Up to You

by Daisy Prescott

  “I—” Clearing my throat, I try again. “I’m not sure—”

  This time Mrs. Roberts speaks over me. “Oh, wouldn’t it be lovely if we get a light dusting of snow? All that gold and white everywhere? Do you know the wedding colors?” She directs her questions to my mother. “We should go find the bride and ask her.”

  “Oh, let’s!” Mom’s voice is giddy. Margaret London doesn’t do giddy. I’m now convinced this woman who appears to be my mother is actually a cyborg sent from the future to ruin my life.

  Watching the two of them stroll across the room together like best friends, my stomach sinks and the bitter aftertaste of defeat coats my tongue.

  “What just happened?” Zoe takes my glass and hands me another fresh mimosa. I don’t know how she keeps them coming, but if she’s bribed the waiter, I salute her.

  Sage links her arm with mine and says in a low, somber voice, “I think Mae was set up on a date with Landon.”

  I’m too stunned to speak. My fingertips are cold. I might be going into shock.

  Zoe’s face falls at this possibility. “She doesn’t have to go through with it, does she? We’re adult women. No way are you obligated to be Landon’s date because your moms decided this was a good idea. Your families don’t believe in arranged marriages, do they?” All her questions jumble together.

  “No, we don’t have arranged marriages. I totally got played by my mother and Gwendolyn Roberts.” I sigh and drink more mimosa.

  “How is this even a thing?” Zoe asks. “You can’t be forced to take that walking STD to your cousin’s wedding.”

  “No one is going to make Mae do anything,” Sage reassures me. “The wedding is six weeks away. You can find a real date between now and then.”

  “Easley would probably go with you.” Zoe offers.

  “He’s the better alternative?” I ask, completely defeated. “Do they make suits large enough for gorillas? Why can’t I be the sad spinster cousin who sits at the kids’ table? I’ll happily eat chicken nuggets and mac ’n’ cheese.”

  My mother strolls over to our group with a satisfied feline smile on her face. Pressing her hand against my shoulder blade, she lowers her voice, careful to not be overheard. “Dear, it’s one evening. The Roberts are a good family and it will make your grandparents happy to see you with a date. Sometimes we do things in life that don’t thrill us but turn out to be worth the discomfort. Like thirty-four hours of labor to deliver a beautiful daughter.”

  She’s serious if she dropped the labor and delivery guilt. Margaret London only pulls that story out when she means business. And she added in my grandparents, which is the cherry on top of this hot mess sundae.

  “Fine, if he agrees, I’ll do it. But I’m not going to beg him to be my date. I have some self-respect.” I jut out my chin and meet her eyes.

  “Wonderful,” Mom exclaims happily, completely ignoring my reluctance. “Now that’s settled, we can all enjoy this lovely party.”

  When she’s gone, I turn to my friends. “Why do I think this was an ambush between Mrs. Roberts and my mother? I think they’re in cahoots.”

  “Do we know if he’s a momma’s boy? Maybe Landon will refuse to obey his mother,” Zoe asks, optimistically. “Sage?”

  “How would I know?” Sage holds up her hands in defense.

  “You slept with him. Did he call you Mommy or anything weird like that?” I feel bile rise in my throat.

  Thankfully, Sage says, “Uh, no. He was more the kind of guy to ask for feedback every ten seconds on how awesome he was making me feel. It was exhausting and totally ruined my focus.”

  We all make the same frown.

  “You don’t have to sleep with him. Make sure you put that clause in the dating contract.” Zoe laughs until she sees my face. “Too soon?”

  “Didn’t Mara go out with him when she first moved here?” Sage asks. “She survived.”

  “She was new and didn’t know better. He ditched her halfway through the meal after flirting with me. He’s the worst. I should know since I grew up with the guy. I have decades of bad Landon stories,” I add.

  “At least you never slept with him.” Zoe hands me a fresh cocktail.

  I peer around her, looking for a tray of mimosas. Seriously, how is she doing this? Her purse is too small to hide even a half bottle of champagne let alone a carafe of juice.

  “Thanks, bestie.” Sage wrinkles her nose like she’s smelled something horrible.

  “You were going through a crazy phase. There was no discouraging you. And you ended up with the right guy. Maybe Mae will meet the man of her dreams by doing this? Stranger things have happened.” Zoe gives me a sympathetic frown. “I fell in love with a rodeo cowboy. Never saw that coming.”

  Zoe and Justin are a new thing and at the height of the disgustingly happy phase of falling in love. Her ex was a horrible khaki-wearing tool and she deserves so much better. Thanks to me and my advice of getting back on the horse after her last relationship ended, she met Justin. I guess she took me literally, and not only rode the horse, but the cowboy, too. Can’t blame her. Justin wearing a pair of chaps does cause spontaneous ovulation.

  Unlike Landon Roberts who could cause a yeast infection with one touch.

  If I’m going to be his date for this shindig, we’re going to need to implement some ground rules.

  Wedding date rule number one: no touching.

  Chapter 2

  Landon

  “Man, you’re a mess. No wonder your dating life has more punches than a loyalty card at Fuel Coffee.” Aiden does the big brother thing by insulting me and giving me a backhanded compliment at the same time.

  At least I think there’s a compliment somewhere in his statement.

  “I’m fine. Thank you and fuck off.” I flip him off with both hands, in case he misses my point. “I don’t see you pulling tons of women. Or any.”

  The jerk shrugs. “I’m more of a quality over quantity guy. Always have been.”

  I scoff. “That’s fancy bullshit for ‘can’t get laid’ if I’ve ever heard it.”

  He dismisses my insult with a shake of his head. Water drips from the longer curls onto the leather. I don’t know if he’s showered recently or still wet from being on the river all day.

  I don’t let it go. “Right. Your problem is accessibility. I bet you live like a monk. Not a lot of women wandering around the backcountry.”

  “You’d be surprised. All that fresh air and sunshine is great for the libido.” The smug bastard winks at me. His beard is scruffy, and with his shaggy, sun-bleached, overgrown hair, he looks like he lives alone in a mountain shack in Appalachia.

  “After all of your time in the east, if you’re into something kinky involving sheep or mountain goats, keep it to yourself.” Yeah, I went there. He’s been back for a couple of weeks and already he’s annoying me. “Speaking of keeping to yourself, when are you going to find a place?”

  He holds his hand over his heart. “You wound me, baby brother. Trying to get rid of me already? Afraid I’m cramping your style?”

  “Aren’t you too old to be sleeping on a pull-out sofa?” I ask him.

  “Man, this is my couch from Boulder. If anyone has a claim, it’s me.” He flops on the corner cushion. “I created this indentation. You’ve been sitting in the shadow of my ass.”

  “You want it back? Take it when you move.” My hint is as subtle as one of my typical pick-up lines. “Thirty and no place of your own is pretty sad shit.”

  “No way. I’m afraid to know what’s happened on this leather. It probably lights up like a fireworks’ display under blue light.” Ignoring my jab about his current state of homelessness, he jumps up and strides into the kitchen. “You want a beer before we face our parents?”

  Separated by a counter, the kitchen is basic and small, but none of us really cook, so it works. Easley and I lucked out finding a decent two-bedroom condo with two bathrooms we could afford without working multiple jobs. Skiing rules dur
ing the season and then rugby takes over our lives when the snow disappears. I don’t have time to work a nine-to-five job like some suit in the city.

  Like Aiden.

  Or at least old Aiden before he flipped out. Guess the pressure of being successful got to him. He won’t talk about it much, but do normal people quit their jobs, sell everything, and go hiking for five months? No, they don’t.

  Showed up here last week directly from Maine where he finished hiking the Appalachian Trail. Something must be pretty fucked up in your life to make you want to walk over two thousand miles to try to get away from yourself.

  I accept a beer from him. “You better shower before dinner. Mom will be mad enough you look like a mountain man. If you show up smelling like the river, her head might explode.”

  He pulls his shirt away from his chest and sniffs. “Okay, I might be a little past ripe.”

  “Easley after a match doesn’t smell as bad as you do.”

  Sipping down his beer with one hand, he flips me off with the other. “I’m not showering for you. You two live like pigs with hoarding issues.”

  I scowl at him. “You’re welcome to get your own place anytime, dear brother.”

  Aiden drives us to our parents’ place in Snowmass in his boring silver 4Runner. The entire way there I give him shit about driving a hockey dad car.

  “You’re going to have a paunch any day now.” My jibe falls as flat as his stomach.

  “Right. I’m not the one living off of a diet of beer and cheeseburgers like I’m still seventeen.” He throws shade at my midsection.

  “Mass is important in rugby. Size matters. That’s probably why you’ve never played. Too skinny.” I’ve put on another ten pounds over the season. We only have a few more matches before Rugby Fest in Aspen next month. I’ll lose most of it before ski season, so he can give me all the shit he wants.

  “I could still kick your ass, baby bro. You might be bigger, but I know your weaknesses.” He turns up the steep, winding street to the house.

  The modest two-story house sits on a slope across the road from the golf course. Not exactly the wrong side of the tracks, but not on the ski mountain. Like all real estate around here, it’s still worth a fortune. Even down valley is getting outrageous. Locals who didn’t buy before the mid-eighties, aka before I was even born, are priced out unless we get lucky in the employee housing lottery.

  After parking in the driveway, Aiden pauses before opening his door.

  “Can we call a truce while we’re here?” he asks.

  “About what?” I ask, unsure which ongoing, lifelong argument he wants to put on hold for the evening.

  “The jabs and the undercuts about me being homeless and living on your couch. It is temporary, I swear. Another couple of weeks tops. Just … cool it in front of Mom and Dad, please? It’s bad enough they think I’ve lost my mind walking away from my job. It would be nice …” His voice lowers with resignation. “It would be nice to feel like I have at least one of you on my side.”

  “You’re a bigger mess than I thought. I’m just giving you shit. Like we have our entire lives.” Laughing, I lightly punch him in the shoulder. The grim expression on his face stops me. “Don’t be so serious. You owe me a favor and someday you’ll repay me. No big deal.”

  “I feel like I’ve made a deal with the Godfather. This isn’t going to end well, is it?”

  “I’d never put a horse head in your bed. Hide a trout in your lame dad rig, maybe.” Off the top of my head, I can think of four places I’d hide a fish in here.

  Laughing, he opens the door and gets out. “I should’ve moved back to my childhood room here.”

  I meet him by the hood. With a sympathetic clap on his shoulder, I lower my voice and tell him, “You can’t. Mom turned it into her yoga studio.”

  “What did they do with yours?” He takes the steps to the front door two at a time.

  “Kept it as a shrine to their favorite son. Duh.” I pause beside him before opening the door and stepping across the threshold, leaving him standing with his jaw hanging open. “All those sports trophies need a proper home.”

  “Asshole,” he mutters as he passes me, digging his thumb into my back near my kidneys.

  “Ouch. Fuck,” I swear, a little too loudly apparently.

  “Landon.” Judgment and disappointment lace Mom’s voice, but her face and tone brighten when she sees my brother behind me. “I’m so happy you’re here, Aiden.”

  If we were eight and six, I’d stick my tongue out at my brother while Mom hugs him. I’m still tempted at twenty-eight.

  “Hey, what about me?” I whine like a kid. “I’m the good son. The one who is on the undefeated rugby team, gainfully employed, and doesn’t look like Tom Hanks in Castaway after he’s lost his volleyball lover.”

  Aiden curses me out under his breath. Oops. I forgot about not mentioning his lack of employment. My bad.

  Mom misses his foul language because she’s staring at the mess on his head. “If you want, I can book you an appointment with the barber who trims your father’s hair and beard.”

  “It’s fine. I’m running rafts on the river, not making multi-million-dollar real estate deals. No one cares if my beard is scraggly and my hair is unkept as long as I get them through the rapids safely. Some women like the hirsute look.” He lifts an eyebrow at me in a silent nod to our earlier conversation.

  “I think your mom is saying you can be a guide and not look like Grizzly Adams.” Dad appears in the doorway to his home office on the other side of the kitchen. Gray lightens his brown hair at the temple. He’s wearing his typical uniform of a button-down shirt and jeans. He and Mom barely look over forty, but they’re in their early fifties. Our mother is well preserved with potions and injections. Not sure what his secret is, but I hope the genes for it got passed down to me.

  “Grizzly who?” Confused, Aiden and I ask at the same time. “Who?”

  Our parents both groan, and Dad says, “Someone before your time.”

  “Maybe you can find him on Netflix or Hulu,” Mom suggests.

  Aiden shrugs at me. “Okay, sure.”

  Loudly sighing, Mom opens the fridge. “I’m having wine. Anyone else want something?”

  “Been here three minutes and we’re already driving her to drink. I think that’s a new record,” Aiden says, half-laughing as he joins Mom at the refrigerator.

  “I blame your hermit hair and hideous face.” I step around them both and grab a beer. In the crowded space, my elbow accidentally catches Aiden in the ribs.

  His foot presses on top of my shoe when he steps away.

  “When are the two of you going to outgrow these boyish antics?” Mom slides the cork from her favorite bottle of rosé. Gwendolyn Roberts is all about the ‘rosé all day’ movement. “I was a mother of two by the time I was Landon’s age.”

  Aiden and I meet gazes. This is the beginning of her speech about us settling down and getting married in order to give her grandchildren. Apparently, there’s only so much tennis a woman can play at the club.

  “Speaking of weddings,” she says as if we’d mentioned anything to do with marriage or nuptials at all this evening, “Twyla London is getting married in October. Didn’t you go to school with her?”

  Aiden sets his beer down on the marble counter. “Wasn’t in my class.”

  How doesn’t he remember her? “She was two years behind me. Tall. Curvy. Blonde. Went to CU. Competed at the Sochi Olympics for Biathlon but didn’t medal.”

  My brother stares at me with a blank expression.

  “Cross-country skiing and shooting,” I explain.

  “I know what the Biathlon is, dufus.” He picks up his beer and takes a long swallow. “What I’m curious about is how quickly you remembered all of those details from ten years ago.”

  Mom’s eyes crinkle slightly in the corners. Impressive given how much Botox she pumps into her face. “I thought you knew her. I went to her bridal shower yesterday at the club
.”

  “Who’s the lucky guy?” Twyla and I aren’t running in the same social groups. I don’t think we’ve had a conversation in years, but that doesn’t stop jealousy from flaring in my chest.

  “Topher Tierney,” Mom answers with a happy sigh. “Two of Aspen’s power families joining together.”

  “Hold on. Topher and Twyla Tierney?” I bark out a laugh. “Lamest names ever. What kind of name is Topher?”

  “I believe it’s a shortened version of Christopher,” Dad answers.

  “Then why is he an asshole going by Topher instead of Chris?” I ask, completely serious. “He must’ve been bullied a lot in school.”

  “Landon.” Mom isn’t amused. “His great-grandfather is Albert Pfeiffer.”

  “Am I supposed to know him? I guess his life could be worse if his name were Topher Pfeiffer.” Annoyed, I glance at Aiden for help. He shrugs, giving me nothing.

  Dad frowns. “Pfeiffer and a few others, including Twyla’s great-grandfather, developed the area as a ski destination after World War II. How do you not know this?”

  “Why would I? Is this a history pop quiz?” I’m full on annoyed now and don’t bother to hide it. “Who cares about ancient history?”

  Mom sighs. “We live in a small community where social connections matter.”

  “Like I said, who cares? If they’re so fancy, why is her cousin working at La Belle Femme? Mae’s not living her life like local royalty.” I chug my beer and then wipe off the overspill from my chin with the back of my hand.

  “Honey, do I look like a wolf?” Mom asks Dad, reaching her maximum point of exasperation.

  “No, still human.” He busies himself with pulling steaks out of the fridge, along with a platter of shrimp laced on skewers for the grill.

  “Sometimes I’m not convinced these boys weren’t raised by wolves.” Her gaze flicks from Aiden with his mountain hermit beard to me before settling on her wine glass. Deciding her glass is half empty, she adds more rosé and then follows Dad outside to the deck.