by Aly Martinez
They had what I’d always wanted: someone who could give me endless amounts of shit and laugh hysterically when I gave it right back. And for a while there, it was what I’d found.
Then it was what I’d lost.
I spoke around the ever-present lump in my throat. “I’m fine. Really.”
“Sure. Sure. Right. Right.” Translation: You’re a lying sack of shit. But since today is going to be rough, I’m not going to call you on it.
Pity aside, I was grateful for the out.
I flicked my gaze to the mile-high stack of folders on the corner of my desk. As soon as the weight of my grief had lifted enough for me to leave the house again, I’d thrown myself into my job and started my own accounting firm. Taking on too many clients. Working long into the night. Anything to avoid the memories lurking in the darkness at home.
“I should probably get back to work.”
“Oh hush, you own the place. Emily can take over punching ‘two plus two equals four’ on the calculator while you talk to your poor, neglected mother.”
Oh, yes. Two plus two equals four is exactly what my mother thought I did for a living. Until tax season. Then I quickly became her favorite child.
I rolled my eyes. “Neglected? What happened? Did Tyson finally learn to do his own laundry?”
“Come on now. Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Mom, he’s twenty-nine. I think he can manage separating the darks from the lights.”
“What, and ruin his manicure? Puh-lease.”
Leaning back in my chair, I stretched my legs out in front of me. “You know one of these days, he’s going to get married and his husband will hate you for babying him all these years.”
“Blasphemy. His wedding will be something of a passing-of-the-torch ceremony. Besides, we all know Jared adores me.”
“Yes, but… Wait. Jared? Did they get back together?”
There was a quiet squeak and then the line went silent for several beats.
“Mom?”
“I, uh…don’t think I was supposed to mention that.”
Of course she wasn’t. My whole family had been walking on eggshells with me since the accident, and as much as I appreciated it most of the time, I really fucking resented how, with something as big as my brother getting back together with his fiancé, I wasn’t the first damn person he called. Hell, I’d set the two of them up. Surely that had to give me some kind of priority status on the family phone chain.
“When did this happen?”
“Oh, honey, I’m sorry. We shouldn’t be talking about this. You have a lot going on today.”
“Too late. You can’t drop a bomb like that then expect to—”
Further conversation died when the door to my office swung open and my sister came strutting in, her designer purse swaying on her arm.
“What the fuck?” I mumbled as she made her way around the desk. Her overpowering perfume filled the room as though a path of flowers had formed in her wake.
As an outsider looking in, an x-ray of the Michaels family would look something like this:
Cassidy Michaels-Harrington: Oldest child, snob, interior designer, mother of two hellions I loved dearly, and married to an attorney who, if possible, was an even bigger snob.
Tyson Michaels: The baby, snob, finishing the last year of his plastic surgery residency and apparently re-engaged to an orthopedic surgeon who was not a snob, but in a lot of ways, he was by association because he put up with, and often encouraged, my brother’s behavior.
And then there was me, Bowen Michaels: blissfully normal accountant, stuck in the middle, wondering how in the hell my cool-ass parents had given birth to me and the co-mayors of Snobville.
They weren’t all bad though. Surprisingly, despite our differences, I was close with my siblings. I wasn’t sure I would have survived losing Sally if it hadn’t been for Cassidy dropping everything to move in with me for the first month. And then there was Tyson, who had spent countless nights sitting on the bathroom floor beside me as gut-wrenching sobs tore from my soul.
Nevertheless, we were different people. But we were family, and I was more grateful than words could ever express that I still had them.
Just not today.
I shot to my feet. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Cassidy curled her lip. “Good to see you too, little brother.”
“Is that Cassie?” Mom asked brightly. “Tell her she’s late.”
Fantastic. They were plotting against me. I really shouldn’t have been shocked anymore, but somehow, I still was.
The base of the phone slid across the desk behind me, knocking off a cup of pens as I prowled toward her. “Tell her yourself. She’s headed to your house now.”
Cassidy scoffed. “No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are. You are not coming with me today. I already told all of you—repeatedly—I want to do this on my own.”
She lifted a shoulder in a half shrug. “Well, we disagree.”
“It’s not up for debate,” I snapped. “Jesus Christ. What is wrong with you people? I haven’t been able to breathe since I woke up this morning. You think I want an audience for this? I want to go, get it over with, go home, and fucking forget.”
With a flick of her wrist, she swept her rich chestnut hair off her shoulder. It was one hundred percent my father’s color, which he had passed down to all of us, but hair aside, she was an exact replica of my mom. Tall and lean. Green eyes. High cheekbones. A bitchy attitude that she reserved just for me. And sometimes Tyson.
“I’m not here to be your audience, Bowen. You’re my brother, and I love you. I don’t even have to go inside. I’ll sit in the car. Whatever.” She rested her hand on my arm. “And before you start pounding your chest like a caveman, think about this. She wouldn’t want you to be alone, either.”
I winced. No. She wouldn’t have wanted any of this. But the minute that plane hit the runway, we all lost our choices in the matter.
She gave my bicep a squeeze. “Get your shit together. Let me take you to lunch, and then let’s go fight for justice for all one hundred and fifty-two people who died on that flight. But most of all, for Sally.”
My stomach sank. God, what a damn clusterfuck.
I didn’t want justice. I wanted her back.
Instead, I had to go to the courthouse and listen to an attorney for Sky High Airways claim that the crash of flight 672—which killed over three-quarters of the passengers as it skidded off the runway, broke in half, and then flipped before an engine exploded—wasn’t their fault.
Mechanical records said otherwise.
The aviation accident investigators said otherwise.
And the fact that I crawled into bed alone every night said otherwise too.
But, as much as I was going to hate being present at the hearing, Cassidy was right. With only twenty-seven survivors, something had to be done. A multimillion-dollar class action lawsuit wasn’t exactly what I would call justice. The alternative was allowing a billion-dollar company to walk away from the death of one hundred and fifty-two souls with little more than a six-figure fine from the Federal Aviation Administration.
The majority of the victims’ families settled out of court, but the survivors had banded together in multi-district litigation that was ultimately consolidated into one court. Short of signing my name on the paperwork, I’d avoided everything to do with the damn lawsuit. But today, Sky High had rushed a settlement to finally get their name out of the press, and for the first time since this nightmare had started, we were all asked to be in attendance.
I’d spent every day of the last week dreading it, talking myself out of it, and ultimately resigning myself to a world of pain.
I didn’t need reminders of that day. I’d never forget it.
Not rousing to consciousness, confused and panic-stricken in the middle of fiery wreckage.
Not the ear-piercing screams of people begging for help or the heart-stopping silence of the bodies st
rewn across the runway.
Not finding her lifeless and covered in so much blood that she was barely recognizable.
Not the way her ribs crunched as I endlessly performed CPR with a broken arm and punctured lung.
Not when they dragged me off her.
Not when I screamed her name until I began to choke on the smoke.
Not even the hell-spun reality of when I found out Sally had never truly left the carnage on that runway, which all but guaranteed I’d be stuck in that purgatory for the rest of my life too.
No. I didn’t need reminders at all.
But as I stared at my sister while holding a phone with my meddling mother on the other end of the line, I was more pissed that I actually needed her and less so about how they’d sprung it on me at the last minute.
I was sick and fucking tired of my family feeling like they had to check in on me at every turn to make sure I wasn’t on the verge of self-destruction. And worse, I was sick of them being right.
But today was the end.
In a few hours, everything would be over. The fight. The lawsuit. The never-ending roar of what-ifs playing in the back of my mind.
Surrendering, I seethed, “Fine. But you’re sitting in the car and paying for lunch.”
Cassidy’s face split with a wicked grin. “I accept those terms.”
My mom blew out a relieved breath over the phone. “Oh, thank God.”
Pinching the bridge of my nose, I closed my eyes and rumbled at my mother, “I’m not speaking to you for a week.”
“That’ll make it awkward when I bring you dinner tonight, but okay, sure.”
“Mom, I don’t need dinner. What part of Jack, Clyde, Sugar, and throwing a ball until my arm falls off did you misunderstand?”
“Clearly the part where you take a break from destroying the perfectly good liver I provided you with in the womb and playing fetch with my granddogs to have dinner with your parents. See you at six. Kisses.” She hung up.
Out-fucking-standing.
In what could only be described as the devil playing his ace in the hole, my office door once again swung open and Tyson came rushing inside. “Sorry I’m late.” His chest heaved as he planted his hands on his hips. “Well, not really true. I planned to be late because I figured Cass would be late too.” He narrowed his eyes on my sister. “Thanks for making me look like the ass.”
She rolled her eyes. “You are the ass. Always and forever. This isn’t new information.”
They started to bicker as only the Michaels siblings could in the face of grief.
But then again, the world owed me nothing.
Not even peace and quiet as I waited for the universe to swallow me whole.
Remi
My bare feet padded against the hardwood as I rounded the corner into the kitchen.
I blinked. Once. Twice. I threw in a third for good measure when he didn’t disappear or burst into flames. “You can’t be serious right now?”
He froze, a spoon halfway to his mouth. “What?”
Growling, I stomped over and snatched the box of Frosted Flakes off the table. “Dammit, Mark, stop eating my cereal. We literally just had this conversation last night.”
He arched a dark eyebrow. “No. We discussed you not running ten humidifiers for your four million plants to the point I wake up confused if I’m in bed or lost in the Amazon. Then…you got mad, pouted, and ordered moo shu chicken just so you could put it in the refrigerator and tell me not to eat it. You never said anything about cereal.”
The majority of it was true, though I didn’t have four million plants. I wasn’t even to triple digits yet. And I only turned on nine humidifiers, so really, his argument had holes.
He shoved the spoon into his mouth, smiling as he chewed. “Relax. I’ll buy you more.”
“No, you won’t.” I gave the box a shake, hearing nothing but the dusty remnants of my favorite breakfast. “Besides, what the hell good does it do me now? I have to leave in ten minutes.”
He raked his gaze over the towel pulled tight around my middle all the way up to the smaller one tied around my hair. “Then I think you have bigger problems than cereal.”
In theory, living with my two best friends sounded like a dream when we’d moved in together four years earlier. We had all been bright-eyed and bushy-tailed twenty-five-year-olds with the world at our fingertips. Mark had been saving up to open his own bar while Aaron had been climbing the corporate ladder. I, on the other hand, had still been contemplating world domination. (Read: unemployed.) So, honestly, sharing a house with my two best friends and splitting the bills three ways had been a godsend for me.
Though living with two men who were allergic to grocery shopping, unloading the dishwasher, and putting the toilet seat down left a lot to be desired.
Don’t get me wrong. I loved my guys. Living together was just a lot sometimes.
The three of us were different in virtually every way, but when we’d met in high school, those differences were exactly what we’d needed at the time.
Freshman year had started out fantastic for all of us. I was one of the popular girls. Co-captain of the cheerleading squad, known for my kindness and generosity without ever having done anything that wasn’t purely self-serving. My father owned a restaurant, The Wave, which had the most incredible loaded cheese fries. And if you were with me, those cheese fries were free.
My perfect little life came crumbling down when news broke of my mom’s affair with our married Spanish teacher. I didn’t think anyone actually cared that my mom was sleeping with Mr. Ruiz, but nothing set a high school on fire like a scandal. For reasons I would never understand, I found myself burning at the stake over other people’s choices that had absolutely nothing to do with me. My friends stopped talking to me, my parents got a divorce, and my mom and Mr. Ruiz moved to Texas. Being that I was fifteen with my world falling apart, I chose to stay in the only place I felt at home: with my dad and his free cheese fries.
Cue Aaron Lanier.
High school was the fresh start he’d been waiting for after a less-than-stellar stint in middle school. His high hopes lasted approximately twelve seconds before he was labeled as the gay kid—again. Back then, Aaron was the type of guy who never truly seemed comfortable in his own skin. It didn’t help his case that he preferred khakis over basketball shorts and meticulously styled his hair every morning while the rest of the ninth-grade boys were lucky if they had showered and put on deodorant.
As I’d learned earlier that year, it didn’t take much to find yourself on the wrong side of the high school gossip train. But poor, sweet Aaron might as well have been tied to the tracks. His locker had been decorated with condoms and free HIV testing fliers on the regular, and by the end of the year, he’d been locked inside so many closets that the janitorial staff had given him his own set of keys to get out. His luck should have changed when David Scott, star defensive lineman of the football team, came out in front of the entire school by asking Aaron to homecoming.
Come on. That was the stuff high school romances were made of.
One problem. Despite a million rumors that said otherwise, Aaron wasn’t gay.
The words “I’m sorry, but I’m straight,” had barely cleared his lips before they were echoed around the entire school, leaving brave David the victim and Aaron the ultimate villain.
All too familiar with how quickly a thousand-plus students could turn on you, I dragged Aaron out of the lunchroom, horror showing on his bright-red face. He didn’t know me, but there was something to be said about having a person who understood what you were going through.
After that, the two of us became inseparable. He walked me to class every morning, ate lunch with me behind the gym every day, and did his homework with me at The Wave every afternoon. It wasn’t long before the school thought we were dating. Aaron was so grateful for the confirmation of his sexuality that we never corrected the assumptions.
On the first day of junior year, Mark Frie
dman entered our lives and completed our misfit throuple. He was new to school, and I nearly had a heart attack when I saw all six-foot-five of him dressed in Unabomber chic, sitting in Aaron’s spot behind the gym. I mean, it wasn’t like we had reserved seating or anything, but after two years of wearing down the grass into a patch of dirt, we liked to think we’d staked our claim.
So I took a chance and asked the giant if he was lost.
He told me to fuck off.
I told him he didn’t have to be such an asshole.
He told me to fuck off again.
Aaron jumped in and told him to shut the fuck up, but in true Aaron fashion, he tacked on a please at the end of it.
There was a beat where I was fearful for Aaron’s life, but a wide smile split Mark’s mouth. He lifted his hands in surrender, muttered an, “Easy there, killer,” and then scooted over exactly six inches.
And that was how Mark joined our group.
Compared to Aaron’s rich and pretentious parents and my say-anything single dad, Mark’s home life was rough. His father was a drunk who never left the couch, and his mother was addicted to painkillers and rarely left the bed. They survived on turmoil, arguments, and staying off social services’ radar. For a teenager with a stomach as big as his heart, Mark couldn’t get by with an empty fridge and bare cupboards. But I had free fries, which my father quickly upgraded to all-you-can-eat burgers, chicken fingers, and anything else on the menu and Aaron had a guest room where Mark stayed more often than he did his own home.
After high school, we all drifted off to separate colleges. But when we came home for holidays and summer vacations, it was as if nothing had changed. I didn’t even search for an apartment when I moved back to Atlanta; living with my guys was the logical choice. I’d cussed my choice in roommates under my breath more times than I could count, but I had never regretted it.
All our financial situations had changed over the years. Mark’s bar, The Rusty Nail, was thriving. Aaron was computer engineering at a large company downtown, and as of recently, I had earned my brokerage license and opened my own real estate company. We could all afford our own places now, and each one would have been bigger than the eighteen-hundred-square-foot rental we shared. But there was something unbelievably comfortable about our arrangement that made us all stay.
