by L. E. Rico
Especially not that man!
I’m still shaking my head and silently berating myself when I hear him behind me.
“Hey, Jameson, do you happen to know if my dad keeps an extra toothbrush around? I dropped mine in the toilet and…”
I don’t hear the end of his sentence because, when I turn to face him, I suddenly can’t hear anything. I’m too entranced by the sight of him wearing nothing but a towel around his waist. I suppose this is natural for him, given that he probably eats, sleeps, and works alongside the same people, day in and day out. Yeah, well, it’s not natural for me, though I’m suddenly wishing it were.
Oh, crap, oh crap, oh crap… I am in so much trouble here. No men. No men. No men… I repeat the mantra over and over again in my head, but clearly the rest of my body isn’t getting the memo.
“What? Do I look that bad?” he asks, my slack-jawed expression giving him pause. He gazes down the length of his body, searching for something wrong. But there isn’t a single thing wrong with that body. I quickly close my mouth and force a smile onto my face.
“Uh—yeah, yes…” I start, trying, without success, to sound casual. “I mean no. No, you look fine. Fine. Yes. Nope, you’re good. Good, good.”
The corners of his mouth are twitching like he’s trying hard to suppress a smile. Ugh. Could I be any more obvious? Or cliché for that matter—gawking at my brother-in-law? Ex. Ex-brother-in-law. I make a mental note to run this one by Father Romance in confession. Or…maybe not.
“I’m sorry, Jameson, I didn’t mean to, uh…startle you. Things are very open and casual in Project Peace, so you just kind of get used to seeing everybody in various stages of undress…”
“Oh, yeah, no, I get it. No, it’s not a big deal at all…I was just…” I scramble for some reasonable excuse to be staring at him. “I—It’s just that I couldn’t help but notice your tattoo.”
Yes! Brilliant save, Jameson!
“Oh, you know, I forget it’s even there sometimes,” he says, bringing his smooth, broad chest closer to me so I can get a better look at him. It. At it. The tattoo…
He’s pointing to the image on his right pectoral muscle, a vibrant orange skull intricately decorated. It has a bright array of red and pink flowers and small jewels adorning it.
“They call this a sugar skull. You see a lot of them on Dia de los Muertos,” he explains.
“Day of the…dead?” I echo in English, calling on my very limited high school Spanish vocabulary.
“Yes, exactly, that’s what the Mexicans call it. Actually, there are three days—our Halloween, then November first is Dia de los Innocentes, day of the innocents, meant to honor dead children and infants. Then November second is Dia de los Muertos, honoring dead adults.”
“Wow, they really take their death celebrations seriously,” I marvel.
“Ohhh yeah, it’s huge. Especially in southern Mexico. And a lot of people get sugar skulls tattooed on them as a sort of memorial.” He points to the forehead, where the word “Mom” has been written in big, loopy script. “The only writing you’re supposed to have on it is the name of a loved one you’ve lost.”
“And you put your mother on yours,” I note softly.
He nods and gives me a small, slightly sad smile. “Yeah. I was missing her one night and I got totally wasted. When I woke up, I had this and a really wicked hangover. Me and tequila, man, not a good combo.”
Before I can help myself, I reach out to touch the colorful picture that takes up a large section of that side of his chest. I pull away before my fingers make contact.
“It’s okay,” he assures me, taking my hand and pulling it to his chest. “You can touch it. I was lucky, actually. Lots of people wake up with crap tattoos that they’re stuck with for life. I woke up with one of the best ink jobs I’ve ever seen. In fact, I’d go back for another one…if I could just remember where I got it.”
“What?” I gasp and smile incredulously. “No one told you?”
He shrugs. “Well, apparently I was flying solo that night, so I’ll never know. But that just makes the story even more interesting, you know?”
I do know. Because it does.
“Uh, yeah, sure,” I mutter, extricating my hand from the first adult male chest I’ve touched other than Win’s. “Well, I think it’s beautiful. The tattoo and the sentiment.” I glance down at my watch. “Oh! I’ve got to get this bird in the oven.”
I start to turn toward the other naked flesh in the room.
“And the toothbrushes? I know my dad keeps a bunch of extra ’cause he likes to chew on them…”
“Of course! Sorry, yes, I, uh, I think I saw a sex pack—sorry, six pack. I saw a six pack of toothbrushes in the hall closet.”
Holy hell! What was that? I try to appear composed, even as I feel the two hot, red spots that are forming on my cheeks. He chivalrously turns to leave before I’m in full-on beet mode, but not before I catch a little color on his face, too.
Bailey: Hi, Scott this is Bailey. How’s the texting coming?
Scott: Oklahoma
Bailey: Where the wind comes sweepin’ down the plain?
Scott: Hey! This thing just changed my OK to Oklahoma all on its own!
Bailey: Hahaha! Meet autocorrect. Standard response is: DYAC (Damn you autocorrect!)
Scott: Stacy.
Bailey: Who’s Stacy?
Scott: It autocorrected my STACY to STACY
Bailey: Dude, you have a thing for this Stacy or what?
Scott: No! Every time I type D Y A C it changes it to Stacy
Bailey: LMAO!
Scott: ????
Bailey: Don’t ask. Too advanced for you, Grasshopper.
Chapter Eight
Scott
I can’t get into the shower fast enough. Something about that woman just makes me say things I wouldn’t normally say. And do things I wouldn’t normally do. Yeah… I’m much better off putting a little bit of distance between us, so I take my time in the bathroom and then in my childhood bedroom. I should be focusing on my father…and on the discussion I need to have with Win tonight. But my thoughts keep turning back to her. Jameson. My ex-sister-in-law. My brother’s ex-wife. Complicated doesn’t even begin to cover this one, and I could use a little simple for just a few hours. Unfortunately, that wish goes up in smoke pretty quick.
I hear Win and Jackson in the living room before I see them. I come down the hall, fully clothed this time, and find Win hoisting the little chunker high above his head, holding him with one hand across the belly so that he appears to be flying. The baby is squealing delightedly. I smile at the sight of my brother and his son. It’s really great to see him like this. I had no idea he had it in him.
When Jameson sticks her head out of the kitchen, I hold my breath, waiting to see if there’s any…strangeness…between us. It’s not as if anything happened. We just had a bit of a moment. A strange moment. One with me half-naked and her with a hand on my chest. If Win—or anyone, for that matter—had walked in at that second, they’d have thought…
“Oh, good!” She has an easy, “no-strangeness here!” smile on her face when she sees that I’ve joined them in the living room. “I was just about to call you, Scott. Dinner’s on the table, so why don’t you big, burly men come on into the kitchen and get settled?”
Win whisks Jackson off his feet and carries him on his hip amidst the boy’s squeals of pleasure. When he gets to the high chair, he pauses, a disdainful look on his face.
“James…he’s smelling a little ripe…”
“Really, Win?” Jameson says with a challenging eyebrow lift. “It wouldn’t kill you to change your son’s diaper.”
He offers up a sheepish shrug. “I just got here. And you said it yourself this morning, Scott and I have a lot to catch up on.”
Jameson rolls her bright green eyes at him. “Fine, fine,” she acquiesces, hoisting the squirming toddler into her arms. “You two go ahead and start dinner without me. I don’t want it
to get cold.”
“No, maaamaaa! Unca Sock, Unca Sock!” Jackson protests.
Not wanting to be on the receiving end of the eye roll, I speak up. “Oh…I…well, I suppose if someone shows me how to do it…” But my reluctance must be clear because Jameson chuckles and shakes her head.
“Uh-huh. Somehow I think it’d be in my best interest to do it myself. You have no idea how fast diaper time can go south!”
I try not to look too relieved as I wave to Jackson. “I’ll be waiting for you right here, buddy,” I assure him, tussling the mop of red hair on his head. He’s the spitting image of his mother.
“Butty!” he mimics. “Butty, butty, butty…”
“You dodged a bullet there, man,” Win says softly so Jameson won’t hear him.
I smile and nod, deciding this might be the right time to broach my request with Win.
“So, I, uh, was hoping you could help me with something…”
“Oh? What’s that?” he asks before stuffing a forkful of potatoes into his mouth.
“I’ve been looking for some documents—my birth certificate, baptismal certificate, that kind of stuff—but they don’t seem to be in Dad’s study. I need them, and I was hoping you’d know where they might be?”
Win chews carefully, slowly, and then swallows. After that, he puts his fork down and picks up his wineglass, giving it a slow swirl that forms a mini Chardonnay tsunami. After that, he takes a sip, seems to leave it on his tongue for a moment, and swallows again before putting down the glass and picking up his fork again. It’s perfectly orchestrated, perfectly passive-aggressive, perfectly Win.
“What do you need them for?” he asks at last, cutting a piece of chicken.
“Does it matter?” I have a hard time keeping the edge out of my voice. He shrugs. “Win, do you know where they are, or not?”
“They’re probably in the safe deposit box at the bank,” he informs me casually.
Excellent! Now we’re getting somewhere.
“Okay, great. Do you have the key?”
He nods. “I do.”
That’s it. Nothing. He chews his chicken thoughtfully.
“And…? Would you mind giving it to me so I can check it for myself.”
“Yes.”
“Cool. I can stop by—”
“I mean, ‘yes’ I do mind giving the key to you.”
I stop and stare at him. He returns the gaze, then focuses on stabbing some peas with the tines of his fork.
“And why is that, Win?” I ask through clenched teeth.
“Because, Scott, you may be the health care proxy, but I have the power of attorney.”
Holy. Crap.
“Are you…” I start too loud and lower my voice so as not to alarm Jameson. “Are you out of your mind? You’re seriously going to withhold documents that belong to me—that I have every right to—because you didn’t get to be the healthcare proxy? What are you, like, twelve?” Another shrug from him and I find my tone dropping from amused incredulity to anger. “Win, I’m not screwing around here. Give me the key so I can get my stuff.”
My brother puts his fork down, wipes his hands on his napkin, and gets up. He walks to the counter where Jameson left the bottle of wine and brings it back to the table, filling his glass.
“More?” he asks me, as if nothing’s going on between us at the moment.
I get to my feet because I refuse to look up at him while he’s looking down on me. I take the bottle from his hand and set it on the table a little too hard.
“Give. Me. The. Key, Win.” I bite the words off and spit them at him.
That’s when he smiles. “I don’t think so, Scott.”
“You can’t keep them from me…” I sputter, getting rattled by his calm.
“Actually, I can. So, I guess you’re just out of luck, Scotty boy.”
I’ve shoved him before I can stop myself, sending Win backward through the kitchen doorway and into the living room just beyond. He doesn’t hit the floor, but he does knock over an end table, sending it crashing.
“You son of a—”
Jameson, having heard the commotion, comes flying down the hall, a naked Jackson still in her arms. Her eyes grow big when she sees Win lunge for me.
“Win! Win, stop it!” she demands.
Clearly she’s never seen two brothers go at it or she’d just dump water on us, the way our mother used to.
“Win! Stop it! Now! Win!”
Her volume, her agitation, and her fear are so jarring in combination that I lose my concentration for a split second. The split second that it takes for him to slam his fist into my face and send me sprawling back onto the linoleum of the kitchen. The rest unravels as if it’s happening in slow motion.
I scramble onto all-fours and dive for my brother’s shins, taking him down with me. This is a familiar maneuver from our high school days, when we spent more time rolling around on the kitchen floor than sitting at the kitchen table.
I can hear Jackson wailing and am vaguely aware of him struggling in his mother’s arms…just before his mother screeches from above us. And then we’re all watching with horror at the scene unfolding over our heads. Jameson tries, and fails, to keep Jackson in her grip. The child has literally slipped through her fingers. She’s not very tall, but even a four-foot drop is dangerous to a child who’s picking up more momentum with every inch that he falls. This could easily equate to a substantial and potentially life-threatening distance for one tiny person.
For a moment, we are a tangle of limbs, the four of us. Jameson, who was at the top, stumbles in her attempt to hang onto her child and hits the floor, hard. Keeping my eye on my nephew’s trajectory, I knock my brother aside, tripping on Jameson in the process, and stumble backward, landing on my butt with such force that my skeleton rattles within my flesh. But I couldn’t care less at this instant, because a terrified and hysterical Jackson is screeching in my arms. Safe and sound. The entire confluence of events occurs in less than ten seconds.
It takes a few beats for me to catch my breath, which appears to have been knocked out of my chest by the wild pounding of my heart. When I look around, I see Win, hunched over, palms just above his knees, also breathing hard and staring in disbelief at his son and me. Jameson is still on the floor, also staring, tears running down her cheeks. I use the sleeve of one arm to wipe at the blood running down my face while using the other to hold my nephew against my chest, even though this brings the splintering volume of his crying closer to my aching head.
“Shhh, it’s okay, buddy. Shhh. Uncle Scott’s got you now.”
“Unnnnncaaaa Sock!” he wails. “Unnnnncaaa Sock!”
“That’s right, Jackson. Unca Sock’s got you,” I murmur, holding him tight as I gingerly get us both up on my feet again. I bounce him and kiss his head and shush him until he starts to quiet, his parents still watching, unblinking. For a second I feel like I might be stuck in one of those scenes that you see in sci-fi movies…where everyone around you is frozen, even as you remain totally animate. But then, all at once, the clock starts ticking…and everyone slams back in motion again.
“Jesus Christ!” Win roars down at James. “What the hell were you thinking?”
Jackson starts to howl again in earnest, especially when he notices his mother on the floor sobbing. “Maaaamaaa!” he wails, holding out his chubby arms toward her. “Maaaamaaa! What the helllllllllllll!”
Under any other circumstances, the boy parroting his father’s expletive would be hilarious. But it’s most definitely not amusing here. When Win makes a move to take him from me, the little boy only grows louder. And more agitated.
“Nooooooo! Noooooo, Daddy! No! Maaaamaaa!”
Win throws up his hands in frustration and stomps to the other side of the room.
“Okay, buddy, it’s okay,” I assure the little guy as we move to where his mother is still on the floor. I sink down to my knees, and he immediately pushes off of me, hurtling into her outstretched arms. O
r, rather, arm. One of them is hanging limply at her side, bent at an unnatural angle. She winces, and more tears fill her eyes.
“Jameson? Oh God, was that your arm I stepped on? Did I hurt you?” I ask, my voice filled with horror when I realize what’s happened. But she ignores me, whispering to her child as she holds him, kissing his tear-stained face. I can only imagine how I look—bloodied, swollen, and furious—when I spin around and stomp over to my brother.
“Her? You’re blaming her? You son of a—” I stop short, thinking of the little boy behind me, and lower my voice. “You started this whole mess by being an ass. Don’t you dare try and pin any of that on her!”
“She dropped him,” he spits back at me, sparing a glare over my shoulder for his ex-wife. “She could’ve killed him!”
I grab my brother by the collar and drag his face to mine so that we’re only inches apart. He tries to wrest himself from my grip, but he’s not a match. Years of digging ditches and swinging pickaxes have me in the best shape of my life.
“You listen to me, Win. If you don’t stop this BS and start acting like a freaking grown-up, I’m going to kick your sorry butt up one side of Main Street and down the other. And you know I can do it. So quit with the petty schoolboy crap already! Do you hear me?”
The expletive he murmurs under his breath tells me everything I need to know. Yes, he heard me. No, he doesn’t give a damn. I drop him with a disgusted snarl and force myself to look less menacing when I turn back to Jameson and Jackson, who has, finally, ceased his crying. In fact, save for a few gurgles and hiccups, he can hardly keep his eyes open.
“Scott,” Jameson says hoarsely, “can you put him down in the playpen?”
I’m there in a heartbeat, carrying the considerably calmer child and placing him down atop his blanket, among a menagerie of stuffed animals. When I turn around, Jameson is trying to get up, but she can’t do it on one arm. I rush to her side, bend down, and drape her good arm over my shoulder.
“Jameson, I think your arm is broken.”