The Walsh Brothers

by Kate Canterbary

  In truth, I'd skipped out on my usual scene for weeks. Although no one inquired about the change in my routines, I was armed with some defensible arguments.

  I was exhausted—Tiel had been running my ass all over town, and she didn't tolerate anything less than total participation when live music was involved.

  I was getting in control of my health—hence the soup.

  I was behind on my woodworking projects—Riley was sitting on milk crates and Tiel's coffee table was a shit show.

  The reality was less clear to me. I didn't want to go out alone anymore. I'd grown accustomed to her quirky chatter and complete inability to filter herself when flustered. I didn't know how to entertain myself if I wasn't making gratuitous comments about her breasts or listening to her babble.

  On the rare nights that I did venture beyond the firehouse, I couldn't force myself to tolerate the club crowd unless I was with Riley. Even then, I stayed firmly in wingman territory. I couldn't replicate her frisky take on the world with any of the vapid, thigh-gapped party princesses, and no one could hold my attention quite like Tiel.

  "That should be easy," she said. "Considering your asking price is so low."

  Tiel frequently editorialized on the topic of my sex life. I let most of her commentary slide without discussion as I wasn't about to defend, rationalize, or apologize, but I picked up a sore note in her voice tonight.

  I massaged her wrist, knowing she spent most of her day in the studio and that often left everything from neck to finger aching. "Your tits are a work of art. Da Vinci himself couldn't have sculpted a better pair."

  Tiel sent me a skeptical glare while the waiter took my order. When he was out of earshot, she said, "Does that shit really work for you? Do real women actually beg for the privilege of sucking your dick as a result of those comments?"

  I leaned forward, my elbows propped on the table while I rubbed my eyes. I loved debating with her, but I couldn't do it tonight. I was tired and I hadn't eaten more than some walnuts since morning, and as much as I craved time with Tiel, I didn't want to be listening to sad piano music. I wanted to be in her little apartment with my head in her lap while she talked over entire movies and I wanted to feel her, skin-to-skin, and know her in every way I could.

  "I really don't want to go there with you tonight. Is there a specific question you're asking, or are you just busting my balls right now?"

  She didn't say anything while the waiter returned with our drinks. I studied the space again, recognizing that this wasn't Tiel's usual scene. She liked fast-paced shows that kept her bouncing with the music, and a vibrant, hip crowd that embraced every subculture under the sun. This seemed too sedentary and sleepy for her.

  "You know I got married young," she eventually said. "And that it didn't work out. I was nineteen, and I never stopped to realize that my life was going to change. I mean, you don't get married and live in separate dorm rooms." She laughed, her fingers running through her dark hair. "There was a lot to figure out. Before I knew it, we were ending things."

  I didn't know what to say. I watched her eyes, those expressive hazel eyes, and waited for more.

  "I had to grow up really quickly," she said. "Too fast. And not just because I got married. Sometimes, I look back and I think, wow. I never had a chance to be a kid."

  This was how Tiel got her thoughts out: she started at one point, veered off in a different direction, doubled back, traveled in another direction, and reached the end point in a circuitous, disorganized way, but it made sense in the end. My brain preferred a more linear approach, but there was something captivating about her thought process. Something about getting lost with her.

  "I understand," I said. "I've never been divorced, but I know all about growing up too soon."

  "I know. I think I can see it in you," she said. "Isn't that why you're willing to accept quick, emotionless sex from women who expect nothing from you? Isn't it your way of repossessing some youthful irresponsibility?"

  I should have known she wasn't following the path I expected, but nothing could have prepared me for a discussion of her divorce to end with my sluttiness. I'd never thought of it that way, and I wasn't especially comfortable with that extrapolation. At the same time, I didn't see a reason to unpack her assumptions.

  "And you're suggesting there's an issue with that?"

  "Let me ask you something." She scooted her chair closer and folded her arms on the table. "Think about the last time you hooked up."

  I couldn't remember the last time. I knew it was before meeting Tiel, but I couldn't surface any memory of the location, the person, or the act. A cute strawberry blonde came to mind, but she was earlier in the summer and she only stuck out because I never went for redheads.

  I knew I sampled an artisanal gin that night, and it was exceedingly herbaceous for my preferences. I had a lengthy conversation with the bartender about that bottle of gin, but I couldn't recall anything about the woman who got on her knees for me.

  "Shit," I murmured.

  Tiel lifted her glass and rolled the base on her coaster, leaving a series of overlapping circles from the condensation. She chewed her lip for a moment, and frowned at her drink before meeting my eyes. "I think I have you figured out," she said.

  I made a show of looking at my watch. "And it's only been what? Eight? Nine weeks since you forced me into that elevator? Certainly there's a prize for nailing me down inside two months."

  She smirked, and I could tell I was getting her riled up. "I bet your standard operating procedure is incredible."

  "You're damn right it is," I muttered.

  "Of course," she laughed. "You have all the right moves and flawless execution. I'm sure you can accomplish more in ten minutes, in a random closet no less, than most men aspire to on their best nights."

  I gestured over my shoulder, motioning toward the restrooms. "Would you like me to demonstrate? You pick the closet."

  "Your skills are legend, Samuel," she said. "But that's the issue. Sex isn't about skill. It's passion, and you can't fake that." She brushed her hair away from her face, shrugging. "I know some musicians who can shred every single piece of music put in front of them, but they have no passion for the sound and you can hear it. It's technically perfect, but it's so fucking soulless that you never want to listen to that piece ever again."

  This was her way. She'd ask one seemingly simple question, pull one thread, and take me apart. The topics varied, but every time it came back to peeling away the layers of self-preservation I'd painted on over the years. She knew how to strip me down and see me without any of that protective veneer, and in a sense, it reminded me of Angus. She heard all the outlandish thoughts rambling around my head, but instead of decimating me the way he did, she took those loose, frayed threads and pulled me back together.

  "Most people think passion lives in some thundering monster, a primordial entity that calls all the shots from deep inside your brain, but it's not," she said, growing animated. "It's details. It's the way itsy bitsy sounds bend around each other and create magic. It's pressing your mouth to someone's neck because you can't imagine living another minute without feeling her skin on your lips. Fingertips digging into hips until they bruised. Reaching for someone in the night. Knowing her taste in your soul but never feeling fulfilled. Awakening all the beasts you've kept hidden inside, and letting them grow and breathe because she wants to know them. That's passion."

  I stared at her, convinced I was observing something filthy and exquisite, and I couldn't find a single thing to say.

  I was suddenly uncomfortable, too warm and too confined in this small space. I tugged my sleeves down, then ditched the cufflinks and rolled my shirt to my elbows. It wasn't enough, and though it was a delicate Italian silk that didn't take well to folding, I unknotted my tie and shoved it in my pocket. None of it cooled the obnoxious tension clawing at me.

  At first, I couldn't comprehend my visceral reaction to her comments. Tiel and I talked about sex all the tim
e. It was mostly my conjecture about her mouth relative to my dick, and it was all good fun.

  "But you can't really get any of that in a hook-up, can you? Sure, itches scratched, biological urges met, whatever." She threw her hands up as if regular, hearty orgasms weren't elemental to the sanity of men everywhere. "But you never learn what that person likes and craves. You don't even know what you crave, and it doesn't matter how well you perform when there's no soul. No passion."

  She held out her hands, the evidence presented.

  There were no quick comebacks in my arsenal, and honestly, my dick was too busy getting strangled by my trousers to form a rational response.

  "Why are we talking about me? I'm great. Let's talk about you, Tiel. When was the last time you had sex?"

  She raised her glass halfway to her mouth then stopped, and set it on the coaster. "It was July."

  "Was it any good?"

  Our eyes locked, and I noticed a blush creeping across her cheeks as we continued staring at each other. "It was fine."

  "'Fine' seems like an awfully low bar," I said. "You're comfortable with that?"

  She glanced out the window, her gaze distant while her fingers tapped the tabletop with the piano's rhythm. "Actually, it was good. We weren't…hmm." She balanced her chin on her fist and paused. "We just weren't the right fit."

  I shifted in my seat, and the movement jostled the table and sent liquid sloshing out of my glass. I hadn't touched my drink, and now it was dripping off the table's ledge and staining the knee of my trousers. I brushed it away and shook off my hands, more frazzled than I was before, and gulped down my gin and tonic.

  I didn't want to talk about her having sex with some shabby guy. Some loser who didn't understand her, who couldn't handle her idiosyncrasies. But I couldn't stop.

  "Why not?" I asked.

  Tiel tore her attention from the narrow stage, but didn't respond immediately. "I go for the passion, and that's not an easy find. Being with someone is a lot more than inserting one thing into another."

  "There's nothing wrong with a little insertion," I muttered.

  Tiel shook her head and smiled. "Nothing at all. Sometimes insertion is good, but it's the harder pieces that don't come together."

  "Without the harder pieces," I said, "the insertion won't be especially satisfying."

  I gestured to the bartender with my empty glass. The last thing I needed right now was another drink, but if this conversation was any indication, I was long past making wise choices.

  "You know that's not what I'm talking about," she said.

  Of course I knew. Just like I knew the punk-ass bitch she was banging in July wasn't good enough for her.

  She watched me while I checked my phone and sipped my drink, and eventually turned her attention back to the stage when I didn't respond.

  I didn't trust myself to say anything. She was dragging me back to the land of the living, one strange concert at a time. She was holding my whole fucking universe together with her convoluted dissection of my existence and more sofa snuggling than I'd ever dreamed of, and I couldn't fuck any of that up with my jealousy.

  My waning interest in friends.

  My industrial-strength blue balls.

  So I didn't mention how much I hated thinking about any man touching her. I didn't point out that anyone who left her with a 'fine' memory of sex hadn't earned the privilege of knowing her intimately. I didn't tell her she deserved someone who treasured her.

  I didn't say anything because I couldn't offer her much better.

  10

  Tiel

  Tiel: Hey. U want 2 c some tunes 2nite? Done w grading now

  Sam's schedule was packed this week, and I hadn't seen him since we parted ways on Lansdowne Street in the early hours of Sunday morning. I dragged him out to see Reel Big Fish and Less Than Jake at The House of Blues, and after the concert, we kissed against the Fenway Park gates.

  It was much like being back in junior high. Tons of kissing, tons of awkwardness, and massive apprehension about when—the real question was if—we'd get to the other bases.

  Though it shouldn't have, it surprised me. I wanted more than he did, and I had to keep reminding myself that. He liked our little routine, and though I wasn't sure when—we did spend a good chunk of time together—I was certain he was getting some action on the side. I couldn't substantiate that with anything more than an odd sense, and I made more than enough critical comments about his sex life. If I was wrong, he would have corrected me by now.

  Shaking my head, I tapped Ellie's number and hoped she wasn't in rehearsal. Thankfully, she answered on the second ring. "Explain to me why I should hang out with the preppy player who loves all this ambiguity."

  "I take it this fascinating experiment is still going on," she said. "And maybe you shouldn't?"

  "But he's so adorable and funny and the swoons. So many swoons." I knew there were two Sams: the womanizer with the smooth, panty-dropping smile that mowed down everyone in his path, and the sweet, beautiful boy who thought so much more than he spoke. I saw both, and when I looked closely, I could convince myself that they were one and the same.

  "But he's an asshole…?"

  I could almost see her face twisting into a confused grimace, and I laughed. "He's not."

  "Okay. Explain these straight girl problems to me," she said. "Us lesbians are far less complicated."

  "Do you have a few minutes?"

  "Yeah, we're still riding Wilma," she chuckled. "This girl gives as good as she gets."

  I sighed. "Do you think the band could get a new bus for the next leg of the tour, or maybe give Wilma a new name?"

  "That's unlikely," she said. "We're rather fond of Wilma. We get on our old lady every chance we get."

  "That was funny for the first three months of the tour," I laughed. "I don't know what he wants, and I don't think he knows either. We hang out all the time, and he's always talking about my boobs and that's great, but it's so freaking confusing when it stops with snuggletime. And for all I know, he's got a rotating cast of slampieces and he's just using me for the soft stuff."

  "Mmhmm, that is a conundrum," she said. "You can tell him what you want."

  "Yeah, I do not see that working out well."

  "That's dumb." I started to interrupt, but Ellie continued. "No. Seriously. That's dumb. Put on your big girl panties and act like a boss. Tell him you want the snuggletime to become snugglefucking, and if that's too much for his delicate man-psyche, tell him to piss off."

  "Ell, I don't want to tell him to piss off. He's cute and a total freak but in the most precious ways. He always gets me coffee, even if it's ten o'clock at night, and he hasn't judged me for that in weeks. He carries a cloth handkerchief and uses obscure words—"

  "Don't besmirch the use of obscure words, even in jest," she said. "That's perspicacity, young lady."

  "And he sneezes more than anyone I've ever met, and has some seriously gorgeous tattoos. He knows how to have a really good time, even when he's the most overdressed guy at Sligo's Pub and orders his gin with diced cucumbers."

  "Does Sligo's dice cucumbers now?"

  "No," I said. "Never. But he asks every time."

  "God bless him," she said. "But listen—big girl panties. End of story. Unless you've failed to mention that he has crazy eyes or baby arms or something, because those would be legit no-go situations."

  Sam's naked back and shoulders flashed through my mind, and though that memory was crystal clear, the memory wasn't enough. I wanted to feel those chiseled muscles and trace his tattoos, and I wanted him over me, under me, everywhere.

  Falling asleep together on the sofa wasn't cutting it anymore.

  "We're at the venue now, my dear. I gotta get to sound check," Ellie said. "Let me know how it goes with the prepster."

  We said our goodbyes, and when I ended the call, I saw a new message waiting for me.

  Sam: Perhaps you could translate that for me as I do not understand alpha-numeric
gibberish.

  Tiel: Dude, you act like you're a 92 year old technophobe sometimes

  Within seconds of sending the message, my phone was vibrating with an incoming call.

  "Being twenty-eight has no bearing on whether I tolerate the bastardization of the written word via text-speak," Sam said without introduction. "You know I can't decipher that shit."

  "You need some tunes, my friend. Meet me upstairs at The Middle East at eight and—"

  "What I need, friend, is a break from unwashed grad students who think they can get away with plaid-on-plaid, and I can't choke down much more bottom-shelf gin."

  I liked arguing with him. It was futile and amusing, and it always revealed more of the nerd hiding beneath the pretty face. "You could avoid that problem altogether by drinking more beer."

  "Or," he said slowly, "you could meet me at Verdigris in the South End at eight. That is, of course, if you can handle my side of town."

  Smiling, I dragged my fingers through my hair. Big girl panties, I reminded myself. "I think the real question is whether you and your side of town can handle me."

  I spent extra time flat-ironing my hair into a sleek, smooth bob, and had to constantly remind myself to keep my hands out of it. Fingering the short, flowy black and white geometric print dress I borrowed from Ellie's closet instead, I surveyed the industrial space of Verdigris. The gleaming dance floor was packed with bodies and pulsing techno music pounded from every corner.

  This wasn't my crowd. I didn't know anything about people who went out with the purpose of being seen. I went out because my soul required live music for its survival. Trendy clubs, fancy dresses, artificially generated music—I didn't see the appeal.

  "I didn't think you were coming."

  Pivoting, I found Sam gazing at me. In dark trousers, a light purple Oxford shirt open at the collar, and suit coat, he was all player tonight.

  Sam stepped forward and reached for me, then stopped abruptly and shoved his hands in his pockets. He looked utterly confused—and that was the Sam I knew. He was always caught up in complicating his own thoughts.