Thresholds

by Kate Canterbary

  "That's because you're a lawyer," I argued.

  "You're damn right it is," she yelled, attracting the attention of everyone in this small café. "The principle gift is the photograph, and I believe it's in keeping with the spirit of the agreement."

  "I know this might be hard for you to understand," I started, "but it matters to me that I do this right. I don't want to skate by on technicalities."

  Shannon set her fork down and clasped her hands. "All right, I don't want to litigate this. I can accept your position even if I don't agree with it," she said. "If not a photograph, what about a drawing?"

  I started to object but stopped myself. That might work. "Yeah," I murmured. "I can do that."

  Shannon dragged my basket of french fries closer, plucking a few from the top. "I know you're trying to stay above board—and it's great you've decided to be a law-abiding citizen now—but put it in a cute frame. It doesn't have to be big or ostentatious. Just something lovely she can keep in her bedroom."

  I shrugged. "That does sound nice," I said. "Now, where else am I taking you today?"

  "Wait a second," she said, holding up her hand. "Did we solve your Christmas conundrum? Did we finally, after hundreds of rejected ideas—"

  "It wasn't hundreds of ideas," I said while Shannon rolled her eyes. "Two dozen. No more than thirty."

  "After hundreds of rejected ideas, are you choosing this one? We've found the one gift that meets all your requirements?"

  "One gift to rule them all," I said darkly.

  Ignoring that prime Lord of the Rings reference, Shannon continued, "You're saying yes to the drawing?"

  I stared at her, unimpressed with the tirade. "Yes, Shannon. I'm certain. Thank you for your exhaustive assistance." I rolled my hand, gesturing for her to continue. "What's our next stop?"

  "You're welcome." She pulled her notebook out of her bag and flipped it open. "I only have a few things to handle," she said. "You don't mind touring a property in Lexington, do you? It just came on the market, and I want to get in while I can. Oh, and I have to see a new one in Charlestown."

  "Is that all?" I asked.

  "I need to grab some nursing camisoles," she said. "I was going to ask Judy to get them, but I'm particular about them and figured I should do it myself."

  "I don't know what that is, but yeah. Sure," I said with a sigh. "Anything else?"

  "Just a trip to the bank," she said. "And a couple of other stops. Quick. It won't take much time. And I need to help you choose that frame. You probably want some drawing paper and fancy pens, right? We should go to the art store. The one you favor in Central Square."

  I glanced at the time on my phone. "Will's going to kill me for keeping you out all day, isn't he?"

  Shannon shook her head. "Unlikely," she replied. "We just won't tell him any of the details. What he doesn't know won't hurt him."

  "Yeah, that's exactly why he'll kill me." I tossed some bills on the table and glanced at her. "Are we getting you another lunch? Perhaps afternoon tea?"

  "Don't say things like that unless you're serious. I've been trying to get the girls to skip the pedicures in favor of high tea one of these days. They weren't having it. They like tequila too much. However, if you're up for a stop at The Reserve at The Langham Hotel, you'll never find yourself sitting on another milk crate."

  "Heavens to Betsy," I muttered. "I'm not dressed for that. We'll have to save tea for another time."

  She bit her lip, holding back a small smile. "How about a frappe for the road?"

  I stood, laughing. "We'll take the long way to Charlestown, and swing by Kelly's Roast Beef in Revere. How about that?"

  She made a noise that was frighteningly close to a cat's purr. "There will always be a real chair in my office for you," she said.

  Chapter Four

  Patrick

  This was my kind of afternoon. My inbox was blissfully empty, my belly was full with the best burger I'd had in weeks, and I was double-fisting beer and bourbon before two o'clock. If only every workday was punctuated with a lunch like this one.

  The only thing that could make this better would be the complete absence of my chatterbox brothers.

  Sam, god love him, believed it was his fatherly duty to regale us with tales of his son's every gurgle and hiccup. The youngster was enjoying sweet potatoes and avocados these days, and—I was told—this ensured his future as a genius.

  Matt was no better but instead of effusive details about infant sleep patterns, he was busy being an irritable son of a bitch. That gig was usually reserved for me, and I didn't like sharing it with him.

  I was secretly hoping I could melt into this booth without gaining their notice. When Matt set his phone down and shifted toward me, I knew I had no such luck.

  "How was that trip to Maine?" The lunch crowd was clearing out but Matt still had to raise his voice for me to hear him across the booth. He flipped his phone over, gave it a quick grin, and then swirled the remaining inch of bourbon around his glass. "Hanukkah, right?"

  "Right." I laced my hands around my beer, nodding slowly. "That fucking trip was…a fucking trip."

  "Yeah, Tiel said Andy wasn't pleased," Sam added.

  "Oh, yeah? That's what she told your wife?" I asked, crossing my arms over my chest. "Because that's more than she's told me."

  Matt held up his hand. "Slow down. What the hell happened?"

  "I'll start the clock on this therapy session," Sam murmured.

  "First off, fuck you." I pointed at Sam. "Second, Andy didn't want to go. Her mother takes holidays extremely seriously, and Andy has no patience for being observant on occasion," I said. "But we went, smiling and nodding and keeping the comments about all of that to ourselves. Then, on the first night of Hanukkah, we're enjoying brisket and latkes and the whole bit, and Andy's stepfather says he and her mother have an announcement."

  "I assume they weren't getting a puppy," Sam mused.

  "Not a puppy." I shook my head. "They're getting a divorce."

  "Oh, shit," Matt murmured.

  "And that was a bombshell best dropped over dinner?" Sam asked. "Tiel's family is nuttier than a bag of trail mix, but that's pretty bold."

  "Exactly. Thank you," I replied. "As if the announcement wasn't adequate, Andy's mom goes on to take down the entire institution of marriage. It's a construct of patriarchal oppression intended to control women."

  "To be honest," Matt interrupted, "that was my thought process when getting married."

  "I had the same thought," Sam added. "Turns out it doesn't work that way."

  I spared them an irritated glare. "She said marriage is equivalent to indentured servitude. Humans aren't meant for monogamy—"

  "So, we can assume she's the cheater," Sam quipped.

  "I don't think so, but I don't know much of anything," I replied. "I kept refilling the wine glasses and listening while she repeatedly told my fiancée that she should never get married. That it was the biggest regret of her life, and she didn't want the same fate for her daughter."

  "While the stepfather and current husband sat there?" Sam asked.

  "Who do you think was drinking all the wine?" I asked.

  "That's fantastic," Matt said, gesturing to the waiter for another round. "That is just fucking fantastic."

  "Pretty much." I downed my beer. "We left the next morning and talked about the North End project she's working on with Riley the entire way home. We haven't discussed anything on the topic of weddings or marriage since then."

  "I hate to be contrary," Matt started, "but I don't think you were discussing anything on the topic of weddings or marriage before last weekend. This might not be a valid data point."

  "Yes, we were," I said, defensiveness thick in my words. "We were. We talked about it. Often."

  "Yeah, I am not referring to the wedding cake versus mini pie versus doughnut argument," Matt replied. "I mean setting a date. Picking a venue. Making actual plans."

  "We've done that," I said. Defensiv
e as fuck.

  "No, you haven't," Sam said, shaking his head.

  "It's great how you two think you know everything," I said.

  "That's because we do," Sam argued. "I don't know what you think the girls talk about when they get their nails done but it's not dust ruffles and casserole recipes."

  I accepted a fresh tumbler of bourbon from the server and sank back against the booth as I sipped.

  Realistically, Andy and I hadn't made many plans. At first, it didn't seem as though anything had changed. I'd asked, she'd accepted, the ring found a home on her finger. We were engaged and neither of us was in any rush to cross another threshold right away.

  But that was more than a year ago.

  We'd postponed all wedding talk until after the holidays last year, and that was fine. Closing out the year was always chaotic, and I required time to settle into the idea of being engaged to Andy.

  We'd lazed in bed on New Year's Day, brainstorming dates. We'd debated seasons and argued about locations. Batted around ideas but committed to nothing. The cake-pie-doughnut controversy. Big wedding parties, tiny wedding parties. Restaurants we favored and hoped to hire for catering.

  But the problem with large families like mine was that getting everyone in the same place on the same day—without resorting to rendition—required extreme flexibility. More flexibility than I possessed. I couldn't deal with the calculus of it all. I wanted a date, a time, a place, and I was prepared to wait as long as necessary.

  Until I wasn't.

  I realized I couldn't wait anymore around Abby's first birthday last month. It hit me then that I'd asked Andy to marry me almost one year prior, and we were no closer to making that a reality.

  I couldn't wait anymore.

  "I could be wrong," Sam said, snapping me out of my thoughts, "but Andy doesn't strike me as the type of woman who needs or wants to talk about everything. She deals with shit, and then she moves on."

  "You're right about that," I conceded. "It's the 'moving on' that has me concerned. It seems like she's having second thoughts. I wouldn't be surprised if she wanted to call it all off, or not go forward with getting married."

  "But she's also a processer," Matt added. "She thinks things through before she has thoughts or questions. She probably needs this time to sort it all out. If she wanted to pump the brakes, she'd have no problem telling you that."

  I shrugged though they weren't wrong. "That's also true but"—I ran my hands through my hair—"I was going to book the honeymoon as her Christmas gift. I had it all planned out, and I was ready to pull the trigger."

  I'd hoped to nail down a date after our trip to Maine. I had suggestions ready, and I'd confirmed the availability of several venues. I also had the city's best wedding planner queued up, and I was prepared to spend an exorbitant amount of money to make all of Andy's Pinterest dreams come true.

  But then we sat through the dinner from hell, and I didn't know up from down anymore.

  "You can't use the honeymoon as a Christmas gift," Sam argued. "It's the wedding gift, asshole."

  "While Sam is correct," Matt said, stroking his chin, "I see the conflict you're now facing."

  "Multiple conflicts." I glanced between them. "Not only is she questioning whether she wants to get married—"

  "You're assuming that to be fact," Matt interrupted. "I seriously doubt your assumption."

  "Let's go crazy and assume it is fact. Is that actually an issue?" Sam asked. "I mean, yes, it blows, but it's not like she's leaving you."

  "Yeah, she and Riley are going to be working on that North End project for time immemorial," Matt added. "She's not going anywhere."

  "Right," Sam replied, clinking his glass against Matt's. "Here's the real question, Optimus. Do you need to be married to be happy?"

  I started to respond but then stopped myself. I wanted Andy. I wanted to be married to her, but if that wasn't an option for me, I'd survive with whichever alternatives she offered. I'd take whatever she was willing to give and I'd be content with it.

  But for all that contentment, I also knew I wanted her to be my wife and I didn't want any of this noise to get in our way.

  "It's complicated," I said eventually.

  "No shit," Matt said, laughing. "It wouldn't be group therapy if it wasn't complicated."

  "And now I need a less controversial gift," I said.

  "Yeah, let's get serious about this excursion." Matt pushed aside his plate and pulled a pen and piece of folded paper from his pocket. "I've put together a list of shops."

  "Shocking. Jugger has a spreadsheet," Sam said under his breath.

  "We can go big and start with jewelry," Matt continued, tapping his pen against the paper. "Or brave the crowds at Copley Plaza where we have a variety of retail options. Clothes, handbags, that shop with the bath bombs, more jewelry."

  I hated malls almost as much as I hated faux wood paneling.

  "I'd rather contract leprosy than go to Copley," I said.

  Matt clicked his pen and drew a line through one of the entries on his list. "I have bookstores, the pedicure place, assorted gift shops, lingerie boutiques, the place with the funky wooden bowls, everything." He glanced up. "Do any of those sound good, or is everything on par with leprosy?"

  "It's all leprosy," I said. "Can't I just hire someone to bring me a range of gifts and I choose the ones I like best?"

  "You can," Matt said at length. "I don't know if that's a good idea, but I'm beginning to doubt whether any of this is a good idea."

  He rubbed his eyes. He looked fucking exhausted.

  "What's wrong with you?" I asked, pointing at him.

  "Nothing." He shook his head and returned to his list. "I'm just tired. I haven't been sleeping this week."

  "Please don't tell us about your sex life," Sam said. "Those details are best left unsaid."

  "It's funny how you managed to grow some decency," I said to him. "Or do you turn back into a manwhore at sundown?"

  Sam wiggled his ring finger. "No, it's permanent."

  Matt pressed his palms to his eyes. "Can we get back on topic?"

  I lifted my bourbon, pointing it toward Matt. "Be my guest."

  He shook his head and glanced down at his list. "If you want a personal shopper's assistance, Patrick, you should call Shannon. I'm sure she has one in her address book."

  "Don't do that," Sam said. "You'd fire this person within twenty minutes and that's not the way to start a holiday vacation."

  "Then I'm out of solutions," I said.

  "I have plenty of solutions right here," Matt said, waving his list at me. "Quit the bitching and decide where you want to start."

  "I have no fucking clue," I murmured. "Lingerie, I guess. I don't know."

  "It would be weird for us to buy lingerie together," Sam said. "Right? Wouldn't it be weird?"

  "I believe the question is whether we should buy lingerie together," I said.

  "What is the big deal?" Matt asked. He shook his head, impatient with our refusal to jump at the idea of communal underwear shopping. Because it was so fucking normal.

  "It's not a big deal. I just don't need moral support to pick out fancy underwear, and I don't like the idea of either of you seeing anything I'd choose for Andy."

  "I have no intention of looking at anything you purchase," Matt argued. "We can go in separately if that puts your twisted mind at ease."

  "We have to compare because we don't want to get the same thing. They'd know. They talk about this shit. Hell," I said, pointing to Sam, "your wife knows more about Andy's feelings about our disastrous trip to Maine than I do because these women tell each other every fucking thing."

  Matt scrubbed his hands down his face as he yawned. "Then we'll ask the saleslady to make sure we buy different things."

  "What happens then? You're in the office with Andy two months from now and you're wondering if she's wearing the panties I got her for Christmas. I'd have to kill you, and I really don't have time to find a place to hide
your body."

  "You're overthinking this," Matt said, "and I'm worried about your sanity. I'm truly concerned."

  "I can assure you that the only underwear I think about is that belonging to my wife," Sam said. "Until you mentioned it just now, I was oblivious to the notion that Andy and underwear existed in the same universe."

  "That's probably a slight exaggeration, don't you think?" Matt stared at Sam.

  "No," Sam replied. "Not at all."

  "Leprosy," I said. "Give me the leprosy."

  "Let's not forget that lingerie is a highly selfish gift." Sam reached across the table and snatched Matt's list. "I'm going to enjoy it more than Tiel."

  "Disagree," Matt said, grabbing the paper back from Sam. "A good gift is something she won't buy for herself. Lauren only allows herself to buy new things every few months and she always waits for the sales. She'll love it, and that's why her favorite shop, Forty Winks, is on here."

  "That last place on your list is interesting," Sam said, a smug grin on his face. "Care to share some news with everyone?"

  "Shut up," Matt snapped. "I mean it. Shut the fuck up. Not a word."

  I didn't know what they were arguing about and I didn't care. "Both of you should shut up," I grumbled. "Let's start with the lacy shit and then move onto jewelry. If those don't work, bookstores and gift shops."

  "Sounds like a plan," Matt said, jotting some notes. "Burgers, beer, bourbon…and bras."

  "And for fuck's sake, let's find some pubs to visit along the way," I said. The waiter dropped our tab on the table and I took a moment to glare at the total. "There's no reason to shop sober."

  "Okay, then," Sam murmured. "I guess I'll drive."

  I pushed the tab toward him. "You're paying, too."

  * * *

  I glanced up at the brownstone's front window but dropped my gaze when I noticed the corseted mannequin. I didn't know the rules for this. I'd never shopped for unmentionables before and I wasn't convinced I was up to the task.

  "Well?" Matt gestured to the short stone staircase leading to the shop's door. "Are we going in or would you boys rather stay out here and freeze your dicks off on the sidewalk all afternoon?"