The Walsh Brothers

by Kate Canterbary

  "You should watch it and take notes. Ryan Gosling gets them panties dropping every time, and he does some fuckin' beautiful work on that old house."

  I released a tight, slightly manic laugh and dropped into a seat across from Riley, my phone skating to the center of the table.

  "I don't think she wants to be chased." I propped my arms on the table and rested my head against my clasped fingers. "I think she's over it now."

  Riley's feet hit the floor and he leaned forward. "Unlikely. Miss Honey was totally in your pocket, and I should know. Almost saw some babies made."

  "Yeah, I'm sure that really helped. She's probably dodging my calls now to avoid pervy little shits like you." I looked up and pinned Riley with a glare. "Miss Honey?"

  "Yeah," he said. He spoke without tearing his eyes from the phone. "Didn't you read Matilda? That sweet little teacher?"

  I stared at the table and frowned. "I don't think so."

  "Anyway. Your pussyboy mood is bringing down my college football buzz, and that's a problem. How can you go through life like this? All moody and shit? She's out of your league by a couple of pegs. It shouldn't be a surprise to an old man like you that you gotta work for that ass."

  "Are you sure you can't bother Sam right now? This seems like a conversation he'd be thrilled to have with you, and if it helps, I'll pick up the tab for lunch. Just leave me the hell alone."

  I went back to the design I was sketching in my graphing notebook, the one that had been stuck in my head for weeks. I didn't have time for passion projects—this whole operation was a passion project—but this design was demanding my attention. It kept me up at night, preoccupied my thoughts through traffic, and sent me searching for innovative techniques.

  "None of that is going to happen. Just be quiet and I'll take care of this."

  My ears didn't register the ringing until Lauren's voice bloomed over the speaker. I dove across the table to grab my phone from him, but he held up a hand and fired a warning look at me.

  "Hey, can I call you back in—"

  "Hey girl, it's Riley," he said. "How's it going?"

  She laughed stiffly and the stress balling in my shoulders multiplied. "Hi, Riley. I'm doing well. Busy, really busy, but good. How are you?"

  "I'm fuckin' fantastic. October is the most wonderful time of the year, especially when the Sox are leading. You still in Chicago?"

  "Yep, until Saturday. Then NOLA. So…what's up? What can I do for you?"

  I couldn't decide whether to kick Riley's ass for inserting himself—again—or bow at his feet for getting Lauren talking.

  "If you only knew. But, baby, the question is what can I do for you?"

  Ass kicking it is.

  "I'm going to fucking kill you," I hissed. I sprang across the table and ripped the phone from Riley's hands. Switching off the speaker, I stormed out of my office and into a narrow hallway leading to the fire escape before turning my attention to Lauren. "Sorry about that."

  "It's fine, don't worry. He's adorable, in random and bizarre ways."

  Heavy tension lingered between us while I searched for the right response. Our time apart outstripped our time together and I didn't know how to find my way back to her.

  "Hey," I said. "How are you?"

  Silence greeted my question, and I pulled my phone away from my ear to check the signal strength. I wanted to ask her, right then and there, what the hell was going on. I wanted to know why she was blowing me off and why she wouldn't talk about anything but her project, and I wanted to know which version of Lauren she was showing me now.

  I heard doors close and the rustle of wind, and a long exhale. "I know, I know, I owe you so many texts, and I'm so sorry. How's my building coming?"

  Within the span of a few words, she knocked me off course, and I slid down the wall until I hit the hardwood floor. I never wanted to talk about architecture again.

  "It's on track."

  "Just what I wanted to hear. I knew you'd make it happen. I've been crazy busy. And I've been with all these brilliant people who have started schools and I'm just trying to soak up every bit of brilliance while I can. Oh, and I think I met the perfect candidate for my Dean of Students, and if I can convince him to start next month, I might be able to sleep more than three hours a night."

  "Good. Good, that's really good. I'm happy you're getting so much out of it," I said.

  "I am. But I think I'm going to change my flight next week." I muttered a sound that urged Lauren to go on, but I couldn't find the words to respond. "Originally I was coming in late Saturday morning, but I'm trying to get out on Friday, be back in town that evening."

  I cleared my throat. "Okay."

  "Would you want to get drinks?"

  Drinks. I didn't know how to interpret that—drinks-sex? Or drinks-drinks, like normal adults who weren't fucking and rehabbing a button mill together? Or drinks-I'm-letting-you-down-easy?

  "Yeah," I said. "Send me your flight info. I'll pick you up, if that isn't too much of an issue for you."

  "Great…?" From the cautious lilt in her voice, it was clear she noticed my clipped tone. "Is everything all right?"

  Dozens of harsh answers cycled through my thoughts but they all resembled my drunken ramblings to Erin, and I didn't want to go there.

  "Matthew?"

  It didn't make sense that my name sounded so right in her voice. It should have sounded exactly the same as anyone else who said it, and not loaded with meaning and memory.

  "What? Yeah, nothing." My head landed against the brick wall with a low thunk.

  "Really? Okay, well, let me know if anything comes up with my building."

  I swore under my breath when my head knocked against the brick again. "Call me this weekend."

  "Once I land in New Orleans, I'm all over the place—"

  "Call. Me. This. Weekend."

  The warm ring of Lauren's laugh only added confusion to my knotted pile of frustration.

  "Okay, Matthew. This weekend. But I really need to go. Some people are waiting for me, and they've been so generous with their time already. Bye, for now."

  The floor seemed like a safer choice than going back into my office. It was ground zero, filled with memories of Lauren sitting across from me in that red dress while I tried to conceal my erection and burgeoning fascination with her, or the way she melted into me when we thought we were alone. I folded my arms over my bent knees, staring at my phone's black screen.

  My office was no comparison to the torture of my loft. Lauren's scent lingered on my sheets and pillows, and the solitary strands of golden blonde hair I found clinging to my clothes and furniture and pillows were mean little tokens from the nights we shared.

  I craved her and I missed her, and I was annoyed at myself on both counts. I didn't let women rattle my thoughts, disturb my sleep, or invade my life.

  This wasn't what I wanted. I wanted sex with Lauren and I didn't want to care what she did when we weren't having sex. But I also wanted more, maybe a lot more, and I couldn't explain how or when or why that happened, but I wanted it.

  And she didn't.

  "Are we checkin' jobsites or what? I want to be at the bar at McGreevy's with two beers under my belt before kickoff."

  I shifted my attention from the phone to squint at Riley. "You check in on our sites. I'm taking off."

  Riley pivoted, looking around the hallway as if I was speaking to someone else. "You're letting me do that?"

  "Christ, Riley, what the fuck did they teach you in Rhode Island? Just go to a few sites, look around, make sure nothing's crashing down tonight, and get on the GC's ass if you need to. Don't change any plans. Don't talk to any inspectors. Understood?"

  "Got it, yeah, all over this." Riley nodded enthusiastically. "Where're you going?"

  I popped to my feet and pocketed my phone. "I don't know yet but I need to get the fuck out of here."

  I started with a run along the Charles River, crossing over the bridge into Cambridge and through Ha
rvard Square, looping back to follow Storrow Drive, but the miles did nothing to quiet the pounding in my head. Neither did the numbers. I counted everything I saw—parking meters, bridges, women who vaguely resembled Lauren—and created insane equations in my head with those numbers.

  I elected to leave my phone in the cup holder of my car. I needed to get away from my father, my siblings, my work for the night, but it felt as if I lost a limb and my only tether to Lauren. I reached for my absent armband nearly every half mile, holding out hope that she would call and explain it all away.

  Veering off my original course, I opted to push my limits by jogging to the gym for a grueling hour of burpees, tire flipping, and box jumps. When I dropped to the ground to guzzle water, my muscles burned with exhaustion.

  "Whatever you're thinkin' about, you're thinkin' too damn hard."

  I slanted my eyes toward the light Texas drawl and allowed a grim smile. Nick Acevedo, the brother I chose, yanked his t-shirt over his head and wiped the sweat from his face before falling beside me. "They let you out for the night?"

  "Yeah," Nick said. "They figure I've spent the past eighty-nine hours in surgery, so I get a couple off. I'm free until tomorrow. Or when they page me. Whichever comes first."

  "Do you do exorcisms?"

  I wasn't sure who needed it more, me or Angus, but I wanted a practitioner at the ready either way.

  "No sir, I do not. The American Medical Association frowns upon medieval surgical practices and I like my medical license." Nick tossed his empty water bottle aside and studied me as he braced his head in his hands. "Although my grandmother did have a lot of remedies down on the ranch for batshit crazy. Maybe we can get you some scorpion venom and prickly pear juice. You'll be set. What's ailing you now?"

  In which order should I roll out my issues? There was Angus's singular desire to piss all over my sweet mother's memory, plus his focus on destroying my siblings one by one: Patrick was a traitor, Shannon was a cunt, Riley was dumb, Sam was gay, and Erin wasn't his.

  None of it was true, but didn't nearly matter.

  He never came after me directly, and it was only because I was the referee. He preferred to drown me in his complaints about everyone else, assuming he was gaining me as an ally for his cause, and I supposed it was better that way.

  And then there was Miss Halsted and her general refusal to answer text messages within a reasonable timeframe.

  Nick stretched his legs straight in front of him, his fingers wrapping around the soles of his sneakers as he dropped his head to his knees and grumbled at the sting of sore muscles. I followed his lead and started stretching as I anticipated the stiffness I would feel in the morning. The steep office stairs would kick my ass worse than any quantity of planks.

  "Walsh, I'm not going to drag this shit outta you. I need a shower, a beer, and some red meat. In that order. If you want to unload your problems, you can buy me dinner."

  I studied the hard set to Nick's pale hazel eyes before shaking my head. "You need to get laid."

  "Right. That way I can spend my time being just as miserable as you."

  "How do you drink that?" I held Nick's Hobgoblin brown ale up to the light over the booth and studied the liquid.

  "I don't like the fruity, hoppy IPAs out there these days. I like it thick. Real men chew their beers, Walsh." Nick wiped the last of the Russian dressing from his fingers. Burgers at JM Curley's in Downtown Crossing was a satisfying event, though a messy one. "I can't remember the last meal I ate sitting down. Hell, I can't remember an actual meal."

  "You make residency sound like a cult."

  "It is," Nick said with an emphatic nod. "Gotta be crazy to do it, to stick with it, to put up with all the bullshit. But I pulled a golf-ball-sized tumor out of the top vertebra of a toddler's spine yesterday, and that doesn't suck."

  "And the kid's going to live to tell about it?"

  "Very funny, dickhead." Nick shook his head and checked his pager. "Everything always goes to shit after midnight. I'm giving you an hour, tops."

  "I'm seeing this girl…or not. I don't know." I sighed and tossed a balled up napkin to my plate. "She's building a school in Dorchester. Really cool girl. Funny, smart, gorgeous, bossy. Totally turned my life upside down since I met her."

  Nick crossed his arms over his chest, his dark eyebrows raised. "Turned your life upside down how?"

  I drained my beer as I contemplated my response. "I spent about four days straight with her." I gestured to the bartender for another.

  "And I take it she's redecorating your place and naming your kids?"

  I thought about Lauren's presence in my loft more times than I could count, and went so far as to stop into a few shops in search of velvet pillows. Rubbing small pillows in a swanky boutique—alone—felt exactly as weird as it sounded.

  "I'd rather that than the cold shoulder I'm getting." I shrugged and sipped the beer when it arrived in front of me. "I think she only wanted help with her project. Or she's blowing me off."

  Again.

  Nick rolled his eyes, his fingers drumming against the table impatiently. "She's the chillest chick ever. Hot and maybe a little dominant? Do I have that?"

  "Yeah. And she drinks tequila like a boss. She's on the road for work right now, and only wants to talk about her project."

  "And she's using you for architectural services?"

  I shrugged, and Nick continued shaking his head, running his fingers through his dark hair until it pulled in haphazard directions. "Matt, you know I don't get much time for interests beyond surgery and pissing off my attending, and I am rusty in the areas of relationships that don't involve on-call rooms. But everything you've said is fucking nuts. You're a steel trap, man. I don't care how hot she is, I don't see anyone manipulating you—and for architect shit no less. If you could tell this story again, hooked up to an EEG, I might have something for the New England Journal of Medicine."

  I balanced my arms on the table, gesturing toward Nick with my glass. "By all means, what do you recommend?"

  Nick's pager beeped and he frowned at the readout. "Hang on." He punched a few numbers into his phone and waited. The transformation from Nick to Doctor Acevedo always fascinated me, and I tried to decide whether I kept my personal and professional sides separate as seamlessly as Nick did. It probably wasn't possible, not when my work was so intertwined with my family that I could barely tell where one started and the other ended.

  "This is Doctor Acevedo."

  We had it easy compared to Nick. It probably didn't seem that way, with our sixteen-hour days and working straight through most weekends, but architecture wasn't life and death. We took our work seriously—sometimes too seriously—but it was a challenge we freely accepted. If we took a day off once in a while, we weren't putting the lives of sick children on the line, and we needed to remember that.

  "That's early sepsis but I'm most concerned about this kid throwing a clot. Get the on-call pediatric resident, page the attending, and press broad-spectrum antibiotics. I'll be there within the half hour. Get me an OR. Three or five, but not four, definitely not two." Nick disconnected his call and pocketed his phone and pager before turning back to me. "As predicted."

  I stretched a hand across the table for a firm shake, and he slipped out of the booth.

  "Something I learned about diagnoses," he said, turning back toward me. "Unless you ask the right questions, you will always get the wrong answers. You missed something. Get in front of her. Couldn't be any worse than crying into your beer."

  I gulped, propping my hands on my hips and mentally picking through the passengers streaming through the jetway. This was the definition of a poorly conceived idea, and I was probably going to have my ass handed to me in the middle of the New Orleans airport by a little blonde hurricane.

  That was assuming Lauren didn't already see me waiting, and evade. She knew how to tap into that ninja sense when she needed it.

  Finally, a crown of golden hair caught my eye. Head low
ered, eyes glued to her phone, she was walking past me and would have kept going if I hadn't put myself directly in her path. She bumped into my chest and braced herself on my arm.

  "I'm sorry, didn't look where I was…Matthew." Her mouth quirked into a beautiful, stunned smile and she laughed. "You're here."

  Her tote bag slid from her shoulder and tumbled to the ground, her phone falling on top of it, and she reached up to wrap her arms around my neck. She struggled without the ass-kicking heels, stretching up and pulling at me, drawing me down to her. Her lips were on me, and I reacted, pushing my tongue into her mouth, tasting her, drowning in her. She was commanding and impatient, and exactly how I wanted her. With my hands comfortably seated in her back pockets, I squeezed her ass, and she met my hungry growl with a laugh.

  "What are you doing here? I mean, seriously, why are you here?" Her hands moved down my chest and under my shirt, fingers cool against my skin.

  "I wanted to get a drink with you," I said into her mouth.

  Every kiss was frenetic, a bit too eager, a bit too aggressive, and our hands were everywhere, touching, pulling, holding. I couldn't keep my mouth off her, not after the weirdness of the past two weeks. Not after the way she jumped into my arms and attacked me.

  "Drinks? All this way…for drinks?" she said, shaking her head. She was breathing hard, her chest heaving against mine and her cheeks flushed. "Please tell me my building didn't collapse or you found a tyrannosaurus skeleton or some other ridiculous thing."

  I rolled my eyes. This wasn't the time to ask her if she was fucking me for architectural advice, and honestly, I couldn't find a way to form those words without sounding like a self-important asshole.

  "Would you shut up about your fucking building for a minute and let me kiss you?"

  I backed her against the wall, yanking her up on her toes, kissing her like we were alone in this terminal and there was nothing else but her, and I felt wild. It was raw and demanding and urgent, and if it weren't for that tiny, obnoxious corner of my brain and its incessant reminders not to rip her clothes off in an airport, I would have been inside her by now.