Down with Love_A Laws of Attraction Novel

by Kate Meader

  “Of course I do. Donna is the best.”

  “Then that’s a start. You guys should try couples counseling before you take the drastic step of dissolving your union. That’s my advice. Talk to her about how you feel, but do not—I repeat, do not—mention the D-word.”

  “Nice business model you have there,” he says with a half-sneer. “Thought you’d want a client.”

  You can’t afford me, buddy.

  “This is my standard intake for all potential clients, Sully. You might also want to talk to Charlie.” If anyone can put him straight, it’s her. I will not be getting in the middle of this. I saw how she acted when Sully showed up.

  The cock-blocker scoffs. “Charlie’s all hearts and flowers. That’s her job plus she’s emotionally invested in seeing her parents stick together. She can’t be part of this.”

  For fuck’s sake. “She already is. She’s a part of you. A part of Donna. Look, she’s not going to fall apart if your marriage fails, Frank, but you need to involve her now before any decisions are made. Hell, you need to involve your wife, okay?” My voice has risen slightly there so I sound like Cujo when he’s trying to get into my bedroom in the morning.

  “Okay, okay!” The man looks exasperated. I don’t care. My hands have to remain spotless here.

  Piece said and conscience somewhat clean, I grab a K-Cup pod and load it up. But all I can think of are Charlie’s words just before she left. It’s going to rain.

  Honey, it’s already fucking pouring.

  Chapter 19

  “Success in marriage is more than finding the right person. It is being the right person.”

  —Robert Browning

  Max

  “So, what time do the strippers get here, mate?”

  I eye Lucas across the low table between us at The Library, the swanky speakeasy bar in the basement of the Gilt Bar. As best man, my job is to see my brother off into the shackled afterlife with the required amount of debauchery. Sure, this could involve strippers but frankly, that’s overdone, isn’t it?

  “Get a couple of drinks in you and the stage is yours, Wright.”

  He stands up and shakes his ass—or arse, as he’d say—all the while pointing at me. “I’ll fucking do it, too!”

  Laughing, James runs a hand through his hair and catches my eye. We decided on something classy for his last hurrah, and as the Gilt Bar is our usual place, reserving its small event space was a no-brainer. Our party is intimate: a couple of guys James went to college with, a few work buddies, and Grant and Lucas, who have always been close to my brother. I invited Dad but he didn’t want to cramp his boys’ style. (He kept winking at me. Either he had something in his eye or he believes strippers are on the menu, despite all my assurances to the contrary.)

  Not everyone is a whiskey drinker, but those of us who imbibe are partaking of the tasting I set up. Our whiskey sommelier is Trinity, and she’s as gorgeous as her name sounds. With her dark hair, glossy skin, almond-shaped eyes, and diamond-studded nose, Lucas can’t stop looking at her.

  “Close your mouth,” I say.

  Trinity places a tray of tasting glasses in front of us. Earlier, she dropped off charts with sections for appearance, nose, and palate, along with prompts for intensity, barrel, age, sulphur, and peat. As a seasoned whiskey drinker, I know you can describe it as more than “smoky,” though I’m not sure if even my refined palate can distinguish between “dirt” and “forest floor.”

  “The first thing you want to do is check the color,” Trinity says. “Turn your tasting chart over to the blank side and hold the whiskey against it. You could be looking at pale gold, straw, amber—”

  “Piss,” Lucas interjects, and when everyone glares at him, he amends it to, “Sorry, urine.”

  Ladies and germs, I give you the British—all class.

  Trinity looks down her nose at him. “That’s not a standardized color.”

  “Sorry, we can’t take him anywhere,” James says, though he’s barely containing his laughter.

  “How’d you get to be a whiskey expert, Trinity?” Lucas asks her, oblivious to the ‘tude rolling off her.

  “Years of training. Next, you’ll want to assess its clarity and viscosity…”

  We follow the instructions and try our best to minimize Lucas’s inanity. He’s the chattiest person I know but this is OTT even for him. When Trinity leaves to get the next round in, I turn to him with my palms up.

  “If you’re trying to impress her, you are fucking up royally.”

  “You think?” Lucas tracks her at the bar. She’s definitely not returning the favor. “I thought I was winning her over.”

  “Tell her the color of your last dump,” Grant mutters. “I’m sure she’d love it.”

  That makes everyone laugh, especially coming from the usually taciturn Grant. After a few more rounds and Lucas entertaining us (but not Trinity) with a long digression over the inclusion of “Band-Aids” as a tasting note on the chart—I swear, this is listed under the peat section—I pull James aside to the bar.

  “Sorry about Lucas, bro. I can only assume he’s in love with Whiskey Girl.”

  “It’s all good. Happens to the best of us.”

  I pause, thinking on what I want to say. James and I have fallen out of our usual groove. Between his wedding planning and my schedule ramping up, we’ve missed most of our weekly meet-ups over the last couple of months. Springtime, and everyone’s filing for divorce. Nothing like a harsh Chicago winter and the cabin fever that entails to make people question their life choices.

  “Feels like the end of something,” I mutter. “I know I’ll see you, but—I don’t know…it’ll be different. Not bad, different, just different, different.”

  Trinity places a couple of drinks down before us with a subtle smile, then slides back into the shadows like a whiskey ninja. It’s beautifully done.

  James raises his glass, and there’s that comma-shaped smirk near his mouth, the one he gets when he has something momentous to say.

  “So, you’re on board, Max?”

  “Course I am.”

  “Would this change of heart have anything to do with a green-eyed purveyor of matrimonial monstrosities?”

  I lift my glass and clink against his, not quite ready to articulate my feelings for Charlie. They’re too new and frankly, too scary. “I’m not saying I buy the whole hearts-and-flowers, happily-ever-after with woodland animals and choirs of tweety birds, but I can see that Gina makes you happy. However, because I’m older than you, I’ve taken the precaution of gathering some pearls of wisdom.” Reaching inside my jacket, I pull out a small Moleskine notebook, labeled with JAMES & GINA—WORDS TO LIVE BY. I hand it over.

  Bewildered, he opens the first page. I lean in to read it with him. It’s a message from Dad:

  Never go to bed angry. Stay up and fight all night!

  We both chuckle because we can hear Dad’s voice, as if he’s here with us. The next one is from Lucas:

  The two best phrases to include in your vocabulary are “I understand” and “You’re right.”

  “Of course.”

  He reads through the book I asked all of the important people in his life to contribute to.

  “Mom says I should say yes far more often than I say no.”

  “Sounds about right. Jack and Susanne seem to have figured out the magic formula.”

  “It’s not magic. It’s work, but it’s worth it because the important things require effort.”

  I know this. Despite being born with a silver spoon in my perfect mouth, I’ve never been afraid of effort. Learning to speak without stammering, graduating first in my class at Northwestern Law, crafting arguments that get my clients closure—all of these required I work my ass off. Donating my trust fund
was the right decision; it would have been too easy to use it as a fallback. And giving it up revealed who I am and more important, who Becca, my former fiancée was.

  So, why am I afraid of taking a chance with someone? I could blame it on Becca, but really, I know the reason. I don’t like change. I’ve worked hard to get to a point in my life where I’m happy and bringing someone else into it is going to upset the pH levels of my stable existence. I like them where they are.

  Marriage is all about change and compromise. I see it with my clients every day. People don’t want to work on the little stuff, the big stuff, and everything in between. As soon as there’s effort involved, it comes crashing down. But mostly, I don’t want to choose wrong. I want to think the most important relationship of my life is a slam dunk.

  I chose poorly before. Boy did I ever.

  “So, nothing from you?” James turns over to a blank page.

  “Not sure I can give you any advice. You’ve always known what you’re about, Jim-Jam, but…” I grab a pen—another perfectly placed gift from our bartender—open to a blank page and write my piece.

  He reads it and laughs at my three little words of wisdom:

  Never stop dating.

  “I assume you mean my wife.”

  “What better way to keep a marriage healthy than to act like you’re not married?”

  * * *

  —

  Two hours and multiple adult beverages later we find ourselves at a nearby club where it’s Abba night.

  I could blame the alcohol but really this is all on James the sap, who said he missed his fiancée. Gina’s bachelorette party has gone the more traditional route—they started with male strippers and graduated to “Dancing Queen.” They even went all out and dressed the part. We plow through the clubbers in go-go boots, glitter-covered jumpsuits, and short skirts that leave little to the imagination to find Gina and co standing at one end of the bar.

  Charlie Love is there because the universe has decreed it.

  “Baby!” Gina calls out and throws her arms around James’s neck. “Are you drunk?”

  He holds her face, seeming to check if all the constituent parts are still present. A silent conversation happens before our eyes, then he smiles and says, “I’m drunk on you.”

  All the women in the group go “Aww!” The men…okay, the men do it, too, but add eye rolls to temper the schmaltz.

  I sidle over to Charlie, making no secret of the fact I find her miniskirt and white pleather boots to be just what I need to see. “Good night?”

  “Yeah, the strippers were awesome. Gave me all sorts of ideas.”

  “For stripper-themed weddings?”

  “It could happen!” She gives a Goldie Hawn–like giggle. “How did things go with you guys?”

  “Much more quiet and definitely more classy, except we lost Lucas along the way. He stayed behind to make a play for the whiskey sommelier at the Gilt Bar.”

  “Nice.”

  “She’s out of his league.” I move in and lean closer. “And you look like you’re out of mine tonight, Ms. Love.”

  “Finally, you’re getting it, Mr. Cynic.” She pushes back on my chest but it turns into a palm spread that lingers and explores.

  I feel a nudge and when I turn, Gina’s there, cheeks flushed, her mouth in a big smile. “Hey, Maximus.”

  “Hey, GeeGee. Good to see you.” Because it is. Maybe it’s the whiskey but I was careful not to overdo it, wanting to keep my wits about me as chaperone for the group. Tonight, I’m full of love for my fellow man—and woman. James and I are on the same page again and sure, change is coming but I can handle it.

  “Let’s get some champagne in, shall we?”

  Once our order is placed, Gina and James huddle close, poring over something. I incline my head to Charlie’s, inhaling that scent of her that never fails to start me up. “What’s that about?”

  “Oh, we all got together and filled a notebook with advice for the bride. ‘Leave the toilet seat up to confuse him’—that kind of thing.”

  “Advice, huh?” The champagne is poured, and I can’t help smiling at the symmetry, or maybe my lack of originality.

  “Yeah.” She squints at me, that half-moon curve to her lips getting broader. “What’s so funny?”

  “Well, you see—” I don’t get a chance to finish because Charlie has skirted me with the skill of an NBA great and whip-fast, placed a palm over the hand Gina has wrapped around a champagne flute.

  “Oh, honey, you don’t want to do that.”

  “I don’t?” Gina’s eyes go wide. “Right, I don’t.” She practically jumps and drops the glass so that it spills all over the bar. “Oh, God, that’s so stupid of me.” Wide eyes are now welling. What’s happening here?

  “Hey, it’s okay,” Charlie says while she mops up the spilled champagne on the bar. “You’re fine.”

  Gina nods. “I am.” But a quick glance at James confirms that she’s not. “I need to…”

  I’m looking at the spilled drink, now being soaked up by napkins. “What’s up? You okay?” I study Gina’s hands, looking for evidence she might have cut herself.

  “I need the bathroom,” Gina murmurs on a sniff before she heads off in her silver platform boots. It should be funny but the way James and Charlie look at each other, it’s clearly not. James vanishes before I have a chance to find out what the hell is going on, which leaves Charlie.

  “What happened there?”

  “Oh, she’s emotional. Every bride gets moments like that.”

  “Where she can’t drink?”

  Smiling tightly, Charlie continues to mop the bar. “She’s taking it easy tonight so I was looking out for her.”

  That’s not what happened. I know it and she knows I know.

  “What are you hiding from me?”

  “You should ask James.”

  “I’m asking you.” But I already know. The moment Charlie stopped that glass from reaching Gina’s lips, I knew. “She’s pregnant and everyone’s in the loop but me. Do my parents know?”

  “Not that I’m aware,” she gushes. “Max, they wanted to keep it to themselves for a while.”

  “Yet you knew.”

  There’s no missing the accusation in my tone. The bite in my words.

  “Only because she got sick during her first wedding dress fitting. I took her to my place and—”

  “The pregnancy test in your bathroom.”

  “Yes.”

  I puff up. “That was over a month ago. You’ve known all this time and you kept it to yourself.”

  “James is your brother. It wasn’t for me to share. It was private.”

  “But you knew because you were there. You’re always there. Here. Right at the center of it all.”

  Speaking of symmetry, my statement is not unlike what Charlie once lobbed at me the night we first hooked up. She told me I was everywhere she turned.

  I told her it was the universe telling us something.

  What’s the universe telling me now? That this woman is privy to my family’s secrets. She knows more about my brother’s personal life than I do.

  “I’m working closely with your brother and his fiancée,” she says, her tone one of eminent restraint. “This is my job.”

  “But you said yourself you don’t usually get this involved. You took Gina under your wing because—why?” Is this her game? Some long con to get clients? A husband? “It gets you closer to certain types of people. Connections you can use for your business. For you.”

  Green eyes flashing, she jerks back. “I took her under my wing because she was all alone and needed a friend. But sure, tell me all about my ulterior motives. Tell me how getting closer to Gina gets me an in with high society and the Meat Mon
ey Hendersons. Tell me how I’ve manipulated and used my friendship with Gina to catch a rich husband.”

  “I didn’t say that.” I pretty much said that.

  “No, you didn’t, Mr. Verbal-I-Got-All-the-Words. For once in your life, you let a snide implication do the work for you. Come on, Max, you’re better than this. Say it straight. Don’t pull your punches now.”

  That pisses me off and shuts me up. I know I’ve crossed a line, but I’m not ready to back down.

  “That’s okay, Max. I think we both know where we stand here. Maybe you should go check on your brother and make sure your future sister-in-law and nephew or niece are okay. Use your righteous indignation to protect your family.”

  And then she stomps off, leaving a heap load of righteous indignation in her wake.

  * * *

  —

  I know I screwed up.

  I might be about to do it again.

  In the corridor leading to the restrooms, I find my brother waiting outside the ladies. “Gina okay?”

  “I think so. She’s just kind of emotional. A lot going on.”

  I back up to the wall so we’re side by side. “Define a lot.”

  He gusts out a sigh. “She’s pregnant. And before you get all pissy because I didn’t tell you, please recognize that this situation is not about you, Max. You are on the periphery here. The center of this is Gina and me and our baby. I know your feelings are hurt but I’m not going to soothe your ego right now.”

  Well, that sure told me. “Worst brother ever, right?”

  He shoots a lightning bolt of a look at me.

  “I mean me,” I clarify. “I’m the worst brother ever. You didn’t tell me—you’ve stopped telling me anything important because I’m on a need-to-know basis. I’m not central enough to your life for you to trust me.”