I force down the giggle that wants to escape as I realize Oliver probably meant to say “pokes” instead of “pins.”
“Hello, I’m Oliver.” He holds his hand out, greeting everyone, and adding in as much as possible his usual Euro kisses.
“It’s a Cup and the Cake reunion,” John says, handing the menu to Chad.
“Kind of,” I say, surveying the table. “The Cup and the Cake employees and friends.”
“I’d say that’s a write-off,” John kids with a wink.
“Officially discuss business for one minute,” Worth jumps in on the joshing. “We all agree Sophie’s café is top-notch. We all agree to frequent her business. Okay.” He comically checks his Rolex. “Done. Tax write-off.”
Once the waiter takes our orders and we all engage in conversation, the volume escalating as hearty laughs and claps of the hands are made in response to a good joke or an enthusiastic agreement, I begin to feel quite all right with the way things are. Whether or not John finds someone for me tonight, or if I find someone for him, it doesn’t seem all that important. I’ve got my family, my friends, and I don’t need to force anything unnaturally. My love life will work out eventually. I’ve heard that line about a hundred times, so there’s got to be some truth to it. And, when all else fails, just raise a glass, knock back some bubbly, and enjoy a night out with good friends.
Chapter Thirty-Five
The evening at House 206 turned out to be great. Everyone got along well, Oliver jumped into the group without a problem, as did Worth, and John, too. Chad didn’t act like an ass, but was actually unexpectedly quiet, Evelyn doing most of the talking for the two (which was completely out of the norm). Lara let her hair down (which was also rather out of the norm), hitting the small dance floor with Worth and me. I decided last-minute to toss back one more martini and “call a cab later!” It was a fab night.
I think part of Lara’s loose feeling last night had something to do with her excited talk of Chicago. Yes, Worth makes her feel more, as she puts it “alive and exhilarating and content”—a definite explanation as to why Lara’s more relaxed. But when she told me, much to my surprise, that she had been toying with the idea of some day moving to Chicago, the glow in her eyes was unmistakable.
Over the recent years Lara’s grown closer to her mom, brought on by a nasty car accident her mom got into some years back. Moving to Chicago would certainly bring them even closer.
Evidently her mom’s event planning business is doing well, and Lara’s been integral in helping with the advertising end. She’s done such a good job getting her mom’s business on the map that her mom’s been able to hire a reputable ad firm to take it from here. Lara said she was so happy getting to work that closely with a project and client, not to mention getting to be nearer to her mom. She said it might be kind of nice to consider moving to Chicago and do even more of it. “Some day! Maybe some day,” she blurted out when I think she saw the slight panic in my eyes at the prospect of losing another friend to a job relocation.
Lara says it’s only a thought right now, and she’s only briefly mentioned it to Worth, who thinks it’s also a possibility…in the future. They both have stable and well-paying careers here in Seattle, and they’re happy in them, so throwing caution to the wind, so to speak, isn’t exactly on the table right now. It is food for thought, though. Things change and, though change is one of those discomforting comfortable things you can always rely on because it will always be there, it can still blindside you from time to time.
The night also seemed to be just what John needed after an intense case overseas and before he heads back into the mosh pit at his home firm in San Francisco. I didn’t exactly do much hookup shopping for him, and he didn’t really for me.
Actually, I take that back. He did point out two guys, probably recent college grads judging by their Abercrombie button-downs, designer jeans, and leather loafers—the typical downtown or even Belltown dress for the gentrified, up-and-coming twenty-somethings who are trying to edge their way out of the fraternity house and into the penthouse suite. They were attractive but intimidating in their paired state.
John offered to go over to them and lend me a hand, but I got cold feet and pleaded with him not to humiliate me. Besides, the two guys had an air about them like they were too good for the place, like they were too good-looking in the rather sparsely populated bar and would just sit the night out at their little bistro table until a former sorority sister came prancing in.
John had a long and enjoyable night out, not that he said so much to me. Needing to get to work this morning, I turned in relatively early last night, hopping in the cab with Lara and Worth, leaving John and the rest of the party animals behind. Seeing how John was buying everyone drinks and hitting the dance floor, and certainly judging by the fact that he didn’t come home until four or so in the morning when I thought I heard him come through the front door, I’m guessing he enjoyed his night out.
I run a comb through my wet hair and nudge open the bathroom door with my bare heel to help disperse some of the early morning, scalding shower steam.
“So did you get lucky or didn’t you?” Claire’s voice rings tin-like through the speakerphone function of my cell phone.
I notice the half-past-five time and decide it’d be cruel to wake someone up this early when they’re on vacation, an even crueler injustice to someone who’s more than likely going to be nursing a hangover for the next twelve hours. I nudge the door back closed a bit and say to Claire, “Nope. But I wasn’t out for booty.”
“You know what I mean. I’m not talking booty-booty. I’m talking a dance, a drink, a frickin’ phone number.”
I towel-dry the ends of my hair and say, “No, and you know what? That’s okay.”
“Chicken out?”
“Totally.”
“John not help out?”
“He offered.” I spritz some Clinique Happy onto my wrists, then my neck. “We were having such a fun time without all the dating drama, though.” I give two spritzes to the back of my neck. “Anyway, I tried to hook him up, too. Definitely some women on the prowl, but he was having such a good time with the guys. Why break it up?”
“A fun party that I so wasn’t invited to.”
I tidy up the bathroom counter before beginning to apply my usual day’s makeup: light powder, a small swipe of Grapefruit Kiss blush, a thin, black draw of eyeliner, followed by some quick sweeps of mascara and topped off with some Jack Black Intense Therapy lip balm from Sephora, which I always make sure to stock up on in the winter.
“I’m ragging for no reason,” Claire quickly says, upbeat. “I actually had my own happy hour the other day.”
Claire tells me all about how the new college girl, Stacey, who’s doing her rounds for her nursing course on the wing of the hospital where she works, has turned out to be a good friend. She and Claire have a lot in common, both loving dogs, madly in love with their freshman college sweetheart, and think Bunko is the coolest thing ever, right next to never-ending Monopoly games, orange-flavored slushies, and never-get-old reruns of The Office.
“I guess I should run,” Claire says after she fills me in on the hilarious rom-com she and Stacey caught the other day. “If you get a chance to see that film, you so totally should.”
I apply my lip balm in slow and steady strokes. “Maybe I’ll see if John wants to catch it with me.”
“John? A rom-com?”
“Big brother-little sister rules, Claire,” I say to my friend who only has a sister, unaware of the unique opposite-gender relationships you can have as siblings. “I watch Rocky for him, he watches rom-coms for me.”
“John? Rocky?” Claire laughs. “I so don’t think John’s a Rocky-watching kind of guy.”
She has a point, but instead of furthering the conversation, I tell her that I’ll let her go and talk to her later. Besides, I really need to get on over to the café. It’s wonderful having Oliver around, since he’s lived for years with
early-bird hours. He often comes in an hour before I do, at five on weekdays, giving me some relief. But now and then, as the boss, I must make it a point to beat him to the starting line. Seeing how I cabbed home earlier than he last night, today I just might.
After I make my bed, slip on my coat, and grab my pair of leather, camel-colored driving gloves to fight against the chilly early winter morning, I quietly tiptoe into the living room where John is sleeping.
I consider once more the idea of waking him up but decide he can probably use all the sleep he can get when I bend my face near his and smell the gin wafting from his parted lips.
Phew, I think, waving a hand in front of my face. Someone had fun. I jot a quick note down on the pink pad of Post-Its I keep conveniently in my handbag.
At café. Eat whatever you like; call if want my car. XO, Sis P.S.: Good luck with the hangover, party boy.
I quietly giggle as I pull the note free and stick it on the coffee table adjacent to the pull-out sofa bed John’s snuggled comfortably on.
I tuck the blanket up over and around his shoulder gently, careful not to wake him, when I catch dozens upon dozens of silvery, shining specks in his hair. Squinting in the dark, I examine more closely his dark hair against the muted front porch light that’s seeping through the front windows.
Is that? I squint some more. It is! It’s glitter! I clap a hand to my mouth to keep myself from giggling.
Someone obviously had a very fun time. I give the Post-It note a good press against the coffee table once more when I notice a corner starting to peel up.
“Sleep tight, goofball,” I whisper and head on to work.
***
“Well, well, well,” I sing. “Look at what the cat dragged in.”
Oliver ambles into the kitchen on lazy feet, his dark, wavy hair askew. “I look like a drowned rat, I know,” he says in a groggy tone, accent thicker than usual. “Next time you get the bright idea to go out for a night of so much drinking and partying—”
“Lara’s idea,” I pass the buck with a smile.
Oliver pulls his chef hat from his tote and says, “Next time we have that bright idea, I’m so doing it.” He snickers. “I had a fabulous time.” He roots about his bag some more.
“So how late were you guys out? Did everyone stay out so late?” I glance at my watch—nearly eight o’clock, opening time—a very late arrival for Oliver. Evelyn at least has until the afternoon to let wear off whatever damage she may have done last night.
“Non, non,” he says, dropping his search temporarily to rub his temples. “Chad and Evelyn left not long after you guys.”
“So I can count on someone to be feeling up and well for the job then?” I tease.
Oliver shoots me a playful warning look, then says, still rubbing his temples, “They were actually harming the mood. Is that it, harming the mood?”
“Harshing?” I guess. “Harshing the mellow, the mood…” I shrug and tell him to go on as I measure out the anise flavoring for the new macarons Oliver and I’ve been on a roll making.
“Yes, harshing the mood. They were arguing, and Evelyn was not very happy. At some point she said she’d had enough and demanded they go home.”
“That’s odd,” I say, racking my brain for an explanation for her behavior. Though Chad was quiet and Evelyn chatty, there didn’t seem to be any kind of problem between them. If there was they obviously hid it well.
“Whatever,” he says casually, returning to his bag. “John and I had a fabulous night. Your brother is so much fun.”
“I’m glad,” I say gaily. I point to the thin stack of index cards on the table near Oliver’s tote. “Can you hand me those. Kind of need the recipe.”
With his chef hat in one hand, Oliver hands me the cards, and that’s when I can’t help but gasp. “Oliver!” I point at his head, and he looks at me with slightly bloodshot eyes.
“I know, I know,” he whines. “I look like hell. Hard partying nights filled with alcohol does not work as well on a man in his forties as it does his twenties.” He hiccups a laugh. “Or his thirties.”
“No,” I say, a smile tugging at the corner of my lips. “Your hair. It’s filled with glitter.”
He touches it, moves a hand about blindly, then gives a sheepish shrug as he takes notice of the glitter now on his hand.
“You and John obviously had fun.” I laugh under my breath as I consult the recipe to double-check the amount of anise flavoring. “I didn’t know House 206 rained glitter.”
“Oh, no, chérie,” Oliver says lightly. He fluffs his chef hat. “John and I went to Re-Live. You know the place?”
Re-Live? I think, pausing my measuring. Re-Live?
“I think…” I make a long, clueless face. “Yeah, yeah.” It’s coming to me. “Jackie and Em used to go there a lot, I think. Been there only a couple times.” I check the amount of anise flavoring one more time before I go and mis-measure. “Isn’t it like a gay club?”
“Only the best ever,” he says in an apparent tone. “I used to go there all the time with Pascal.”
I catch the sudden sullen look that washes over Oliver’s face and tell him that there’s no need to wander down memory lane and revisit failed relationships. But he just laughs and flicks his wrist. “Oh, I’m over him, Sophie dear. So over him.”
“That’s great,” I say encouragingly, about to pour the anise flavor into the measuring spoon. “Moving on to greener pastures.”
“That’s right. And thank you for introducing him to me.” He fluffs his hat once more, then pulls it on top of his glitter-littered head.
“Who?”
“John, silly!”
“John?” I titter, careful not to spill more anise flavor than necessary into the spoon.
“That’s right. John and I burned up Re-Live’s dance floor. Had a fantastic time!” He adjusts his hat and gives a dopey grin despite his obviously hungover state. “And someone even got a phone number.” He pulls out a slip of paper from his pants pocket and waves it about. “We exchanged. So exciting!”
I stand there, mouth wide open, and slowly the entire contents of the anise flavor empty into the cookie batter.
“John?” I manage to ask, eyes locked disbelievingly on the slip of paper.
“I knew he was gay,” Oliver says happily. “When I first saw him, here, at the café opening.” He admires the number fondly, like something straight out of a movie. A science fiction movie. “And now I’m the lucky man who’s going on a date with him tonight!” He pulls his shoulders up high in delight before tucking away the note with m-m-m-my brother’s phone number.
“Wait a minute,” I finally splutter out. I abandon my recipe and grip the edges of the island table. “My brother? John? Gay?”
“As a two-dollar-bill!” Oliver adjusts his hat once more, then points a finger at me and says, head cocked, “And that expression I do know.”
I’m in shock. Not just that evidently my brother is—is—gay. No, that’s kind of shocking in its own right, yes. I’m just surprised I didn’t know…that he never told me!
“Sophie?” Oliver asks. “Are you all right?” He peers into the bowl. “You’re going to have to dump out that batch. They’ll taste like poison.”
“I think I need to sit down.” I find my way to a nearby barstool.
“You didn’t know?”
“No.”
“Probably not the way he wanted to come out, too.” Oliver groans and takes a seat for himself.
“No,” I say, not really knowing where my train of thought is going. “No, I—I think I just need time to process. And…yeah.”
Abruptly a ringing phone snaps me out of my daze. For a second I think it’s mine, but Oliver grabs his ringing phone from his tote.
“Oh, good morning, John,” Oliver says somewhat abashedly into his phone.
Wow, I think, gripping my head. I did not see this one coming.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Distrait, I toy with the loose string
of the scarf that’s wrapped three times snugly around my neck, while John, a bit scatterbrained himself, rubs his hands across the thighs of his fitted dress slacks. I don’t remember having had such a lengthy bout of silence with my brother, the tick-tick-ticking of the wall clock the only sound filling my living room.
“What can I say?” I whisper at last. “This is a bit…of a—a—well, a surprise.”
“Tell me about it.” John sniffs, hands still rubbing his thighs. “The truth had to come out sometime, I suppose.”
I’m not completely gobsmacked by the news, but to say I’m caught off guard would be the understatement of the year. John’s just filled me in on the past four years of his life, which I’ve been completely blind to—the years he’s, as he’s put it, “been conflicted.”
I’ve mostly done a lot of listening, staring at one spot on my living room floor, then another one, then the wall across the way. It’s all so surreal. My brother, in the twenty-eight years I’ve known him, is revealing perhaps the biggest secret a brother could keep from a sister. I thought we were close and could share anything with each other. But this! This secret… How could he keep this to himself?
“It wasn’t until Jean when I realized who I am,” John finally says, his voice low and steady. It’s his lawyer voice—the no-bullshit tone cutting straight to the chase.
“Did she help you come out?”
“No. No, Jean’s a man.”
“What?”
“I know, a lot of surprises in one day.”
I feel my mouth fall open, then clamp it shut when John says, “He helped me realize who I am…and that it’s okay to be who I am.”
“Wow.” I release a lengthy exhale. “And that didn’t work out because…”
“Like any relationship,” he shrugs, “sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t.”
He pauses, casting his gaze to the side. “After Jean I knew I couldn’t live my life in a lie—in denial—anymore. He was my first boyfriend, my first real—in all sense of the word ‘real’—relationship. It was time to be honest.”
When Girlfriends Find Love Page 27
