by Julia Kent
“What’s why?”
“You have a way of calling my dad an asshole without ever saying a negative word.”
I laugh, torn between wanting to jump in the water and wanting to run away.
His chin dips and he adds, “I really want you to do something with me.”
“What’s that?”
“Come upstairs.” We walk away from the lap pool, my eyes struggling to make sense of the long, thin shimmer of water, like a ribbon. As we head toward the cacophony of the crowd, I want to grab Andrew and run back, jump in, float and swim and kiss and laugh.
“Amanda!” We turn to find Amy standing there, Shannon and Marie with her, Carol on their heels carrying two empty wine bottles. A member of the catering staff takes the bottles from her with a surprised smile. Andrew guides us all back to the enormous, two-story living room where people are now standing in small groups, the liquor flowing.
I give everyone half-hugs as we migrate. Andrew’s seen by someone from the Anterdec board and gives me an apologetic smile as he peels off from us, deep in conversation within seconds.
“So much for helping me acclimate in small doses,” I mutter under my breath.
Shannon laughs. “He gives you that line, too? Dec abandons me at events all the time. Why do you think I’m so good at Words With Friends now?” She winks, but I know she’s only half joking.
I give Marie a quick hug as a caterer delivers more wine. I hand off my empty glass and gratefully take a fresh one.
“Where’s Jason?”
“At home with Jeffrey and Tyler. This isn’t his kind of thing.”
“Dad’s exact words were, ‘Why spend money on a babysitter so I can torture myself for three hours with a bunch of pompous windbags who can be condescending to me for free anywhere else?’” Amy explains.
“He’s kinda done with being Dec’s father-in-law,” Shannon whispers to me.
“He doesn’t have a choice in that.” I know Jason enjoys golfing at some of the exclusive clubs where Declan can just walk in without reservations and get tee times, though.
Billionaire sons-in-law have built-in perks.
“But he does have a choice about coming to these events.”
“Speaking of people who don’t like this kind of thing, have you seen my mom?”
As if on cue, my phone buzzes in my pocket.
Sorry, honey. Too much pain. Give my regards to everyone.
“Mom can’t make it,” I tell Marie, Amy, and Shannon, my voice filled with apologies. I’m used to it. Mom’s fibromyalgia is unpredictable and ever-changing, a silent third person who lives in the house like a muscle vampire, draining her.
“Is Pam okay? Is it a flare?” Marie’s eyes fill with concern.
“Yeah. I guess.”
“She must be so excited about your wedding!” Marie’s practically giddy with joy.
“Sure. Excited.”
“You know, I was this close — ” she holds her thumb and index finger an inch apart “ — to having Rachel Ray herself cater Shannon and Declan’s wedding.”
“This close to a restraining order,” Amy mutters, her fingers millimeters apart.
Marie pretends she can’t hear that and continues to talk to me. “Have you picked out centerpieces yet? I’ve heard live terrariums with little frogs are the hot new thing. Then people can take them home and remember your wedding forever.”
“Why not give everyone a kitten and a scratching post?” I joke.
“That is an excellent idea!” Marie gushes. “You could start a whole new trend!”
“I’m kidding, Marie.”
“But I’ll bet you could get a bulk discount on the cats. Oh! There’s Barrie Goodenow. I have a question for her about the yoga studio she started in Dorchester and that yoni yoga class she’s debuting. You kids have fun!”
I turn to Amy. “Yoni yoga?”
“Don’t ask.”
“Yoga for your -- ”
She shakes her head slowly, ringlet curls moving with her like octopus tentacles. “Don’t ask.” She’s holding a shot of something amber and sucks it down like a tonic. One of the waiters swoops in, takes the shot glass, and offers her another from a tray.
We sip our drinks and look around the room, taking in the scene. I can’t see Andrew anymore, but Declan is over by the massive stone fireplace, talking to James and some members of the Anterdec board. I overhear the word “grandchild” and do a double-take.
Hamish is behind us, his voice unmistakable in the crowd. Carol’s enjoying herself, the stressed look she perpetually wears not making an appearance tonight.
Maybe it’s the wine soaking in, maybe it’s the absence of anything to do, but I’m starting to feel loose. Good.
More than good.
Amy keeps taking covert looks at someone behind me. If I were a betting woman, I’d lay odds on it being Hamish. Shannon and I share a knowing look.
Hivemind. She’s thinking the same thing.
“Remember that time Mom told you I had a date with a billionaire and you joked you were dating the leprechaun from Lucky Charms?” Shannon says to Amy.
“Yeah?”
“Wrong accent.”
Amy looks around the room nervously, eyes landing on Hamish, who obliviously drones on in conversation with Terry, the two talking intensely about football clubs in England and France.
“You think I want to date Hamish? Hamish McCormick? The man is a walking tabloid story.”
“So am I,” I mutter, bitter from the brief run into the building, eyes still half convinced they see the echoes of camera flashes. Draining my wine glass, I reach for the bottle on the table and perform a lifesaving refill. Maybe that’s a tad melodramatic. No one’s ever died from not having more wine.
But let’s not take a chance here.
Shannon holds out her wine glass, too, and motions for me to fill it halfway. James’ earlier musings about grandchildren were just that, then. Musings. Shannon wouldn’t drink if she were pregnant. And besides, she’d tell me if she were. She’s not capable of keeping a secret.
“You, Amanda? When did you turn into a manwhore like Hamish McCormick?” Amy asks, just loud enough for others around us to hear.
And just as Hamish breaks away from Terry, grabs the bottle I was just pouring from, and ends up three feet away from Amy.
“Manwhore?” He gives her wicked grin. “Is that an insult or a crown for me to wear? There’s a title I wouldn’t mind bearing.”
“If you don’t know the difference,” she retorts, cheeks blazing but jaw set with determination, “then maybe the rumors are true.”
“Rumors?” He finishes pouring the wine and hands the stemmed glass off to Terry, who is watching their conversation with amusement. “There are rumors about me?” A disingenuous, wide-eyed look complete with splayed hand over his heart follows. In that moment, I see a slight family resemblance to James, Terry, Declan, and Andrew. Nothing physical.
It’s the look of a McCormick going in for the kill. That must be etched in the family’s DNA going back to the Neolithic period.
Eye rolls abound, my own rolling like a hula hoop.
“You do nude athlete photo shoots for Sports Illustrated. You’re booked for a Bachelor special. You’ve scored more on social media than you have on the football field,” Amy retorts.
Terry lets out a mocking sound of shock. Might as well squeal Oooh, burn!
Hamish freezes, his fingers wrapped around the base of his beer turning white, his grin hardening into something slightly sinister as he looks at Amy as if seeing her for the first time. She bats her eyelashes sweetly, giving it right back. Two redheads locked in verbal battle.
If I were a betting woman, I’d give Amy 3:2 odds here.
Hamish leans across the counter, eyes burning, his smile stretching. “Ye made yourself me unofficial scorekeeper now, have ye? Tracking me love life and me field performance. Well, now. I know ye can watch me on the field on television, but ye canna judge me performance in th
e bedroom so easily.” The Scottish accent comes out as he asks the question in a low, seductive voice, one that appears to work magic on Amy, who shifts her weight, taking a few steadying breaths before leaning in, matching his body language, giving nothing more.
But also giving no quarter.
“When there are more pictures of you reaching women’s goal lines than the opposing team’s...” Amy responds, finishing her incomplete sentence with a one-shoulder shrug and a smirk that dares him to argue.
“Jesus, woman, get yer sports terms straight. Goal lines?”
Amy waves a hand in an impressive display so dismissive I’d think she was James’ long-lost daughter. “Whatever.”
“Ye think that’s my ratio of sex to football goals? Aye, ye’re an innocent, aren’t ye? Those pictures of me with women are but a fraction of the action.” His big green eyes narrow, then take her in from crown to toe, not bothering to hide his lingering gaze.
“Manwhore it is, then.” Amy holds her own, cheeks flushing, eyes not backing off.
“I wear the title proudly. Does it come with a t-shirt? Ye Americans love to have t-shirts for every occasion. Did ye get one when ye lost your maidenhood?” His grin turns appreciative.
“Your title comes with a twenty-eight-day supply of antibiotics, Hamish,” she retorts.
“A Scotsman discovered those, ye know.”
Amy’s face goes blank, a ringlet of red slipping off her forehead as she tilts her head. “What? T-shirts?”
“Sir Alexander Fleming. Discovered antibiotics. Everything good in the world came from Scotland originally.” He winks at her. “If ye’d unclench a bit, ye’d know more about that.”
“Unclench! I am unclenched! Just because you -- ”
He stares openly at her breasts as if looking for something specific. “Nah. I don’t see it.”
Amy crosses her arms over her chest. “See what?”
“Your t-shirt for losing your virginity. Guess you don’t have one. Hmmm. Wonder why not?”
He winks and turns away, walking across the room, leaving Amy a sputtering mess.
“That man – I – what did he -- ”
“He’s a jerk,” I say, sympathetic, yet I can’t help myself. I’m watching his ass like my eyes have become a paparazzi drone.
“You and Hamish seem to be hitting it off!” chirps Marie, who appears out of nowhere, as if she has radar for anytime her daughters interact with an eligible bachelor. “Imagine the gorgeous redheaded children you two could produce!”
Amy’s eyes ignite. I’ve never seen blue turn orange so fast.
“Shut up, Mom.” Carol humors Marie. Shannon manages her mother with a simmer.
Amy stands up to her.
“I’m just saying, there are worse men in the world.”
“I seriously doubt that, Mom. He just insulted me.”
“What? Hamish? What did he say?”
“He questioned my virginity.”
Marie frowns, her fake eyelashes unyielding, making her look like she has two fringed black cocktail stirrers attached to her lids. “You mean, in a bid for marriage?”
“What?”
“Men only ask about your virginity if they think you’re marriage material.”
“It wasn’t like that. At all.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“Are you a virgin?”
“MOM!”
Marie shrugs. “I know you dated in college, but you never really had a boyfriend, and Jason and I had just assumed, you know...”
“That I’m a virgin?”
“Actually, no. We assumed you were a lesbian. Or maybe asexual.”
Amy looks like someone whacked her in the face with a cast iron pan.
“You and Dad assumed that?”
“We didn’t want to pry -- ”
Amy makes a sound that makes me think I’ll need to do the Heimlich on her momentarily.
“Since when have you been reluctant to pry into anyone’s life?”
“Me?” Marie’s hand flattens against her heart in a gesture that is so close to Hamish’s from a few minute ago that I wonder just how many generations ago the two families’ DNA blended.
“Mom, the NSA could hire you to do the job of three operatives, as long as you’re assigned to investigate your own kids. C’mon. You are the equivalent of a human auger with ovaries.”
“What’s an auger?”
“An old-fashioned drill for boring holes.”
“Oh, honey. My hole is anything but boring.”
I grab Amy and pull her toward the dessert tray before she commits murder and I’m forced to testify for the prosecution.
Being questioned by Marie takes the wind out of Amy’s sails. I can feel the mixture of emotions radiating out of her muscles as I grasp her arm and search the room for a grounding influence. Someone she can talk to who will be calm and rational, reasonable and settled.
“I am not gay,” Amy mutters. “Not that there’s anything wrong with it. I just haven’t found the right person yet.”
Does that mean she is a virgin? I want to ask, but I would prefer not to be burned to a crisp by the fire that would shoot out of her eyeballs and land directly on my hair.
“And that redheaded ass! His one and only skill is kicking a little ball around a field. That’s it. Athletes make all the money and get all the fame in our culture. Emotionally stunted troglodyte.” She finishes off her wine in one long series of gulps, then runs her fingers through her thick, curly hair, smoothing it off her face.
“I was surrounded by millionaires and athletes,” she says in a contemplative voice, nodding to herself. “All day, every day at the venture capital firm where I interned. Hedge fund managers and overachieving twenty-three-year-old social media developers worth billions. Athletes and viral video people who had ideas. It was like that tv show, Shark Tank, on steroids.” She gives me a bitter grin. “Do you have any idea how many supremely rich people there are out there who made it on the dumbest idea, or through sheer stupid luck? It’s mind-boggling.”
“Like the unboxing videos,” Carol says, suddenly entering our conversation.
“Unboxing?” I ask, confused.
“It’s got to be one of the most ridiculous concepts ever,” Carol says with a sigh. “But Tyler loves watching the unboxing videos on YouTube.” Tyler is Carol’s son. He’s seven years old and has a language disorder that makes him seem a little different. Now that he’s talking more it’s not so obvious, but if you spend more than a few minutes with him, you see that something is off. Not bad. Just different.
And in our culture, different is all too often equated with bad.
“What happens in an unboxing video?” I ask as Amy rolls her eyes.
“The person making the video opens a new product.”
“You mean a new product announcement from a company? Like a marketing push?”
“Nope. Even simpler. A customer gets a new product in the mail and videotapes themselves opening it.”
I’m not understanding this correctly. Must be the wine. “So they just open the box? That’s it?”
“It’s a little more complex. Think The Price is Right. They open the box, show off the features...”
“It’s a descriptive video?”
“No. They rarely say much.”
“Then it’s a silent video of someone just opening a box?”
“Yes. Mostly. It’s changing, though. More of them have a running commentary, like a review. Plenty of them are quiet.”
“That’s so silly.”
“The top unboxer on YouTube makes $5 million a year.”
“Someone get me a box to unbox. Now.”
Amy’s watching the whole conversation with a calm, almost meditative precision. I know she’s taking in every word, processing the implications, and searching for a way to leverage this information into something that gives her an advantage in a different area.
I know what she’s doing because t
his is exactly how Andrew operates. And until I began dating him, the concept didn’t even exist for me. Optimizers and fixers are two completely different types of people. Andrew and I complement each other precisely because we’re so different.
I give Hamish a side glance.
I wonder. He’s not a fixer. Not an optimizer.
More like a womanizer.
“Has anyone created a site devoted to unboxing? A clearinghouse where they curate the videos and group them together by subject?” Amy wonders aloud.
Carol shrugs. “No idea. I just watch them because Tyler does.”
“Are the ads aimed at kids?”
After a few seconds of surprised consideration, Carol gives Amy a respectful look. “Actually, no. The ads tend to be aimed at me. At my interests.”
“Then whoever is picking ad targets knows that parents will be watching with their kids. Does Tyler focus on toys and electronics for unboxing?”
“Yes. Mostly. Although his newest favorite was the unboxing of a neti pot.”
“A neti pot? The thing you use to flush salt water through your sinuses?”
“Yes. It was a very interesting set of hands. Each fingernail was painted with a different country’s flag, and Tyler wanted to identify them all.”
Amy laughs, a genuine grin of affection fixing on her face. “So in Tyler’s case, he’s driven by some detail in the video.”
“Who knows what drives that child? Jeffrey, on the other hand, has big plans for his own unboxing video series. Problem is, I don’t have the money to buy the expensive items you need to buy to do the unboxing. No one cares if you unbox a pound of rigatoni from Aldi’s.”
My mind flutters like a bird at liftoff. “What about new product testing?”
Carol turns to me, looking like she forgot I was there. “What?”
“New product testing. You know. All the focus groups and beta testing we do.”
“You mean did. Consolidated Evalu-shop stopped doing those when we were folded into Anterdec.”
“Why?”
“Low margin.” Carol shrugs. “Not profitable enough.”
Pure excitement radiates off Amy. “But if you did unboxing videos as part of Anterdec....”
I grab her arm. “And offer it as a bundled service to clients.”
“Anterdec has its own in-house media division. Camera crew, commercial photographers, the whole bit.” I look at Carol’s hands, then mine. “Whoever has the nicest hands could be the unboxer.”