by Poppy Dunne
I’d like to say something to that, but my mouth is full of delicious tomato and mozzarella, and Mom leaves. Swallowing, I look at all the paper I maimed in the name of anguished love. No, no, it wasn’t love, Dahlia. It was infatuation. Sex, and nothing else.
Amazing sex, and nothing else.
Emotional, passionate sex, and Harry Potter, and nothing else.
I need a glass of water.
Going downstairs to the kitchen, I find my Dad just coming in from the garage. He’s been letting himself go since retiring, his silver hair sticking out all over his head and in desperate need of a cut, his stomach ever expanding over his belt. But man, does he seem happy. His eyes light up when he sees me, and he puts me in a big bear hug.
“Hello, Dolly,” he sings for the eight billionth time of my life, but it never annoys me. His Louis Armstrong is that spot on. “Want to help me wash the cars?”
Why not? It was one of my childhood chores, and it always feels good to get back to basics.
While we hose down the Range Rover in the driveway, I can feel my thoughts skidding around, taking me a million miles away from where I am. Jack was so concerned about those kids. He loves them and his brother so much.
But he could have ruined Pete’s chances for joint custody. For all I know, he truly did. Then Pete gets to live a broken man, never seeing his children, and Jack’s on to the next project. The next adventure. He makes me feel wild and uninhibited and passionate, but is that really a good thing when he also makes me feel unstable.
Just the way I used to be. For God’s sake, I’ve had cake for breakfast every day this week. Cake.
I’m falling back into bad old habits.
“Hey!” Dad sprays me in the face with the hose, which leaves me spluttering and back in reality. He laughs while I wring out my hair. “Come on, kid. I don’t want to see you so droopy. Things’ll get better.”
That’s Dad in a nutshell: things’ll get better, eat something. Your love life will improve, eat something. Let’s wash the car, fight crime, and then eat something.
“The sandwich was really good,” I tell him when we’ve finally dried the car. “Thanks, Dad.”
He gives me a big hug, the kind that makes your eyes bug out and tears squeeze out the corner. Italians hug like they mean it.
“If this guy’s been giving you too much trouble, you tell me and I’ll sic Leo on him.” Dad pats my cheek as we go back inside the garage.
“Dad, you make it sound like Leo’s a Mafioso or something,” I grumble, hitting the button and closing the garage door. Dad gives an indignant pout.
“He’s the next best thing!”
“He owns a tile emporium!”
“Yeah, but some of the guys he’s got working there can bench-press a slab of marble,” Dad argues, going to the fridge to grab a Diet Coke. He’s likely got a few important games to watch, so I kiss his cheek and head back up to my room to relive all my adolescent anguish.
When I get there, I find Mom’s taken all her stationary back, and I can’t blame her. I’m not kind to paper. Sighing, I sit on my bed, pull Hobbes onto my lap, and stare at the carpet. It’s fine. It’s all right. I can get over this. I’m strong enough to move on. I know it.
I wish I could believe it.
21
Jack
Dahlia was right. I’ve fucked absolutely everything up, for myself, my brother, his kids, and everyone within a five mile radius of my office.
Well, maybe that last one’s not so true. Liv’s wife is finally having the babies, and Liv barges into my office to tell me that. Her face is white, her eyes gleaming. Her normally perfect bob of hair is frazzled, like she’s been running her hands through it. Christ, I think she’s about to topple over. If you know Liv, you know this is like seeing a tap-dancing unicorn. It’s something no sane person ever thought they’d see. She looks positively giddy.
“They’re coming. Finally! I was starting to doubt they’d ever come,” she says, breathless and bouncing on her toes. “St. John’s hospital. I mean, that’s where Monica is. I can get there and be back right after—”
I’ve been sitting behind my desk in my Santa Monica corner office. I’m almost never here, but it’s a good thing I am today. I get up, go to Liv, and take her by the shoulders.
“You’re going to leave, go be with your wife, and I’d better not see you for six weeks,” I say, deadly serious. “You’re going to have full benefits and pay, and if you want more time, we’ll talk. If I see you around here, I’ll personally have you escorted out. Then I’ll have a nun with a bell follow you around shouting ‘shame’ every time you try to come back in the office.”
“Stop watching Game of Thrones, you monster.” Liv grins, then does something un-Liv-like but much appreciated: she hugs me. “What about the Evelyn thing?” she murmurs.
Yep. The Evelyn thing. We’ll get back to that, but at the moment I’d rather celebrate something good. There doesn’t seem to be a lot of good in my life these days. I start gently pushing Liv out of the room.
“I’ll deal with it. It’s my responsibility, anyway.”
That gets an eyebrow arch from Liv. “I don’t know what happened to you, Jack. You’re so…adult now.”
“Do you like the changes?”
She wrinkles her nose. “I’ll miss the impromptu paintball outings.”
“Oh, fuck it. Those are here to stay. Now get out of here, because if you don’t I won’t bring you a box of Cuban cigars later.”
Liv’s eyes widen. “Don’t you dare. I’ve been looking forward to that.”
Finally, I get her into the elevator and out to her family. Then I head back into my office, close the door, and sit at my desk to think. The moment with Liv allowed me a little time away from this particular problem I’m having. And boy, is it ever a problem.
Evelyn figured out who Voldemort was. She checked the employee roster, put two and two together, and also nailed Pete for being Hagrid. Now I’ve violated the restraining order, which thankfully will go away with an additional donation to the widows’ and orphans’ fund. What won’t go away, though, is Pete’s problem with his ex-wife. Evelyn’s got all the ammunition she needs to even take Pete’s visits away.
When I got the call and told Pete, he became quiet. Then he got up and left the house. Didn’t take his keys or his phone with him, just left. And I sat there, feeling like the world’s greatest jackass, which I might just be.
Again, Dahlia was right. I didn’t think things through. I put my own need to stick it to Evelyn over my brother’s need to be with his damn kids. In addition to all of that, I alienated a woman whom I can’t stop thinking about. Everyone I know and care about is in shit right now, because of me. Well, except Liv, but if I forget those cigars she’s going to have my balls in a vise.
Even that image isn’t funny right now. Well, not like it was all that funny to begin with.
I go and stand by the window, looking out onto the clean blue spread of the Pacific. And I know, right then, what I need to do. It’s going to hurt. Hell, it’s going to be like painting my balls with honey and lying down in a nest of fire ants. But it’s got to be done if I want my damn life back.
When I call Evelyn, I’m not even sure she’ll pick up. After all, right now the lawyers have advised me that any contact is not the world’s smartest idea. By that, I mean that my lawyer kind of grabbed my lapel and went ‘Jesus Christ, stop fucking this up so hard!’ before taking an antacid. Yes, I have a tendency to go against authority figures. It’s what makes a prickly little nerd boy into a billionaire. But this time, I’m not trying to get one over on my ex sister in law. This time, it’s not about me.
For the first goddamn time, it’s not going to be about me.
“I can’t believe it’s you,” is Evelyn’s opening line. Ha, she’s amazed at my insanity? Does she not know it’s a limitless supply, with more of it warehoused?
“I’m not calling to fight.” Always a good way to open. Evelyn huffs.<
br />
“Then maybe we should hang up.”
Crap, we’re two seconds from my number being blocked, I know it. “I fucked up. Completely. Utterly. Unconditionally. Show me any up, anywhere, and I fucked it. Hard.”
That colorful display of verbiage gets me another minute on the phone. Evelyn’s thoughtfully silent. “I’m aware of that,” she deadpans.
See, this is where my blood starts boiling and I want to tell her all the brutal truths about herself: that she’s a cheater, not a great mother, that she’s manipulative and vindictive, that she wouldn’t have met Dominic if it weren’t for me, that she is not and never will be half the person that Pete is. All these things deserve to be said, and one day, preferably in court or before a judge or at least on social media, I will say these things.
But today is not about me. It’s about Pete, and the kids.
“Pete, however, did not fuck up. He’s a good man. He’s a way better man than I am,” I say. I’m ready for her to verbally castigate my brother, but she stays thoughtfully silent. So thoughtful, in fact, that I press a little. “You know that, of course.”
“Pete’s not…” I hear her sigh. “I didn’t leave him because he was a bad man.”
That’s such a step forward I’m almost afraid to say another word. “He’s a good father, Evelyn. Your kids love him, and he loves them.”
Pure silence. Then, “I know that.” She sounds calm when we’re not bantering back and forth about who’s a bigger asshole. I could sort of get used to this.
“I’m the one who broke the rules. I’m the one who put Pete’s relationship with the kids in jeopardy. Whatever you want to do as punishment, I’m more than willing to take it on. Just don’t hurt Pete because of me. I think that’s a fair thing to ask.”
Sitting down at my desk, I wait. Seconds tick by while she assesses. I squeeze my eyes shut, and wait. I imagine Dahlia beside me, a hand on my back for moral support. I can smell her perfume, feel her hair brush my cheek as she leans down. When I think of her, I feel my feet settle on the ground. She’s the sexiest anchor a man could hope to have.
And I lost her.
“Pete’s never been the problem,” Evelyn says at last. Her tone gets snippy. “It’s you.”
“Me?” Yours truly, the world’s greatest uncle? I’m about to go over a list of all the great things I’ve done with the kids, including riding wild ponies, junior bungee jumping, racing cars…
Well, maybe she has a point. A small point, mind you.
“Ever since I split with Pete, you’ve been trying to convince the kids that I’m some sort of monster.” The fact that she left their father waits right on the tip of my tongue, but again…this is not about me. Though I’m clenching the arm of my chair with enough force to bend the metal. “And you give them all these sorts of wild, extravagant presents and trips, and then when they get home I’m the boring one. They associate Uncle Jack with their dad, so all the fun stuff happens with you, and all the boring mean stuff happens with me.”
As much of a jackass as Evelyn is—and she is, so we’re clear—she’s making something of a point right now, much as I hate to admit it. I haven’t done anything wrong by not being her biggest fan, but I probably am guilty of trying to buy the kids over to Pete’s side. He hasn’t done anything wrong, but I have.
“Okay,” I say, voice even. Evelyn makes a noise of surprise. I can imagine her nearly tripping over her Gucci stilettos.
“Okay?”
“I need to stop pushing into your life, and the kids’ lives. From now on, I’ll be Uncle Jack. Cool Uncle Jack. Handsome Uncle Jack. Uncle Jack with the awesome lifestyle and the perfect hair, naturally. But I’ll take them for ice cream, I won’t have ninjas break into your house in the middle of the night and turn it into an ice cream fortress.” Sighing, I nod. “I’ll cut you some slack.”
“I…thank you,” she says at last. Some of the chill in the conversation thaws.
“All I ask is that you cut Pete some, too.”
Evelyn sighs. “I don’t want to cut him out of their lives.”
“He’s only asking for joint custody. It’s not a lot.” I drum my fingers on the desktop, waiting. She’s hesitating; I can feel it. “Like I said. I screwed up. I’m sorry for that.”
“Well. I haven’t made this the easiest transition in the world,” she says at last.
Holy shit, Evelyn admitted she was not ass-breakingly perfect. I wish to hell I were recording this so I could make a club remix and work out to it.
“So let’s all relax a little. What do you say?” She has to know what I’m really saying: give Pete a break.
“I think that can be arranged,” she says, still a little distant but not unreasonable. Right now, that’s all I need to hear. “I’ll have my lawyers call Pete’s and tell them that we can move forward on joint custody…so long as there are no more dramatic flare ups, Jack.”
I feel a dramatic flare up coming on strong when she says that. I’m the one with the dramatic flare ups? I’m not the one who left Pete in limbo for six months over—
I can almost feel Dahlia’s hand pressing on my shoulder again. Keep cool. Do it for Pete. Think clearly. She’s like the sexy, good-hearted angel whispering in my ear.
There’s also a sexy, devil version of her in a push up bustier and red plastic horns that’s nibbling on my other ear. Damn, that’s distracting.
“Sounds good,” I find myself saying. Swallow your pride a little, Jack. For the good of the kids, and Pete. Evelyn sighs on the other end.
“Then I’ll call right now. Jack?” For the first time in a long while, I hear her chipped ice tone thaw a little. “Thank you for calling.”
“Thanks for talking,” I reply, then hang up. My blood’s buzzing in my ears, energy coursing through my body. It’s my instinct to pound a problem into submission, but I managed this one with only a little compromise and good sense. Dahlia would be proud of that.
Would Dahlia want to hear about it? Maybe. Hell, I hope so. I pick up the phone again, and thumb to her name. Rossi, Dahlia. I stare at it a second, trying to talk myself out of this. She won’t pick up, asshole. She doesn’t want to see you anymore.
Fuck it. I can only be so sensible in the course of a single day.
I hit ‘call,’ and wait. One ring. Two rings. Three rings.
She always picks up before the third ring. She’s predictable like that.
When it goes to voicemail, I hang up and look back out at the ocean. Fuck, I learned a damn good lesson from Dahlia Rossi. A couple of them, actually. First, I learned to keep my cool, to not go screaming off the deep end with enthusiasm.
Second, and most important, I’ve learned what it feels like to realize all the money and patience and lessons learned in the world can’t fix what’s broken between two people.
That lesson, ladies and gentlemen, is a terrible bitch.
22
Dahlia
I’ve got the phone in my hand before the second ring is finished, and I stare down at the name, my pulse fluttering.
McGee, Billionaire
I really should have put Jack’s real name in there, but hey. There’s no need to do that anymore, because I’m not picking up this call. Not because I hate Jack—after all, it wasn’t like he hit me or was a rampaging alcoholic or liked Barry Manilow unironically. If I talk to him now, I know I’ll be tempted to see him again. Get back on that supersonic jet and fly into the sunset, banging exquisitely all the way. And since my body’s already shivering in anticipation, doing its best Tim Curry in Rocky Horror Picture Show only without fishnets, I know that the temptation would be too much. I’d hop right back in the saddle, or jet, or whatever, and then have too much fun, and let that fun carry me away, and…
Like I said, I can’t do that again. So I do the smart thing, hang up on the call, and then go attack the bathroom.
Grandma always said that, when your mind’s uneasy, the best thing you can do is clean something. Apparently she had a lot o
f anxiety, because you could literally eat off any floor in her house, even the bathroom. She tried to get Rose and me to attempt it once, as a test. Laid some pork chops down and everything, along with a few scoops of potato salad.
We asked Mom if she ever had to do something like that when she was a kid, and Mom got sort of glassy eyed and wouldn’t answer us.
Anyway, back to something slightly less crazy. Cleaning the bathroom is indeed the perfect antidote to stress. The harder I Windex the mirrors, the less likely I am to think of Jack’s hands skimming my thighs, his lips on my breasts, my neck, my mouth, his tongue tracing a clever line down my body, all the way to my—
Windex. I sure do love cleaning off this mirror with such force I nearly shove a hand through it. Boy, I sure am not getting hot and bothered just thinking of that man and his incredible tongue. No way. Jack Carraway is not a sex god in any conceivable fashion. Why would I ever think that?
Besides the fact that it’s the honest truth, I mean.
I stop cleaning for a few seconds and stare at myself in the mirror, my hair frizzed, my mascara tracked from when I was crying a little earlier. My weekend at my parents helped a little—at least, it helped to get away from it all. But I am nothing if not obsessive, and I’ve gone over and over the conversation on the jet, looking for any way it could have ended differently. Because as much as I hate to admit it, I have never, ever liked anyone the way I liked Jack Carraway.
It’s not the jet, or the huge estate, or that time he wrestled a swan for my honor. Though all those things were great, don’t mistake me. It’s not even how mind-meltingly good he is at sex, and sexy things, and sexy times, and all things that fall under the sexy purview. The department of sexy shenanigans has given him an A rating for him to hang in the window proudly.
No, it’s not even the sex. It’s him. My heart sinking into my stomach, I think again about all the couples I’ve helped achieve successful, happy relationships. They all told me, whether after their engagement or wedding or birth of their first child that they felt the other was right the instant they met. That they knew right away they shared an intimacy and a connection nothing could break. Sure, they got to deepen their relationship over time, but the important thing was that they had that spark.
