by Julia Kent
“Would you stop saying ‘doing it’?”
He grabs my hands, pinning them at my side. “Doing it,” he taunts, rubbing his chin against my neck. “Doing it,” he teases as he lets one hand go and finds my breast. “Doing it -- ”
“Declan!” That’s Shannon’s voice. It’s followed by a deep moan from a man. The wall shakes, making two framed awards on Andrew’s wall go askew.
More giggles. More moans. More wall thumps.
“Oh, for God’s sake!” Andrew groans.
“Looks like you weren’t the only brother with the whole teenage boy fantasy thing going on. Is that Declan’s bedroom?” I ask, pointing to the wall where the sounds are now coming from.
“Yeah.” Andrew rolls his eyes as he buttons up his shirt. “But we were first.”
“It’s not a competition!”
“Everything is a competition when it comes to Declan. We beat him to it.”
I am speechless.
Andrew crosses the room and bangs on the wall. “WE WERE HERE FIRST!” he shouts.
“What are you doing? Are you crazy?”
“WE DID IT FIRST! I WIN!”
Oh, my God.
A muffled man’s voice comes through the wall.
“FIRST DOESN’T MATTER! QUALITY DOES!”
“STOP IT!” Shannon shouts.
“STOP IT!” I echo.
Andrew’s ignoring me, staring at the wall.
And then:
“No!” Shannon says in a weird voice. “Don’t stop that!”
“You two. I can’t stand it,” I huff, finishing putting myself together. “I can’t believe you-you-you just announced to the world that we had sex in your bedroom and that you view this as some prize you won in a contest with your brother!”
“Because it is,” Andrew says slowly, eyes raking over my body. “I won the lottery with you.”
“You’re a billionaire! You don’t need to win the lottery!”
“The love lottery.”
The what?
“Besides,” he adds, “you do realize everyone knows we have sex. That’s not a secret.”
“I know they know, but you don’t need to holler about it through the walls! And you definitely don’t need to use it as some sort of demented form of one-upsmanship!”
More shouts filter through the wall, all Declan.
“Shhhh,” Andrew says, listening intently.
“Oh, baby. That’s right,” Declan’s calling out, obviously shouting intentionally so we can hear him. “It’s so big. I know it won’t fit, but you still have to try – OW! Why did you hit me?”
The sound of feet on the floor and a woman muttering obscenities comes through the wall. Then a door opens. I open Andrew’s bedroom door and peek my head out into the hallway to find a very angry Shannon putting on her shoes.
Our eyes meet.
“Men!” we say at the same time.
“McCormick men,” she elaborates.
“Amen. I need more wine to deal with this,” I tell her. And with that, we storm off down the staircase, both guys coming out of their rooms, arguing behind us.
“Are they always going to be like this?” I ask in despair.
“Yes.” She fluffs her hair and looks at me, biting her lips, trying not to laugh.
“What have we gotten ourselves into?”
“Love?” she says, shrugging.
Yeah.
That.
Chapter 6
As we make our way downstairs, I see James and Terry talking with Hamish, who is gesturing wildly with those enormous hands, an empty beer pint punctuating the humor-filled story he’s spinning. The mischievous grin and raised eyebrows make it clear he’s in his element.
Their conversation halts as James spots us. “Ah, there you are!” James smiles expansively and gestures to Shannon and me. “There’s my daughter-in-law and the spare!”
“Which one of us is ‘the spare’?” Shannon whispers.
“Pretty sure that’s me.”
“Once you’re married to Andrew, we’ll see. James is not exactly fond of me since I sprayed him like a dog when he and my dad got into that fight over Mom.”
“Remember when the weirdest person in your family was Marie?”
I get a hard poke in the ribs for that.
“How goes the wedding planning with Katie?” James asks with a wink. That simple gesture tells me he’s slept with her.
“We have a meeting scheduled to go over the basics.”
“The basics? There are no basics with a fifteen-hundred-person wedding involving the CEO of a Fortune 500 company. It’s not as if you’re hiring a cover band from the local honky-tonk and holding a potluck reception!”
The crowd around him laughs. Shannon and I give him tight smiles and retreat just far enough to find the nearest tray of wine. We each down an entire glass in a series of gulps that make us look like neighborhood kids guzzling from a garden hose in the summer.
“Besides,” James adds, giving me a wink that has more affect to it than RuPaul’s voice, “I’m certain your mother is enjoying all of the wedding decisions and preparations, like any mother of the bride.”
I swallow the truth and give a gracious nod. “I’ve asked Shannon to be my matron of honor,” I announce to smiles.
“Matron,” she says with a laugh. “Makes me feel so old.”
“You are careening toward thirty,” James announces somberly, as if Shannon’s living on the set of Logan’s Run and she’s about to expire.
“Might as well apply for AARP now, James,” Shannon replies loudly. A little too loudly.
“Are you holding the wedding here?” someone asks, saving us whatever comes after that age crack. Shannon hands me another glass of wine. We’re stuck in the lion’s den.
“Lovely home, James. Would be a perfect setting for a wedding. Really,” Hamish says, giving us nods. The McCormick men are tall, but Hamish towers over them. The crowd has thinned out considerably since Andrew took me on the tour.
My anxiety level drops. Fewer people I don’t know in a high stakes social environment means better odds of not making a mistake.
“Glad you like it. Enjoy it while you can, because I’m preparing it for the market.”
Andrew and Declan are right behind us. Terry’s eyes cut to a spot over his father’s shoulder and I follow his gaze but can’t tell what he’s looking at.
The three brothers are locked in an emotional Bermuda Triangle, James smack in the middle, as feelings fly through the air silently, like surprise hurricanes.
“Selling?” Terry inquires.
“Yes. It’s time. I’ve hung onto the old place for too long.”
“I assumed you’d keep the house forever.”
“I did, too,” he says to Andrew. “But times have changed.”
All three of James’ sons stand there, stunned and silent. I see Andrew’s throat move with a swallow, his breathing steady, hands in his pockets.
He’s controlling his emotions.
Declan’s face turns stoic. Only Terry seems able – or willing – to express what he’s feeling.
“Why didn’t you do it sooner?” he asks James, who seems to be prepared for a scene.
His shoulders hunch slightly. “Wasn’t ready for the hassle.”
“Is this connected to the cancer?” Andrew asks.
“No, son. In fact, my last oncologist visit was good. Never been healthier.” James smirks, the look telling. It’s a combination of social posturing and putting Andrew in his place for daring to bring up a perceived weakness. Pecking orders are strong hierarchies in James’ mind. Medical problems aired in public just won’t do.
I doubt that he’s “never been healthier,” but I’m not going to open my mouth and say it.
“Selling,” Declan says, looking around the house with emotion.
“Oh, please. You boys haven’t been here in years. Why do you care now?”
Declan looks at him with ice-cold eyes that hold a
story his mouth doesn’t have permission to tell.
“Besides, the market is hot for properties like this. It’ll sell fast and I’ll make a tidy profit.”
Terry says nothing, staring off into the distance at the bookcase behind James.
“When does it go on the market?” Andrew asks, blinking rapidly.
“In a few months. Might not even need to list it. My real estate agent says a few whispers in the right ears could bring in a buyer who will snap it up before it’s even official.”
“You’ll just live at your place in town? No country estate?”
He shakes his head. “I’m embracing minimalism.”
Declan snorts. Shannon catches my eye and frowns. I give her a covert look that says, Get over here. In seconds, she’s holding Declan’s arm, face impassive like his, but I can tell she’s worried about him.
The emotional subtext between all these McCormick men is thick. This is the part in most families where nostalgia would dominate the conversation. Someone – typically the eldest man – would bring up a memory, holding court over the crowd as the keeper of time. Rapt attention would be given to the story, with each person carrying an internally different version of the memory, but the collective version would also manifest tremendous power.
James doesn’t do that.
I’m pretty sure he’s not capable of it.
Instead, each of them stands there, holding up defenses that force them out of the space inside where their child-selves are stored, where they remember their mother. This house is a repository for all they hold dear about her, a physical, tangible sanctuary where all they touch and see has her DNA on it.
Aside from the three living men who carry a part of Elena Montgomery McCormick in them, this home is it. As far as I know.
James isn’t going to be a living paternal museum of love and compassion for them. Might as well ask my father to come back from prison and pick up where he left off, only better.
“It must have been a hard decision,” Andrew says, clearly struggling to find some way to connect with James’ choice.
“No. Not at all. I’m like you.”
That makes Andrew tense.
“Making the decision was easy. I know it in my gut. Shedding this place will feel good.”
Declan turns on his heel and leaves without saying a word, Shannon right behind him.
“Another drink?” I ask Andrew as James spots someone in the crowd and goes off to chat, abandoning Terry.
“I need an entire bottle.”
More guests leave in dribs and drabs, James acting as host and giving his goodnights. Marie and Amy left a while ago, quietly ghosting while Shannon and I were upstairs being unwittingly used in a competitive sex-off.
“You ready to go?” I can tell Andrew’s being polite. James’ announcement about the house has him reeling.
“Sure.” I know him well enough to stay quiet. When he’s ready, he’ll turn to me and talk. “Thank you,” I add.
“For what?” We wave to James as we exit, so casual, so cold. If we were at Jason and Marie’s or my mom’s house for an event, leaving without an exit hug would be considered tantamount to spitting in their faces.
James just waves back.
Andrew doesn’t even have to ask; the valet recognizes him and begins the car retrieval process while we wait. It’s cold enough outside that you can see your breath. As I exhale, the space between us fills with my tension, evaporating in the still, dark night.
The valet pulls Andrew’s Tesla around to the front of the house and we get in. As I idly wonder where the hell they’re parking all these guests’ cars in the middle of nowhere, I realize we’re not moving. Andrew is in the driver’s seat, leaning forward, peering out the windshield at something off to the left.
He kills the engine and starts to get out.
“What’s wrong?”
“Look at the treehouse.”
In the dark, finding a wooden structure ten feet in the air in the woods is harder than you would think, until I realize there’s a blue-light glow coming from a tiny square opening. Someone’s in the treehouse, looking at a phone screen.
Andrew uses the flashlight app on his phone and shines it toward the light.
Declan’s face appears in the treehouse window, his hair a complete mess, face wide with a grin.
Shannon appears in the corner, hair wild and tangled around her face, lipstick smeared.
“You had sex in the treehouse?” Andrew booms. I look around, grateful all the other guests are gone. Only Terry’s car, an out-of-place Subaru, sits in the driveway, the valet waiting for him.
“Oh, my God,” I mutter. “It’s like people on the internet who post ‘first!’ in comment threads.”
No. It’s worse. These guys are like unneutered male cats, marking territory.
And I’m about to marry one of them.
As Declan and Shannon scramble out of the treehouse and down the ladder, Andrew plants his hands on his hips and starts pacing. He’s eyeing the garage with a fierce intensity that scares me. My thighs close instinctively.
Terry appears behind us, his deep voice chuckling. “Amateur,” he mutters.
Andrew whips around to look at him. “What?”
“You two,” Terry says, shaking his head. “Trying to outsex each other?”
“No,” I say in an acid tone. “They’re trying to be first. Declan and Shannon got to the treehouse first. Andrew and I beat Shannon and Declan when it came to having sex in their teenage bedrooms. You know.”
One side of his mouth quirks up. “Oh, yeah. I know.” He walks away, whistling, as he approaches his car. Declan and Shannon join us, laughing.
“I know,” Terry calls out over his shoulder, “because I beat you all to it, long, long ago.”
Declan’s grin vanishes. “What?”
“Every room in the house. Mom and Dad’s bed. The poolhouse. The treehouse. The garage. All the cars. Even the big old double oak tree down the hill by the creek. And a word of warning: there’s poison ivy on that fucker. Watch out.” He reaches behind himself and touches his ass.
He takes his car keys from the valet, climbs in the driver’s side, and waves through the open window as he slowly drives away, grinning madly.
Declan flips him the bird.
“Son of a bitch,” Andrew mutters. “Beaten by the brother who doesn’t care.”
Shannon and I burst out laughing.
“I’m still CEO!” Andrew shouts at no one and everyone.
Dec gives him a thumbs-up. “So am I, little bro. So am I.”
Their eyes drift to the red taillights of Terry’s receding car.
They just sigh.
Chapter 7
“Tell me again why we are in a store that smells like my parents’ basement and why the men working here look like character actors who keep playing the same alien probe victim over and over on TLC specials?” Shannon’s nose wrinkles, folding like origami.
I’ve invited her to go out to lunch and help me shop for Andrew’s wedding present. Squeezing this in between a redesign at their flagship stores in the Seaport District and Las Vegas, Shannon’s losing crucial business development time.
I appreciate having an entire day of her attention just for us. We used to spend entire weekends finding ways to keep ourselves from being bored. Who would have ever guessed back then that there would be a time when we could go an entire month without spending a single minute together?
“We’re in a record store, Shannon.” I inhale slowly and the same scent she’s complaining about fills me with a sense of excited potential.
“Exactly.” Her nose wrinkles again. Origami of judgment. I half expect to hear her tell me to stop making fetch happen. She gives me major side-eye. “The man working behind the counter looks like every guy you dated in college.”
“Does not!”
“Flannel shirt? Check. Worn t-shirt hem? Check. Scruffy beard? Check. Smells like Mountain Dew dried on a pizza that g
ot rolled around in wood stove ashes with an onion? Check.”
I try to object but damn. She’s right.
“Can’t you just buy your old-fashioned vinyl records the way everyone else does?” She whines, sounding exactly like Marie when Jason told her she couldn’t go on Shannon and Declan’s honeymoon.
“Like how?”
“Like never. Might as well buy eight-track tapes!”
“Thanks for the reminder. I need to find something fun for James, too.”
“Whoosh!” Her flattened hand sails over the crown of her head.
“What was that?”
“The sound of you falling into a chasm.”
“What chasm?”
“The sar-chasm.”
“Quit your bitching. I have two words for you: Strawberry Shortcake. I’ve seen you rip out a fifth-grader’s hair at a flea market to get a Huckleberry Pie hat.”
“We were kids!”
“You did that when you were seventeen. You made me go to an early cosplay convention dressed as Blueberry Muffin!”
“No one made you. And you ended up making out with a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle behind the custom-painted Lord of the Rings figurine booth.”
“Rafael.” I can’t help but sigh. “He was the first guy I ever kissed who didn’t have braces. Who knew teeth could be so smooth?”
“Glad to hear his teeth were, because he sure wasn’t. Kept screaming ‘Turtle Power!’ while you were making out.” Her entire body jolts suddenly, reeling back and banging into me. “Oh my God, was that a rat?” She looks down at the dirty concrete floor and stifles a scream.
“Maybe Splinter is here.”
The long-haired clerk, up to this point ignoring us with his head bent down, reading what looks like the graphic novel Maus, perks up at the mention. “You here for TMNT merchandise?”
“No. Looking for the first pressing of Yes’s Fragile.”
His eyebrows shoot up, no small feat given that they look like brown Hostess Snowballs attached to his eyelids. “The 1971 version? The single or the album?”
“Album.”
“Do you care which country?”
I shake my head. “Doesn’t matter. An autographed one would be best, but I know that’s like chasing a rainbow.”