Vote Then Read: Volume III

by Aleatha Romig

“He thought he was helping?”

  I sigh, deflating like an emotional balloon. “I know. But he has this way of just barging in and taking over, then backing off. He’s really strange. I think—” No. I can’t say it. Once my suspicions are spoken, I can’t unspeak them. I just dumped them all out on Andrew and they feel even more illogical now.

  “What do you think?”

  “I think he doesn’t want to be seen in public with me.”

  There. Said. Done.

  A man’s deep sigh shatters Shannon’s stunned silence. We turn and find Declan standing there, gym bag in hand, a grim look on his face.

  “That’s not what’s going on,” he says.

  Let me halt here for a moment and attempt to explain how utterly incomprehensible his appearance at this moment really is. Declan does not—I repeat, does not—ever insert himself into any conversation Shannon and I have about relationships. He has been a silent sentry through the past two years and while I know he knows Andrew’s feelings on the subject, he has never uttered a word to me about it.

  Until now.

  “Huh?” Shannon grunts. She’s as shocked as I am. Spritzy tries to make love to Declan’s ankle. Shannon cocks an eyebrow and Declan nudges Spritzy away.

  “I swore to myself I would never intervene,” Declan mumbles under his breath. “This kind of thing never ends well.”

  “What’s he talking about?” I hiss to Shannon.

  “I don’t know.” She throws her hands in the air. “He mutters nonsense like this all the time whenever Mom and I try to troubleshoot other people’s problems.”

  “And we all know how well that turns out,” Declan says in a tight voice. “But I can tell you that the problem here is not that Andrew doesn’t want to be seen in public with you or that your father being in prison has anything to do with Andrew’s actions.”

  “Then what?” I croak out.

  “The problem is that my brother is a vampire.”

  That really doesn’t help clear up anything.

  “You mean, like Edward Cullen?”

  “What does my vibrator have to do with this?” Shannon gasps.

  Declan glares at her and mutters, “I still can’t believe you named that thing.” His frown deepens. “Or that you still own it.”

  “Can we stick to the whole your brother is a bloodsucking creature part?”

  “What does being a CEO have to do with this?” Shannon jokes.

  We both give her a look.

  Declan turns to me after a spectacular eye roll that even his helicopter pilot must have felt. “I mean that Andrew will never go outside in daylight.”

  I whip to face Shannon. “I thought you were joking when you said that!” I think back to the time in the ER when Shannon swallowed her engagement ring and Andrew made a comment about not going outside. How everyone told stories.

  How I didn’t believe it.

  “He’s too afraid of being stung,” Declan adds, giving Shannon a nervous glance. We all know why Declan subconsciously does that, but it doesn’t stop my stomach from hurting.

  “Never? He never goes out in daylight? What about winter?”

  Declan nods. “He does then. He’s an avid skier. But from March to November, no way.”

  “He’s crafted his entire life around this giant fear?” My mind races to piece this together. “Is this why he has a balcony but no plants? Why he always wants to meet for dinner but never lunch? Why he has drivers who take him from underground garage to—oh, my God.” I slump against the couch. “You two aren’t kidding.”

  “I wouldn’t joke about this,” Declan says, his voice sincere and full of compassion. “He’s not rejecting you. He’s not embarrassed to be seen in public with you, Amanda. He’s terrified to be in any situation where there’s the smallest risk he might get stung.”

  “That’s crazy!” I cry out, looking at Shannon, who now has fat tears filling her eyes. “He’s crazy! Shannon doesn’t live like that! You can’t live a life where there’s no risk.”

  “Not no risk. Just no risk in this one, particular part of his life. He’s surprisingly bold when it comes to taking huge leaps in business. It’s one reason why Dad plucked him for the CEO spot. Whatever risks he doesn’t take in real life with his physical body he has no problem making on paper or in the boardroom.” Declan’s mouth twists with a smile that is equal parts admiration and contempt.

  “How does he—I don’t understand—what does he...” But my voice fades out as I run through the possibility—the probability, that Declan is right.

  Andrew lives a life driven entirely by fear.

  “Why didn’t he just say that?” I beg, pleading with Declan to explain this to me so I can fix it. Make it better. Clear it all up and get everything back in order.

  “He’ll never say it.”

  Bzzzzz.

  The intercom by the elevator crackles. “Mr. McCormick?” That’s Gerald’s voice.

  Declan jogs over to the elevator. The doors are shutting. He sticks his foot in the opening and lodges the doors open again. “One second, Gerald.”

  “No problem.” The crackling ends.

  With a pained expression, Declan looks at me. “I don’t know how else to explain it, but facts are facts. I didn’t want you thinking that he’s rejecting you for the wrong reasons.”

  “There are right reasons?” I choke out.

  With a shrug, he gets on the elevator, the doors closing over troubled eyes.

  “But why won’t he say it?” I call out.

  And...he’s gone.

  I look at Shannon. Her eyes are a mix of pity and confusion.

  “Oh, God, Shannon. What have I done?”

  24

  It’s showtime. Shannon and Declan’s rehearsal dinner party night. It’s T-minus two weeks for the wedding and now everything shifts into high gear. My calendar is filled with bridesmaid’s dress fittings and re-fittings, photographer walk-throughs, final confirmations for the bachelorette party, florist checks, and a million texts from Marie asking about details and a million more from Shannon hot on her heels, complaining about her mom.

  But no Andrew.

  We actually did the rehearsal part earlier in the day at the minister’s office because of a slew of calls from New Zealand and Indonesia that Andrew and Declan had to take. Andrew’s head was bent over his phone the entire time, his distraction so bad he had to be physically moved by Grace throughout most of the practice ceremony. At least he was present. Sort of.

  We’ve confirmed that everyone knows where to walk, even though rain made us just do this at the church where Declan’s parents married. Quite some time ago, Shannon, Declan and Marie decided to just hold the wedding outdoors at Farmington Country Club, so the rehearsal is a formality.

  Marie has been studying the layout of Farmington Country Club weddings for so long she should get an honorary Army Corps of Engineers membership card.

  Tonight, Shannon and Declan’s apartment looks like something out of one of those HGTV television shows combined with a Gordon Ramsey kitchen. My mom and I arrive before all the guests to provide Shannon with some much-needed support, only to find her crying over a small frying pan full of onions.

  “I can’t do this! Mom is insane! I can’t host a dinner for twelve people! I can barely assemble a Lunchable correctly,” she sobs.

  Declan is nowhere to be seen.

  A tall, slim woman with blonde hair and the tight smile of an overly officious schoolteacher interrupts us.

  “You’re burning the onions,” she says kindly.

  Shannon looks down and cries out.

  “And there’s no need for that old trick. The odors from our meal will more than fill the apartment.”

  Shannon tosses the spitting frying pan into one half of the divided sink and throws her hands in the air.

  “I give up!”

  “Thank goodness,” the woman mutters. I look at her apron. The logo for a very well-known restaurant is on it.

  �
��Where is Declan?” When in doubt, stick the man in the hot seat.

  “I don’t know! He said he’d be here by now and everyone is coming and Mom put me up to this and I can’t even.”

  Remember how I said Shannon has become so poised, so confident, so mature and composed?

  Yeah. That’s long gone now. Momzillas can unravel anything.

  “You can go take a shower and get ready.” I will fix this. She just has to get out of the way. Shannon can be her own worst enemy.

  “I can’t! I—”

  “Come here, dear,” my mother says, guiding Shannon in that way only a mother can, her voice firm and no-nonsense, Spritzy in her purse on her arm, his tail thumping against leather. DNA and training make Shannon obey her.

  The door buzzes.

  I march across the room and see James’s face at the video screen. I let him in.

  And we’re off.

  Over the course of the next hour, the following people arrive: Marie, Jason, Carol, Terry, Amy, Jamie from Outlander. Add in me, my mom, Andrew, Declan and Shannon and we are twelve total.

  That’s right.

  Jamie.

  All right, not technically, but the man in the video screen—and the second-to-last to arrive—was a cool 6’2” or more, with bright green McCormick eyes and the threaded gold of a ginger-haired god.

  A cousin god.

  Turns out the Boston McCormicks still had some contact with the Edinburgh McCormicks and Declan asked Hamish to be a groomsman. In his native Scotland, Hamish is a rock star. Not because he’s a musician.

  Because he plays football.

  Or, as we call it here, soccer.

  Which means Hamish is a nobody in Boston. He may have his face splashed all over the major newspapers in Europe and South America, but he’s a complete unknown in the U.S.

  And he doesn’t seem to realize it.

  He’s headed to New York City for a Sports Illustrated nude athlete photo spread after this dinner, then back for the bachelor party and wedding day. Marie’s eyes comb over him and it’s very clear she’s doing her best camera imitation right now.

  Andrew still hasn’t arrived as the wine’s poured, the hors d’oeuvres are distributed, and Shannon tries hard to pretend she cares about McCormick tartan ribbons tied around the birdseed packets that people will throw as she and Declan leave the ceremony.

  Marie won’t shut up about them.

  I’m too preoccupied by Andrew’s absence to care.

  “It’s all a bit much, aye?” Hamish says to Amy, who is giving him the critical once-over of a woman who knows she’s supposed to be impressed but most decidedly isn’t. His accent makes my panties melt. Maybe that’s why people in Scotland go commando when they wear kilts and skirts.

  It’s the hot accent.

  “What’s a bit much?” Carol asks. She looks like she needs a McCormick tartan handkerchief to mop up her drool as she looks at Hamish.

  “The tartan.” The word tartan rolls off his tongue like it’s a cocker spaniel being sprung from a cage. “By the time the wedding comes, we’ll look like Nessie ingested a bunch of Highlanders and vomited everywhere.”

  Carol laughs like that’s the funniest joke she’s ever heard.

  “Hamish!” Marie exclaims, walking over and offering herself up to him for a hug like he’s a rock climbing wall and there’s a prize for reaching the top. “So good to meet you!” Her eyes are bright and excited as he pulls away from the embrace and she asks, “You’re a sports star in Europe, I hear. What position do you play? Shortstop?”

  Hamish’s golden eyebrows turn down. “I play football, Marie.” Jason stifles a laugh.

  “Oh. Tight end, then?” She cranes her neck around behind him to check out his tight end.

  “No—not American football. I play soccer.” His voice is filled with a frustrated resignation, as if he’s had this same conversation far too often for his liking.

  “Point guard?” she tries.

  Jason hands the poor Scot another shot and claps him on the back. “Just give up, man.”

  “Americans,” Hamish mutters before downing the drink.

  Where in the hell is Andrew?

  I shouldn’t care. I know I shouldn’t care. I blew it. But he could have told me. We’re grown-ups. We each have the ability to exchange emotional truths in an honest way.

  Barring that, would it kill the man to send a basic text?

  While Amy sulks and Marie and Carol moon over Hamish, I try to find Shannon. She’s disappeared. I grab two glasses of wine from an increasingly-attractive male waiter who walks by with a tray of poured Pinot Grigio. I work on drinking part of my second? third? glass of wine.

  After searching everywhere, I finally find her in the bedroom, in a walk-in closet, trying not to cry.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask. She’s holding a tartan garter in her hands and just standing there, staring at Declan’s shoehorn, which hangs from a hook behind his suits.

  “I’m not sure I can do this.”

  There is a point in every maid of honor’s stretch of time in this role where we expect the bride to get cold feet. If you’re a woman in modern America, you’ve been steeped in the wedding articles since you were about nine or so, and could read the Cosmopolitan and Glamour magazines your mom left all over the house. You know Ten Ways To Make Her Wedding Rock and Five Mistakes Bridesmaids Make and Why Good Friends Throw Naughty Bachelorette Parties.

  Cold feet are just a part of the wedding process.

  “You love Declan. Being Mrs. McCormick is going to be awesome,” I assure her. I offer her the untouched wine goblet.

  She looks at me like I just ate a Madagascar hissing cockroach in front of her. “I know that! I’m not talking about the wedding. I’m talking about this stupid dinner party!” She ignores the wine I’m offering.

  That’s how I really know she’s upset.

  “Oh.”

  “And where’s Andrew?” she snaps.

  I finish my third glass (definitely third) and start in on her reject.

  “No clue,” I say.

  Bzzz.

  I pull my phone out of my pocket and gently guide Shannon back into the living room. She pivots at the doorway and tosses the garter onto her bed.

  I haven’t seen Andrew since the night he stole Mr. Wiffles and we fought nearly a month ago. He texted a half-hearted apology and I texted back a lame half-acceptance. After that, his assistant has asked me a few wedding-related questions regarding schedules. No other contact.

  And Declan won’t reveal what Andrew told him that night they worked out. He’s been in New York on business, then in Paris, and finally he’s back—for this party. Andrew and Declan made it clear that he has to leave early and board the helicopter to go back to New York again.

  I look at my phone and bark out a weird laugh.

  “Is that him?” Shannon asks.

  “Oh, my God!” I hold up my phone so she can read this.

  She gives me a knowing look. “I know he’s traveling so much these days, and he’s only in town for a few hours, but you guys have to talk this out—”

  Chug. Hmm. That fourth glass went down well.

  “Does that text say what I think it says?” Shannon looks gut-punched. “Did he seriously just text you with, Only here for the party. Not even time for a quickie.?”

  “Yep.”

  Andrew walks in the living room at that precise moment. The force of our glares should have propelled him right through the wall, but instead he lurches slightly to the right, one hand in his pocket, the other on the wood counter near the kitchen.

  He gives me a wave.

  “A wave?” she hisses. “You get a wave? That’s it?”

  “Yep. A fight, a month of mostly silence, a bizarre text and a wave.”

  We contemplate that one by stewing in the silence of the outraged. It has a very bitter taste.

  “What man doesn’t make time for a quickie?” she huffs.

  “A gay man?”


  Her eyes go wide. “He’s gay?”

  That question makes me remember the last time we made love. “No. Definitely not gay. Just sayin’. There are two kinds of men who aren’t interested in quickies: gay men and dead men.”

  Her eyes narrow.

  “Gay men like quickies.”

  “Not with Vulvatron.” I gesture vaguely at my crotch and realize my wine glass is empty. Hmm. Have to remedy that.

  “Vulva-what?”

  “Never mind.”

  “Declan would rappel down from a helicopter with his pants off in a hurricane if we went weeks without sex and he was in town for a few hours and it were the only way to fit in a quickie.”

  I throw my hands up in the air and brush lightly against that fine, fine waiter who is carrying my sweet love juice. Ah, Pinot Grigio. How have I never cozied up to a bottle of you between my breasts? I grab another glass of wine.

  “That is because you’re marrying Superbillionaire.”

  Shannon eyes my wine. “Time to slow down?”

  I take a gulp. “I’m just getting started.”

  Andrew’s walking toward me with a determined look in his eye and oh, sweet mercy, I go loose and wet and fuzzy inside as he reaches for me, planting a kiss on either cheek. He just flew back from Paris, so maybe that’s the drill.

  As I go in for a kiss on the lips, though, he grazes my cheek again.

  My blood stops pumping.

  What

  Fresh

  Hell

  Is

  This?

  Mixed signals is one thing. Andrew’s confusing set of clues is more like a computer system short-circuiting.

  I look around, my hands out in a gesture of WTF? and I scan the crowd as if I’ll catch someone’s eye and we can share in our disbelief that my boyfriend just dodged a kiss from me after a month of nothing. Nada. I actually resorted to my nightstand collection for the first time in months and let me tell you, they need to put little speakers on vibrators with audio recordings of men sighing and groaning at appropriate intervals, because bzzz bzzz bzzz is not sexy.

  It just isn’t.

  The first sex toy company who designs a vibrator that says, “I love when you just let go like that,” or “Your O face is so hot,” or groans, “Have you lost weight? Because I need more to grab” will dominate the industry and blow up the stock market.