by Julia Kent
“Sure it was! We make a good lesbian couple.”
“You’re a better friend than a lover.”
“How would you know?”
“I don’t. And don’t want to know. I’m perfectly happy assuming.”
A memory from one of the earlier meetings with Andrew and Declan at Anterdec hits me. “Remember when Declan thought you were using him to get the account? When Jessica Coffin spread all those rumors that you were gay and just using him to get Anterdec to award a four million dollar project to our company?”
Her look could make orchids wither. “You don’t forget that kind of humiliation.”
“Andrew asked me back then, repeatedly, if I was really gay.”
“And?”
I choke on my water. “And what?”
She’s lucky were best friends, because I’m this close to beating her with with my phone as she cackles.
“At least I never slept with Steve Raleigh,” I toss off, expecting her to laugh.
“Consider yourself lucky. Now that I’ve slept with Declan a thousand times or so, I realize what an idiot I was for settling. Remember the Hentai obsession? The tentacle erotica? The socks during sex?”
“No. I don’t remember any of that because I never had sex with Steve.”
“But I told you all about it!”
“And I systematically repressed every detail.”
“At least when Declan looks at porn it involves humans,” Shannon adds as an afterthought.
“TMI!” I protest.
She gives me a patented Marie look. Eep.
“We’re adults. Look at us adulting,” I observe, changing the subject. I love Shannon dearly, but in order to ever look Declan in the eye again, this conversation must stop.
“If this is adulthood, I was in a rush for nothing.”
“But we got really great guys, didn’t we?” Emotion makes me take a deep breath. Real life has turned out to be so much better than teenage fantasy. How many people can say that?
“Yeah. We did,” she agrees. Her eyes catch mine, and I see a flicker of worry in them. “Is Andrew really as comfortable about his wasp allergy as he seems? He’s going out in public during the day more and more?”
“Yes. You can stop making vampire jokes about him.”
“I’m glad.”
“Glad you and Declan can stop mocking him?” Andrew’s anaphylactic wasp allergy is a longstanding source of emotional pain for the entire family, but for Declan and Andrew especially. Both Andrew and their mother were stung repeatedly at the same time and their mother died, insisting Declan save Andrew with their only EpiPen.
Until he met me, Andrew lived a climate-controlled life that left no room for warmth and sunlight. Does that sound melodramatic? I don’t care.
It’s true.
“I’m glad he’s worked so hard to be more normal.”
I snort. “ ‘Normal,’ is never going to apply to any McCormick.”
“I’m a McCormick now. And you’re about to be one, too.”
“And we’re about to become sisters-in-law.”
“Our kids will be cousins!” Shannon gasps. “All our fifth-grade fantasies have come true! Remember how we schemed and hoped one of us had a secret brother so the other could marry him and we’d be sisters-in-law?”
“You were going to have a four-bedroom house, a dog named Spunky, and your husband would be a pilot.”
“You really do remember!” She tilts her head. “You and Andrew are planning on kids, right?”
“Of course! He wants four.”
“Four!”
“What about you guys?”
“We’re starting with two. One at a time, hopefully. And we’ll go from there.”
Profound emotion passes between us, the moment one of those rare times in a long friendship where you feel like a new chapter is starting. I reach across the table for her hand and she smiles.
Our smiles disappear at the exact same time, as if we’re reading each other’s minds.
“We’re in trouble,” she moans. “Those men! You know how they are.”
“I know. You want two. Andrew wants four.”
“And if you have four, Declan will want five!”
“And if you have five, Andrew will want six!”
Pinkies engaged, we lean across the table, knuckles locked.
“No baby arms race,” Shannon says. “Swear?”
“Swear.”
“They’ll wear us down. We have to stay strong.”
“Even if it means celibacy.”
Her hand retreats, fast. “I don’t know about that.”
“Maybe we don’t need to be that draconian. But I am not turning into a baby machine because Andrew has this bizarre competitive streak.”
“You think Andrew’s bizarre? I had sex in a treehouse. In winter! Just to prove a point for Declan!”
“How did two girls from Mendon end up married to billionaire brothers from Weston and Milton Academy and Harvard?” I ask with a laugh. “Remember that meeting at Anterdec when Hot Guy met Toilet Girl?”
“That’s when Andrew met your rack for the first time,” she reminds me, batting her eyelashes while overstaring at my cleavage.
“He was pretty obvious, huh? Pretty sure it took about ten more minutes for his eyes to realize there was a face attached to these girls.”
“I’m pretty sure he’s not just with you for the boobs.”
“Well, we’ll see. Plenty of marriages have lasted based on less. But would you have ever guessed we’d be living like this?”
“It’s my fault,” Shannon says with a pretend apologetic tone.
“Dropping your phone in the toilet was genius.”
“It wasn’t exactly planned.”
“I know. Your klutzdom finally paid off.”
“Big time. Literally.” The server delivers the check. Shannon pulls out a black credit card, slides it in the check case, and hands it back.
“Literally,” I say softly. “Shannon, you didn’t even look at the total. And was that an American Express Black card?”
“Yeah. Declan said it comes with the best concierge services in the industry.”
“How long did it take you to understand what that meant?”
“What what means?”
“The billionaire’s version of concierge service.”
She starts giggling. “You, too?”
“They have someone do everything for them. Everything! When we used to do hotel mystery shops, remember how we used concierge services? It was just to ask for some drugstore medication, or tickets to a local show.”
Shannon smiles. “There’s a secret 1-800 number I can call to get anything I want. Orchestra tickets to a Hamilton show that has been sold out for a year? Done. Birth control pills delivered to my hotel room after a courier service lost my luggage? Done.”
“Nice. If I get that card, can they plan my wedding for me?”
“Declan says they’ll do damn near anything.”
“What about helping me find a rare Yes album?”
Shannon faceplates herself. “Oh, my God! Why didn’t I think of that? We could have escaped that pathetic junk store and my lungs wouldn’t be seared shut by the scent of 1977 trapped on comic book pages.”
Overdramatic much? I change the subject and ask, “Can they make my mother care?”
I get a sympathetic look.
“None of this wedding planning is fun. Not one bit. When does it become fun?” I ask Shannon.
“Never.”
“Aren’t you a ray of sunshine?”
“Friendship means telling you the truth.”
“Could you be a slightly less-good friend for a little bit?” I take a sip of strong coffee. “It’s got to be fun on the honeymoon at least. Right?”
She squirms in her chair. “Hate to burst your bubble, but no.”
“Oh, come on! That’s supposed to be the best part! The payoff after all this wedding-planning suffering better be a week
or more alone with Andrew, having lots of sex!”
“Just don’t go anywhere tropical.”
“What?”
“And whatever you do, don’t have sex outside. Trust me.”
“You’ve just removed two of the best parts of any vacation.” Much less a honeymoon.
“I speak the truth.”
“What did happen on your honeymoon?”
She presses her lips into a thin, white line and shakes her head. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Friendship means telling the truth,” I repeat back to her, mimicking her earlier tone. “Now you’re holding out on me?”
“I pinkie promised.”
“Pinkie promised what?”
“Dec and I pinkie swore never to talk about what happened on our honeymoon.”
“Oh.” It’s clear she expects me to accept this fully.
“You understand.”
“Sure. I do. Of course,” I say in a soothing tone. I finish my tiny cup of spiced espresso, set it down gently on the saucer, and lean in. “And if we were twelve years old, that would work. Come on!” My eyebrows go way up. They have to in order to get above the load of manure she’s piling on here.
Squirming again, she crosses and recrosses her legs twice.
“Do you need to go to the bathroom?”
She gives me a puzzled look. “No. Why?”
“Why are you so wiggly?”
“Post traumatic stress disorder,” she mumbles.
“Who gets PTSD on their honeymoon?”
She points to herself.
“Shannon, none of this is normal.”
“Is any part of my life normal?”
She’s got me there.
Click! Flash!
“Oh no,” I groan.
Shannon grabs a menu and uses it to cover her face. “Here!” She thrusts one at me. “Look away from the main window.”
“Why are they doing this?”
“Blame James.”
“But I’m nobody!” I wail.
“Not anymore, sweetie. You’re important now.”
“Not in my own right!”
“It’s hard. I know.” She covers my hand with hers. “If anyone understands, it’s me.”
One of the Anterdec drivers, Lance, appears outside the store, trying to block the photographers. Shannon’s phone buzzes. She looks at it and stands, slinging her purse over her shoulder.
“Back door,” she says, just as the waiter returns with the check folder. “Lance says the car’s out back with one of the new drivers.” Scribbling madly, she writes in a tip and her signature, then grabs my hand.
Threading our way between shelves filled with flour and produce boxes of carrots, cabbages, and tomatoes, we find ourselves in the kitchen, which reeks of curry and bleach.
The back door opens and José is there, waiting for us, face in a scowl as he scans the alley. We’re in the back of a black SUV in seconds, doors auto-locking as he backs up and makes a right-hand turn away from the block of restaurants and stores. Soon, the scenery outside is a blur of converted homes turned into condominiums on tree-lined side streets, the spaces between roads dotted here and there by small parks devoid of children during the school day.
“I hate this,” I say with far more emotion than I ever use when it happens with Andrew. “Hate it!”
“So do I,” she says tersely, mouth set in anger.
“Andrew says it’s just part of life.”
“Declan does, too.”
“It’s gotten so much worse, though! Ever since your wedding, especially.”
“The guys need to confront James. Call him off,” Shannon says.
“They have. He’s being an asshole about it. It’s pretty clear he thinks all this publicity is good for Anterdec.”
“He isn’t even CEO anymore,” Shannon muses. “Why is he doing that?”
“Andrew thinks it’s because he isn’t CEO. That he’s bored and needs something to do.”
“I thought he was doing Becky.”
We both snort.
It’s a relief to talk openly about the paparazzi problem. Yet another event interrupted by those picture chasers. Yet another day ending with me stressed out and angry. Who can I turn to? None of my other friends live a life like this. Not only has my entire life changed because I fell in love – which I expected – but my external world has changed, too.
Again, that’s to be expected. You don’t date and marry a billionaire without major changes in your physical world.
But the isolation is the part I didn’t count on. How could anyone else understand? The rare times I’ve sent out trial balloons at work about some issue, the resounding reply is a sour “Must be nice.” People act like I don’t have the right to complain if what I’m complaining about involves money or success they don’t have.
The problem doesn’t go away because it has zeros attached to it.
We reach Shannon’s apartment building first, José winding down into the private parking spot assigned to her and Declan.
“You coming in?”
I look at my phone. “Andrew’s home tonight.”
“A rarity!”
“Yeah. He flies out tomorrow for Chicago, then back late Friday night.”
“And Saturday night we’re having dinner at your mom’s, right?”
I grin. “That’s right! That should be fun.”
“A quiet night. No photographers. No restaurants. No charity event where you wear a ball gown and enough Spanx to turn yourself into a human slingshot.”
“You make Mom’s place sound so glamorous.”
“In a life of too much glamour, Pam’s house feels like a refuge.”
So does spending time with Shannon.
Chapter 8
Andrew pulls into my mom’s driveway and proceeds slowly, parking the Tesla next to Declan’s Turdmobile.
Okay, okay, it’s technically a coffee bean on top of the car, but no amount of saying that changes the fact that the little compact looks like God himself drank too many espressos on an empty stomach and needed a bathroom run.
The interior light is on and I can see Declan leaning toward Shannon, bringing their clasped hands to his mouth and kissing the back of her fingers. It’s sweet and makes my heart grow a little. None of the jealousy I felt once is there. Not even a tiny iota.
As Andrew kills the engine, I turn to him with a big grin.
“Why so happy?”
“Because I’m with you.” The car smells like leather and spicy Asian food. A flat box filled with bags of noodles, chicken skewers, and soup containers fills the backseat. We eat at Mom’s about once a week, and this time Mom invited Declan and Shannon to join us, too.
Which means instead of ordering enough for an army, Mom doubled everything. She’ll be munching on spring rolls for the next week.
Andrew turns in his seat. We’re in the dark. Outside, I can hear a car door open, then the sound of another. Footsteps. It’s all background sound because Andrew’s hand goes to my jaw, then his lips touch mine in a kiss of tender acknowledgment. He’s solidifying my happiness. Tasting it.
Sharing it.
Shannon and Declan close their car doors and suddenly, mid-kiss, I hear tap tap tap.
“Get a room,” Declan says in his best get-offa-my-lawn cranky old man voice.
Andrew ignores him. “You know, we’ve never made out in a car before.”
“Yes, I have.”
He clears his throat. “Not with me.”
The spell is broken. Oops.
He turns away, opens his door, then closes it, opening the back door and retrieving the box of takeout.
“What’s that?” Dec asks. He’s holding two bottles of wine in gift bags. Nice.
“Dinner.”
“Pam doesn’t cook a big meal?”
I bark out a laugh before I can stop myself, surprised by Declan’s question. My mother doesn’t cook. She brews coffee, microwaves frozen dinners, and makes any fo
od product that comes in a shelf-stable box with a seasoning packet or cheese powder. If the zombie apocalypse hits Mom’s house, we’re better off than all the organic-eating neighbors whose food will rot in days, while my Mom’s trips to Costco mean we’ll be sodium-bloated but well caloried.
Andrew chuckles with me. “Ah, no. We grab Thai or Chinese or Indian.”
Declan’s eyebrows go up as he props the front door open and waves us in. “No five-course meal where you have to suffer for nine hours while your mother-in-law describes every detail of how you fry onions or brown butter? No dishes to wash afterwards?”
“You wash dishes?” Andrew stops short, looking at Declan like he just admitted he washes the feet of homeless men on the street as a form of piety.
“Hell, no. I slip Jeffrey a five and convince him to do it.” Jeffrey is Shannon’s nephew.
“He only charges you five bucks?”
“Pretty sure he turns around and pays Tyler three to do it for him.”
“You leave a ten- and seven-year-old in charge of family dinner dishes? What a great uncle you are.”
Before Declan can snap back at Andrew, Mom’s at the door, embracing Shannon and oohing and ahhing over her new dress. Mom’s never hosted Declan here at the house before and I can tell she’s nervous.
Mom’s teacup Chihuahua, Spritzy, breaks the ice by walking up to Declan, sitting on his foot, and rubbing his ass all over the edge of Dec’s leather boot.
“Nice greeting.”
“What? You don’t complain when I do that to you,” Shannon says with a laugh.
Spritzy stops, walks over to Andrew, looks up at him, then furiously humps his ankle.
“Funny,” Dec says drolly, looking at Shannon. “You do complain when I greet you like that.”
“Spritzy!” Mom gasps, bending slowly down, her timing perfectly awful as Andrew crouches, both trying to pick up Spritzy, their heads connecting with a sonorous thump! that makes them both retract in agony, groaning.
“Oh, no!” I shout, torn about which one I should comfort. Andrew’s holding one palm over his forehead, the other splayed flat, tendons taut, as if he can stretch the pain out of his body via overextension.
Mom curls over and grips the back of an upholstered chair, moaning.