by Ember Leigh
“Oooh, look who it is!” Connor is extra chipper when my parents walk into the kitchen behind me. He’s never been this happy to see them, but I can tell he’s staving off tension as much as I am. Hazel calls them over to the makeshift bartending stand Gray created at the kitchen island. He’s even got a dishtowel slung over one shoulder.
“What’ll it be, Cabanas?” Gray asks good-naturedly. I stand off to my parents’ side, wringing my hands, while Connor heads them up on the other side. We’re practically boxing them in. Making sure they stay and enjoy themselves, goddammit.
“Just water for me,” my mom says, and Dad asks for a light beer. Connor and I share a nervous smile behind their backs.
“So how’s work been going recently?” Hazel swoops in from across the countertop to chat with my dad. If there’s one thing he loves to talk about, it’s real estate, so I’m relieved when he and Hazel fall into the black hole of investment property discussions.
Which means my Mom needs to be distracted. I spot London across the kitchen, gesturing at her to come over. She waddles our way, brushing blonde hair out of her face. “Mom, have you met London before? She recently married Connor’s oldest brother Dom. She’s due in three weeks.”
“Two, if I’m lucky,” London says, extending her hand to my mom. “Nice to meet you.”
“My mom used to work at Bayshore General Hospital in Labor and Delivery,” I offer, trying to find some spark of a conversation that will encourage my parents to have a good time. And if there’s anything I know my mom can’t say no to, it’s new moms. “My mom’s delivered her fair share of babies, that’s for sure.”
“Oh, too bad you won’t be there,” London said, rubbing her palms underneath her belly. “I’d love to have all the experience I can get on my side.”
“You’ll do fine, I can already tell,” my mom says with a wink. “Let me guess. You’re having a girl.”
London shrieks with surprise, marking the official beginning of pleasant conversation. Score. Some of the binds around my heart loosen, and I slink toward Connor, secretly giving him a high five.
“Parental integration underway,” I say out of the side of my mouth as we stand at the perimeter, admiring the group handiwork. I’m thanking Hazel and London in my head while Connor goes to get another round of mixed drinks from Grayson. We manage to slip into conversation with some of the family friends nearby. One round of drinks turns into two. My dad begins talking to Grayson after a while, presumably about investment property plans, based on the way I keep overhearing the phrase ‘incredible potential.’ Connor is holding his third empty martini glass, slinking past my mom to go drop it off in the kitchen when suddenly there’s the undeniable sound of glass shattering.
My mom reels back, gasping, staring at the floor. “I’m so sorry!”
Connor looks stunned, looking between his hand and the remains of his glass on the floor. The party goes quiet suddenly, just as Annette Daly mutters from across the room, “I bet she did it on purpose.”
Voices swell a bit, filling the lapse of noise, but my heart is racing. My mom stiffens. Connor’s got the deer-in-headlights look. And then suddenly, that impassive mask is back on my mom’s face. The one she always used during my childhood when the topic of the Dalys came up. Like she was using every ounce of her internal strength not to say something awful or maybe even slap a bitch.
“Honey.” My mom grabs my dad’s wrist after he and Grayson sink back into conversation. “I forgot about that appointment we have.”
His brows furrow. “What appointment?”
“For the boat.”
My dad blinks, and then he nods. “That’s right. I can’t believe the time.” He clears his throat, discarding his beer can.
“Honey, it’s time for us to leave,” Mom says to me, not looking at all sad about it. She pulls me into a hug before I can protest. “We need to start getting the boat ready for storage.”
“Oh. Okay.” I hug each of them in turn, a little heartbroken. What the hell had happened from across the room? It was like our mothers had waged, fought, and resolved an entire private, silent battle, and my mom was the one forced to slink away. I wave as my parents take their leave, noticing the death glare that our mothers exchange just before my mom slips out of the house.
“Connor,” I hiss, cornering him in the kitchen. “That was some Drama with a capital D, and I don’t like it one bit.”
“Babe. I know. I was the one who dropped the glass, too.”
“This was supposed to be fun. But our parents are ruining it.”
Connor crumples slightly, taking my face in his hands. “They aren’t ruining it. They can’t. We won’t let them.”
“Were we so wrong to think they’d be able to act like adults and move on from the past?”
Connor purses his lips before he answers, and an unbearably long time goes by. So much time, in fact, that we burst out laughing.
“Yes, we were wrong,” he finally answers. “But you know what? This is the week they have to make an effort on our behalf.” He leans in to press a soft kiss to my lips. “Let’s give ’em hell.”
Chapter 4
CONNOR
My alarm goes off at an ungodly hour the next morning. I grapple for my phone in the dim light, struggling to remember why I set it and what happened to make my mouth so dry. Then the realization crests in waves: I am hungover from yesterday’s cocktail party, and the next item on my to-do list is a men’s fishing trip.
“Nnnggghrrrgh.” Kinsley swats at me, eyes pinched shut. “Turn it.”
“I am.” My voice is gritty as I fumble to turn the alarm off. It’s seven thirty. Why did we schedule a fishing trip this early the day after the cocktail party? Only the wedding planning gods know, I suppose. I roll out of bed just as my phone buzzes with an incoming text.
GRAYSON: Hey, I’m good to come on the fishing trip right?
I stumble into the attached bathroom and flip the light switch, squinting against the influx of light. At this point, I can’t imagine why anyone wants to go on a fishing trip.
CONNOR: Of cours. E.
GRAYSON: You still drunk?
CONNOR: Yesg
I grip the side of the sink as I brush my teeth, staring at myself, trying to rally. I don’t feel puke-sick, just more like soul-sucked-out-of-my-body-with-a-straw sick. I splash lots of water on my face, lick my lips, and then guzzle water straight from the tap.
I manage to dress myself and stumble downstairs. My dad and Grayson are already there. Gray immediately hands me a mug of coffee.
“Drink up, brother. You’re gonna need it.”
“These fish are ready to bite,” my dad says. Fishing is one of the few activities he loves, beyond making money and remaining in his job as CEO of Bayshore General Hospital. “And if we’re lucky, we’ll find lunch.”
“Oh, sure,” Grayson teases, “like you’ll be first in line to make a perch sandwich from scratch?”
“Never said we’d find lunch and make it ourselves,” Dad shoots back, a shit-eating grin on his face. “Somebody else can goddamn well make it for us.”
I snort before I chug the entire contents of the coffee mug. I hand it back to Grayson and jerk my chin to signify ‘more.’ As he fills it up for me, because my multitasking functions are limited to breathing and standing, I check my phone.
DOM: I’m heading straight to the boat dock.
CONNOR: Let me know if Jack shows up. We’ll be on our way soon.
I let out a rumbling sigh after the effort of sending that text. Then I decide I need more water. I head for the cupboard and serve myself an overflowing glass.
“Connor’s in rough shape,” Grayson says.
I grunt. “Why do you sound happy about it, bartender?”
Gray smirks. “Listen, I might have overpoured a few drinks. But we had a damn good time.”
That we did. Including a late-night pizza delivery and a surprise round of Cards Against Humanity with Hazel, Grayson, Mom, and
a few of the high school friends who stuck around. I’ve never seen my mom so overjoyed to win a round, especially when the phrase that got her points was: What are my parents hiding from me? Lance Armstrong’s missing testicle.
“The fresh air will put you right,” Dad says, delivering a near-fatal clap on my back. I stumble forward—the man is a giant—and a headache begins to sprout.
“Let me grab an aspirin before we go,” I mutter, rummaging in the cabinets before I find the blessed medicine.
Once we’re all loaded into the car, the drive to the boat launch isn’t long. At this stupidly early hour on a Wednesday morning, Bayshore is beautiful and brimming with energy. People are strolling along the boardwalk, enjoying the crisp September morning air without a hangover. As we roll into the huge parking lot of the boat launch, some clarity returns to me. Maybe that’s thanks to the caffeine and gallon of water I consumed. But when I spot Dom—and Jack Cabana—lingering near the docks, I remember again what I signed up for. A fishing trip with the men. Including two men who actively dislike each other.
“We’re gonna have a good time,” I declare, as though this will help ensure the outcome. My dad grunts as he heads to the back of his SUV and begins hauling out the fishing equipment.
“I’m gonna catch some fish,” he replies.
“It’ll be nice to get on the water one last time,” Gray adds, rummaging through equipment. I grab extra for Dom, and then we’re all headed toward Dom and Jack. Jack tips his fishing cap to us as we approach, which I’ll assume is the most greeting my father will get from the man. Dom squeezes my shoulder, looking intently at my face.
“You need more water.”
“Thanks, Dr. Dom,” I mutter, passing off the fishing equipment. “But I drank plenty of water before I came.”
Jack Cabana heads down the dock where his fishing boat is tied off. I know he has another larger boat, but it’s a ski boat, and therefore must not be used for fishing, apparently. As five adult men, we’ll fit, but it might be tight. No big deal. After all, this is a bonding activity. And there’s nothing that bonds men more than cramped quarters and waiting for fish.
“Little small,” my dad says as we stop in front.
Jack turns slightly. “We can use your boat, if you’d like.”
My dad doesn’t have a boat, so this qualifies as a level seven burn.
We climb aboard silently. I’m watching Grayson, who is watching me with a look that says Yeah, I heard that too, and this could still get ugly, but maybe it won’t. At least, that’s what I’m hoping the look is telling me. Because if he’s urging me to jump ship now and cancel the fishing trip, it’s too late. We’ve piled inside, fishing equipment clattering onto the long benches, and before we know it, Jack has untied us and we’ve pushed off. The motor rumbles to life a moment later, and my dad, who is sitting at the bow, grimaces visibly, as though the Cabana engine has also offended him somehow.
“This is going well,” I murmur to Dom as we move slowly through the no-wake zone, out into the barely-choppy waters of Briggs Bay. I don’t know if it’s a manic proclamation or a thinly-veiled question.
Dom doesn’t respond—merely frowns in response.
Once we’re out of the no-wake zone from the boat launch, Jack guns it and the boat kicks into high gear. Crisp, morning air rushes past me, putting a smile on my face. The air is curing my hangover; if I imagine hard enough, I can see it dissolving behind me in the wind as the lake air sucks it out of me.
Except once we start hitting the waves in a rhythmic thup-thup-thup, my stomach doesn’t abide by the hangover-sucked-out-of-me narrative. It begins to churn. Badly. I grimace out at the beautiful lake. This is fine. Everything is fine.
I’m counting down the minutes until Jack shows a sign of slowing down the boat. Meanwhile, my butt cheeks are clenched and I’m counseling myself on how sick I don’t feel. One hundred percent not sick. Absolutely not at the precipice of vomiting.
Finally, blessedly, we’re coming up on a little bridge near the eastern edge of Bayshore, which is a popular spot for fishermen to gather. We’re definitely not the first to the party; other fishing boats already float along the perimeter of the bridge. Jack throttles down, hard, and I’m pitched forward. I almost puke in my mouth. Goddamn Grayson and his experimental cocktails.
Jack maneuvers us into a prime fishing spot. Far enough away from other boats, but still close to the popular rocky area the fish love to congregate in. We begin readying our reels. Grayson glances at me while he grabs for some bait.
“You don’t look so hot, bro.”
“I fully blame you.”
He smirks. “I think you’re just getting old, my man. Can’t handle your liquor anymore.”
“I’m the youngest one here; why aren’t you two feeling the same?”
“I was too busy getting you fools drunk,” Gray says.
“And I actually know my limits,” Dom piped up.
“Thanks again, Dr. Dom, for your input.” Older brothers never stopped being annoying know-it-alls.
As we talk, the fathers remain conspicuously silent on opposite ends of the fishing boat.
“How’s Kinsley feeling today?” Gray asks.
“Lucky,” I tell him, “since she gets to sleep it off.”
My dad sucks on his teeth as the line jerks. A moment later, he reels in a fish. “First one.”
Jack looks over his shoulder, then down at his fishless, water-filled bucket. I think I hear a gunshot somewhere in the recesses of my mind. My brothers and I continue casual conversation while the two men at the opposite ends of the boat begin the most intense battle of silent fishing ever waged. Jack flops a wriggling fish into his bucket. Then Dad pops another one into his. Jack calls out the new number each time he adds a fish. Meanwhile, my brothers and I are collectively at “one half,” if you count the fish that Dominic had and then lost.
“We are sucking,” Grayson hisses, yet makes no move to improve. Admittedly, this is one competition I don’t want to get involved in. Even Dom, biologically the most competitive man in the world after our father, is opting out of this battle.
“Ten,” Jack calls out nonchalantly, followed by a wet flop in his bucket.
My dad huffs and pushes to his feet. He stalks the length of the boat, headed for the extra reel he brought, just as Jack swivels and launches toward his own box. The two men collide in the way that can only happen when you are actively trying to avoid looking at someone. It’s almost comical. Except my brothers and I are wincing through it.
“Watch where you’re going,” Jack says gruffly.
“Same to you,” Dad shoots back. “Didn’t realize going for my reel was a crime on this boat.”
“Not sure it’s gonna help much,” Jack says with a smirk. “It’s a good thing your family isn’t counting on you feeding them with your haul today.”
My organs begin to squish together in discomfort, which just makes me more nauseous overall. I am desperate to derail this slowly escalating brawl.
“I don’t think we’d even want to eat such tiny—” I start, trying to sound as lighthearted and neutral as I can muster around the edges of my hangover.
“Guess there isn’t such a thing as fishing for fun, huh?” Dad growls.
“Not when you’re barking out the count like a carny over there,” Jack shoots back.
Dad steps closer to Jack, who has since balled his fists. Something about the escalating tension turns the knot of nausea in my gut into a brick, and everything feels all-around icky.
“Thought that was how you liked things to run on your dinghy,” Dad spits. “Say it so everyone can hear it. Not like I need to talk real loud in the five square feet on board here. Thought you specialized in real estate. Must not be in the watercraft kind.”
Jack laughs bitterly, shaking his head as he loads up another shiner to his reel. “Still such a class act, I see, Damon. Even after all these years. You know, I should have known better than to offer up my boat to
anyone with the Daly name. Hell, you might come back with that bucket of fish a week later and claim it isn’t yours after all.”
My brothers and I exchange deer-in-headlights looks while Dad’s face goes tight, a crazy glint in his eye.
“What did you say to me?”
“You know exactly what I said to you,” Jack shoots back. “If that wife of yours decides she doesn’t want it, she’ll probably come back and say it was mine to begin with.”
Something snaps in the air, maybe the final strand of goodwill that we’d all foolishly thought existed. “How dare you speak about my wife like that,” Dad barks.
Things happen quickly then. Dad advances toward Jack with that insane look in his eyes, which causes Gray to bolt to his feet and insert himself between the fathers. Dom jolts to standing at exactly the same time Jack pushes Gray out of the way in a bid to get at my dad.
Gray stumbles to the side, trips over the bench, and flies off the edge of the boat. Dom’s sudden movement makes the boat sway crazily, which gives my own stomach the final push it needs to eject its contents. I projectile puke off the other side of the boat just as Gray’s giant splash echoes through the morning air.
“Oh my Godddd,” I groan, hanging my head over the side of the boat as another round of experimental cocktails churn upward from the depths of my gut.
There’s shouting, then, and a lot of splashing. My eyes are watering, and I’m just trying to get all of this scourge out of me before I go to help my brother. Besides, Dom’s got it. He’s shouting Gray’s name while my Dad keeps repeating “Grab this ledge. Grab this ledge.”
Even Jack is doing his part, tossing a rope out to Gray in the event that he goes under.
“Guys, I know how to fucking swim,” Gray says as he paddles to the back of the boat.
He hauls himself onto the back of the fishing boat and sits there, letting himself drip for a few moments.
“Grayson, I’m sorry,” Jack says. “That was uncalled for. I shouldn’t have pushed you.”
