by Lila Monroe
Chelsea winks in reply, apparently unbothered. “Suit yourself,” she says easily. “I’ll bring you extra pretzels anyway.”
I head back to my seat, Olivia looking at me quizzically. “What was that all about?” she asks, visibly stiffening as I accidentally brush her arm with mine.
Jesus Christ. “Flight attendant wanted me for my body,” I report with a shrug. “But I told her you’ve got first dibs.”
Olivia frowns. “You’re not planning on spending the weekend flirting with every pair of legs you see, are you?” she asks. “We’re supposed to be selling the idea that we’re a couple.”
Which is why I just turned down a no-strings bathroom fuck, princess, I think. “In that case, how about you try not flinching when I touch you?” I say instead.
“What are you talking about?”
“This,” I say, reaching out and laying a hand on top of hers. Sure enough, she stiffens.
I exhale. Way to stroke the ego. Does she really find me that repulsive?
“Or, we can just say we’ve found religion,” I suggest, only part-kidding. “Keeping things pure for the wedding night.”
Olivia gives a hollow laugh. “I bet Vanessa would just love that.” She swallows hard and slowly relaxes beneath my touch. “Sorry,” she says, tipping her head back against the seat. “I’m sure this will come as a shock to you, but I can be . . . wound a little tight sometimes.”
That makes me smile. “You?” I tease softly. “Never would have guessed.”
I let go of her hand, careful, and we pass the rest of the flight in silence. Olivia digs a thick, serious-looking paperback out of her shoulder bag while I go over my PowerBar pitch in my head. I’ve practiced the thing so many times I could probably deliver it in my sleep at this point, which doesn’t actually do anything to dampen the nerves in my chest when I think about trying to sell Mason Dubeck and his team of potential investors. It would be one thing if it was only the presentation I needed to nail, but I’ve got the whole week in front of me—full of plenty of opportunities for these douchey finance bros to decide I’m some ignorant meathead jock.
Ironic, huh: put me in a stadium in front of fifty thousand people, and I’m great, but set me up in a room with just ten of them, and I think I want to blow chunks.
Dude. Pull it together.
I won three Super Bowls, didn’t I? There’s no reason I can’t make this happen, too.
I rattle the ice in my empty plastic cup and glance over at Olivia. She’s still deeply absorbed in her novel, idly twisting a strand of hair that’s escaped her savage bun as she reads. It’s actually kind of weirdly reassuring, how focused she is. She’s probably never failed at anything in her entire life.
As we’re starting to descend into Key West, the plane suddenly hits a pocket of turbulence and the plane jerks. It’s nothing too bad, but Olivia gasps and grabs my hand as her book slips to the floor with a thunk.
“You OK?” I ask, looking over at her in surprise.
“Fine,” she says faintly, but her pretty face has gone ghost-white. She forces a deep breath, visibly trying to keep her composure. “I just don’t love flying, that’s all.”
“It’s actually the safest way to travel,” I promise, reaching down with my free hand and tucking her book back into her lap. “You’re way more likely to get creamed by a cab on the streets of New York.”
“Thanks,” she says with a grimace, and I chuckle.
“Just trying to be reassuring.”
“Try harder,” she mutters, but she doesn’t let go of my hand.
“See, now we’re getting somewhere,” I tease. “When you need to act like you’re crazy about me, just imagine we’re going to die.”
Finally, Olivia cracks a smile. Her grip on my hand relaxes slightly. “What is it the British say: lay back and think of England?”
“I dated an English girl once,” I muse. “But she wasn’t laying back, that’s for sure.”
“TMI.” Olivia yanks her hand away. “Maybe you could try not to be a total man-whore this week?”
“Only if you try not to be a total pain in the ass,” I reply pleasantly.
Olivia scowls.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” I smile. Call me crazy, but she looks kind of hot getting all riled up.
And something tells me she’s going to stay this way.
It’s nearly an hour from the airport to her dad’s house so we rent a car at the airport, a sweet little red McAdams sports car. I’m expecting Olivia to tell me we have to ride with the top up for fear of wrinkling her outfit, but to my surprise she takes off her suit jacket before hopping into the passenger seat. She’s got skin the color of milk, a faint spray of freckles covering her yoga-toned upper arms.
“When in Florida,” she says, slipping her sunglasses on. “Besides, I could use a little color.”
It’s not a bad drive, all palm trees and the smell of the ocean and Kendrick Lamar crooning about needing a woman who’ll give him a run for his money. I feel more relaxed than I have in weeks. There are worse things than being in a nice car with a beautiful woman, the warm sun beating down on the back of my neck.
“So tell me about this new stepmom,” I say, raising my voice over the sound of the highway. “What am I walking into, here?”
“Oh, she’s a terror,” Olivia replies, “but odds are she won’t last.” She tells me a bit about her dad and his parade of wives, each slightly younger—and significantly more ridiculous—than the next. “My mom died when I was sixteen, so I think once I moved out to go to college he just started looking for somebody to take care of him,” she explains.
I frown at that, glancing over at her for a moment. “That must have been hard,” I say. It’s the first time I’ve ever stopped to consider what Olivia was like as a teenager. Until now I’d kind of figured she conjured herself into existence at age thirty, wearing a plain dress and holding a briefcase, but suddenly a different picture of her springs into my mind—younger and more vulnerable, a kid who lost too much too soon. “Your mom, I mean.”
Olivia shakes her head. “It was a long time ago,” she says, and just like that her past—and however she feels about it—is behind a tightly locked door. We ride the rest of the way without talking, just the low hum of the radio and the faint crash of waves in the distance.
“Right up here,” she says about twenty minutes after we pull off the highway, pointing down a wide, quiet cul-de-sac lined with bright tropical flowers. The houses here are huge and sprawling and a little ramshackle, like a Jimmy Buffett video come to life. “That blue one with the crooked porch is my dad’s.”
I pull into the driveway outside a big, sea-worn house right on the ocean. It’s quiet out here, like we’re a hundred miles from civilization—which I guess we are, down in the Keys. The front walkway is flanked by half a dozen enormous plants, a tiny lizard scuttles across the concrete, and I can see the water down past the house, a brilliant shade of turquoise blue.
I’m beginning to see why so many country songs are about packing it in and moving to the beach life, to drink beer and chill.
I lift Olivia’s suitcases out of the trunk—the woman packed like she was going on safari for six months, not jetting down to Florida—before following her up onto the wide, sagging porch. She rings the bell, and we wait there for a long, quiet moment, but nobody answers.
Olivia sighs and rings it again. “Is this definitely the right house?” I ask, glancing down the street. The midday heat is oppressive, and I could use a cold beer right about now.
Make that two.
Olivia makes a face. “Of course it’s the right house,” she says, reaching out and turning the doorknob. It swings open easily and she steps into the darkened foyer, glancing smugly over her shoulder at me like, see? “He’s my father, I obviously know what house— Oh my God!”
Olivia whirls around and shoves past me with a horrified look on her face, launching herself off the porch with surprising agility given her t
hree-inch heels.
“What the fuck?” I turn back and peer inside the house, bracing myself for a grisly murder scene or a ten-foot alligator strolling across the tile. It takes my eyes a moment to adjust, but when they do the first thing I see is a man’s bare, wrinkly ass, blindingly white in the sudden sunlight pouring in through the open doorway.
The second thing I see is the naked woman with his dick in her mouth.
5
Olivia
Welcome home, Olivia.
I sit on the porch, wishing the ground would open up and swallow me—
Nope. Wrong adjective.
Ew!
“Well,” Ryan says with a grin, quickly shutting the door behind him. “I guess that’s one way to meet the parents.”
“Don’t say another word,” I tell him, holding a hand up and wishing I had some bleach for my eyes. I’ve definitely experienced my fair share of FML moments over the course of my thirty years on this planet, but walking in on my father balls-deep in my college roommate is solidly at the top of the list. Not for the first time, I wonder why my dad can’t be a normal kind of embarrassing, like a Civil War re-enactor. Or a Scientologist.
Ryan shrugs good-naturedly. “At least they’re into each other,” he points out, sitting down beside me and stretching his long legs out in front of him. “And good for your dad, right? I guess if you’re going to marry a young person, you ought to fuck like one.”
“I really don’t want to think about how my dad . . . does anything. Eww.” I shudder. “Seriously. EW!”
Ryan chuckles, and then my dad opens the front door a moment later, grinning sheepishly, his gray hair sticking up in all directions. “Sorry, honey,” he says with a laugh, still buttoning up his pants. “Come on in. I guess we got a little carried away.”
“Uh huh,” I say faintly, offering my cheek for a kiss—before I realize where that mouth might have been.
Did I mention, ew?!
I take a deep breath and decide to act like the whole thing never happened. “Dad, this is my boyfriend, Ryan,” I say, like we just arrived. “Ryan, Larry.”
“Oh my God! You do exist!” Vanessa cries, hurrying across the foyer and enfolding Ryan in a big, showy hug. She’s pulled on her maxi dress without the benefit of a bra, and she presses her suspiciously perky tits against his chest. “Just between you and me, I thought maybe Livvie made you up out of desperation,” she adds with a wink.
“Um, nope,” Ryan says, pointedly keeping his eyes on her face. “Here I am. A real-life, totally not fictional boyfriend. Isn’t that right, sweetheart?”
“Uh huh,” I manage.
“Well, come on in,” my dad insists. Ryan carries our bags in, setting them down in the tiled foyer, while I look around. My dad bought the house when he was still with his last wife, a moderately successfully clairvoyant named Monica, and it sprawls in all directions, with big windows offering a view of the ocean and ceiling fans whirring lazily overhead. The sofas are upholstered in beachy white canvas, the rugs a sturdy, sand-camouflaging jute. A wide veranda runs along the back of the house, perfect for watching the sunset.
It was always a calm, beachy place, but Vanessa has already made her imprint, I see when glancing at my dad’s office off the living room—or what used to be his office, at least. It’s been converted into a tricked-out yoga studio, complete with an altar to some eastern deity of indeterminate origin and a quietly bubbling fountain in one corner.
“Let me show you two where you’ll be staying,” Vanessa trills, just as Jagger, my dad’s thirteen-year-old golden retriever, trots into the living room. The fur on his muzzle has gone silver and he moves a lot more slowly than he used to, but he thumps his tail in a cheerful greeting anyway.
“Hey, handsome,” I grin, dropping to my knees to scratch him behind the ear and look into his soulful brown eyes. “Who’s the handsomest dog in the whole world? Who is? You are! Yes you are!” I glance up and catch Ryan watching me with open interest. “Um,” I say, blushing a little at my display. “This is Jagger.”
Ryan smiles. “I see that,” he says, offering one big hand for the dog to sniff. “Hey, boy.”
“His hair gets everywhere,” Vanessa complains, rolling her eyes like she’d send him off to the glue factory as soon as look at him. “But I heard labs don’t live that long anyway. Now come on. My bridesmaids are going to be taking up all the bedrooms, so I’ve got you guys in the guest cottage out back.”
“The guest—” My eyes narrow as I get to my feet. “You mean the pool shed?”
“Oh Livvie, you’re hilarious!” Vanessa says, tossing her hair with a giggle. “It’s a little rustic, maybe, but I think you lovebirds will find it super cozy.”
Cozy is one word for it. Ever since he moved down to Key West my dad has used the broken-down shed down by the water to store all the crap he doesn’t know what to do with, and when Vanessa flings open the door and shows us inside, it’s clear she hasn’t even pretended to clear it out. There’s a rickety twin bed shoved in one corner, surrounded by boxes and broken lamps and ugly 70s art prints and a tandem bicycle from I-don’t-know-where.
“Here we are!” Vanessa chirps, handing us both welcome bags including bottled water and organic granola bars. “Plus, I’ve included a list of the wedding hashtags.”
“The what?” I blink.
“For social media. We’re doing #VanLarry4Eva, #LarryessaBitches and #TrueLoveMeditates. I’ll let you cuties unpack before brunch. Take your time,” she adds with a wink. “And let me know if you forgot to pack any essentials. We have KY jelly and condoms in the bathroom back at the house!”
Repeat it with me: EW.
Vanessa flounces away, slamming the door behind her, and I let out a long breath. “What’s that serenity prayer again?” I ask. “Lord, grant me the strength to accept the step-mothers I can’t drown in the nearest pond?”
Ryan laughs, leaning gingerly against a bookcase that’s stuffed to the gills with encyclopedias that probably date back to the Cold War. “So that’s Vanessa, huh?”
“That’s Vanessa.” I sit down on the edge of the twin bed, a cloud of dust puffing up off the mildewy-smelling sheets. “You know how most bitches are just lonely, insecure people who need to be loved?” I ask miserably. “Well, not her!”
Ryan sits down on the mattress beside me, rusty springs groaning dangerously under his weight. “It’s just a few days, right?” he points out. “You can handle it.”
“Can I?” I ask him darkly.
“You can handle anything,” he insists, putting a solid, muscular arm around my shoulders. I rest my head on his chest before I know I’m going to do it, breathing in the warm, slightly spicy smell of him.
He feels sturdy.
Safe.
“And look,” he points out, the smile audible in his voice, “you didn’t flinch when I touched you this time.”
“Progress,” I say, forcing myself to pull away—even though I could have happily stayed an hour in his arms. Away from my family. But there’s no avoiding the inevitable shit-show. The best I can do is just get through it. “Come on,” I say, wanting to get out of the shed before something bites and/or stings me. “Let’s go eat.”
The four of us head out to brunch in town, at a cute dockside café with a view of the beach and a bar built out of a vintage catamaran. Vanessa somehow takes even longer to order than she did at lunch back in New York, literally getting up and scurrying back into the kitchen to find out whether it’s possible to get her mahi seared with just a teaspoon of organic ghee. Whatever that is.
“Um, Vanessa,” I say, resisting the urge to chug my entire Bellini in one go. “Do you think we could possibly do something about all the . . . stuff in the shed?”
I’m expecting something bitchy in return, but Vanessa just nods earnestly. “Oh, totally!” she says. “Sorry about that. I meant to have it cleared out before you guys got here, but, you know.” She giggles, looking moonily at my dad. “Wedding brain!”
“Thanks,” I say, surprised and feeling a little bit like a jerk. Maybe she’s trying after all. Maybe I could try, too.
“Vanessa and I are delighted you could make it down for the wedding, Ryan,” my dad says, sitting back in his chair and looking across the table at Ryan and me. “Now, tell me. How did you two kids meet?”
I glance at Ryan, taking a deep breath. I’m fully prepared to launch into the nondescript mutual friends cover story I came up with—and which I printed in bold at the top of his itinerary so that he could study for this exact moment. But Ryan just plunks one hand down on my thigh and grins.
“Well,” he says, gesturing at me with his beer bottle, “I’m sure you know this already, but our girl Olivia here is something of a football groupie.”
“Olivia?” My dad looks confused, which is understandable. Besides my dreaded gym sessions, I’m notoriously lazy. Until I took Ryan on as a client, I didn’t know the difference between a fullback and a Full Monty. “Really?”
“Oh, yeah.” Ryan nods, ignoring the way I’m digging my nails into the back of his hand underneath the table. “Back when I played pro, she used to drive down to Jersey for every home game and tailgate all day with her friends, then wait outside the team bus in her Callahan jersey and a pair of daisy dukes.”
I almost choke on my cocktail. “That’s not quite how I remember it,” I say, trying not to laugh, but Ryan shakes his head.
“Don’t be embarrassed, peaches. I think it’s cute.” He looks back at my dad and Vanessa—he’s clearly enjoying himself, that maddening dimple popping in his cheek. “She had a real reputation, though. Just wouldn’t quit. Even after I retired, she just kept managing to ‘mysteriously’ run into me all over the city. Every club I went to, hanging out at my gym—even the grocery store. I thought about filing a sexual harassment claim against her, but she’s such a goddamn looker that I decided to take advantage of the situation instead.” He puts an arm around me, nuzzling my neck a bit. “We’ve been together ever since.”
