Matt asked.

  "I've only used a quarter of the budget," Andy said.

  I glared across the table at her, and hated her frugality.

  "Sam's right," Patrick said. "As long as there isn't a specific objection to extending the work, Andy and I can figure it out later. And we have an hour of agenda topics to get through in fifteen minutes."

  The project updates were quick, and focusing on my properties brightened my mood. I'd always been able to fall into my designs and block out the world, and right now I was hoping for that relief from the Turlan restoration.

  Shannon recapped the non-disclosure agreement terms, and reminded everyone to keep quiet on that front. "And," she said, "Roof Garden Girl officially agreed to work on this project with Sam. If this goes well, I think we should talk about developing a more formal partnership with her."

  "If I never hear about another roof garden, I'll be a happier person," Patrick said.

  "I'm sure you'd find something else to bitch about," Matt said while Andy laughed into her tea.

  "I think everyone's heard this by now," Shannon said. If everyone knows, you don't need to repeat it. "To support some of Sam's work so that he can dedicate the time necessary to this, Riley is finished with Matt's projects starting today."

  Riley tapped his coffee cup against mine and offered a crooked smile. "I feel like the village donkey. Everyone's getting a ride."

  If someone had told me two months ago that I'd be stepping into a dusty attic in Allston for some bluesy piano on a rainy November night, I'd have told her she was crazy.

  It wasn't as if my original plans were much better. I'd been thinking about finally building the chairs I'd promised Riley for his new office, and maybe making some vegetable soup. It wasn't winter until I made vegetable soup.

  But Tiel called, and she insisted I couldn't continue living without seeing this pianist.

  So, regardless of my day from hell and whether I needed to be alone with my snarly mood and beat the shit out of something, I went to her anyway. In all deference to honesty, I rarely denied her anything.

  Much to my displeasure, Shannon and I had ended up arguing over inconsequential details relating to the Turlan project's PR schedule, and I was now an hour late meeting Tiel. My attitude was out of control and I was more interested in hitting the treadmill than learning to appreciate niche music. The drive was a nightmare, and I was prepared to leave after a quick drink and a long hug.

  We spent an inordinate amount of time together these days. The city's music subculture kept us hopping from venue to venue, and though I didn't share her investment in the scene, I couldn't help but get Tiel's enthusiasm all over me like a bad case of chicken pox.

  When we weren't chasing down shows, we were watching movies at her apartment. There was no lamer approach to the weekend, but I was fucking addicted to our movie nights. The films themselves had nothing to do with my obsession; they were the gateway drug.

  It started out with us falling asleep on her sofa over Labor Day weekend, but as the weeks and months passed, movies became the front for sneaky snuggling.

  We'd start out on opposite ends of the sectional, the picture of platonic. Gradually we moved toward each other, and the reasons were seemingly legitimate: ottoman placement, popcorn distribution, air conditioner proximity when it was hot, quilt sharing now that it was cold, cowering during scary moments. It always transitioned to us lying together, and that was where the boundaries evaporated.

  I mean, where the fuck was I supposed to put my hands when she was curled up next to me? Once my arm was around her shoulder, it was all too easy for it to slide down and rest on her hip.

  God, those hips were sinful. The flare from her waist to hip was a perfect hourglass, and whenever my hand rested in that spot, I had to talk myself out of pulling back her clothes and running my teeth along her skin. It was bad enough that I found myself in that position on a weekly basis, but her fucking wiggling was endless. It was like receiving a goddamn lap dance without all the glitter and skank.

  From there, it was a quick journey to her belly, and that was my favorite spot.

  It sounded a little fetishy even to me, but I adored splaying my fingers out over her tummy. I'd always preferred waifish women, but I revered Tiel's curves. Maybe it was her boundless confidence or complete comfort with her body. I wouldn't want her any other way.

  And I loved touching her. If it were socially acceptable to fuse my hands to her body at all hours of the day, I'd do it and I wouldn't apologize for a damn minute. She was soft and beautiful, and I felt an unusually spectacular comfort when I was pressed against her. I could be content with a layer of clothing between us but it came with a dose of agony. I wanted to feel her skin under mine, and that was th
e greatest shock to my system of all.

  The kissing was another issue. Since the elevator incident, I shared more kisses with Tiel than I had with all previous women combined. To her, the opportunities were limitless, and she seized plenty of them. It was always playful and sweet, and if she ever noticed the aroused state she left me in, she didn't mention it.

  And we were still friends.

  Friends who kissed, friends who slept together on sofas, friends who woke up tangled in each other as if it were their last embrace.

  Friends. Profusely affectionate friends.

  She was seated at a small table in an alcove framed with an angled dormer window. She could have looked like a damn fool with her eyes closed and head rocking with the melody, but that was what made Tiel irresistible. She was real, and real in a way I didn't think was possible.

  There was no space in her life for self-consciousness, and she didn't see any reason to modify herself. She didn't say the right things and she didn't manage her reactions to suit anyone. She wore whatever the hell she wanted to wear—usually the wildest colors in the crayon box and many more necklaces, bracelets, and anklets than any one person should wear at a given time—and she laughed off my critique of her attire.

  My approval was irrelevant to her, and that was fucking amazing.

  I slipped into the seat across from her and tapped my fingers against the back of her hand. Her eyes opened, hazy and slow, the way she would first thing in the morning. To be clear, she was a bear first thing in the morning, but she was also terribly cute.

  "You made it," she said, her face breaking into a bright smile. "I was getting worried."

  "You are exceptionally devoted to the music scene," I said, casting a glance around the space. "Now, I really need you to blow me for this one, Sunshine. I can't remember the last time I went to Allston by choice."

  "Wouldn't you just love that," she said.

  "In fact, I would. I've been in the market for a decent blowjob all week."