She smiled and glanced around the wine bar. "We've done it every year since, but with far less food poisoning."
"We need to stop talking about this." No wonder this girl was starting to prefer Soul Cycle to connecting with the opposite sex. Ball-busting was her national pastime, and she couldn't find a polite topic of conversation with two hands and a flashlight. "New topic: getting Shannon some action. Last week you were meeting Charlie for coffee. How'd that turn out?"
"Oh my God," Shannon groaned.
"That bad?"
The number of men who could go up against Shannon and hold their own was woefully limited—Matthew could probably construct an equation and give us an exact number—and it was no surprise her online dating endeavors met with little success. She required an unshakable alpha male who could handle every ounce of her alpha girl without expecting her to yield in the least.
"He had this white phlegmy thing on his lips. I spent the entire time staring at his mouth, silently willing him to wipe it off. I even started wiping my own mouth excessively as a hint. Nothing." She groaned. "And he lacked the most basic social skills, in addition to zero awareness of white phlegmy stuff."
"How'd you leave it?"
"Eh, you know. 'Maybe we'll grab coffee or a drink after the holidays.'" Shannon rolled her eyes. "Remind me to stop seeing club guys outside of clubs. They're like trolls: they need to stay under their bridges."
24
Matthew
From: Erin Walsh
To: Matthew Walsh
Date: November 16 at 01:51 CEST
Subject: RE: answer your phone
* * *
M –
Sorry, kid. I've been way off the grid. I'm in Germany, btw, right on the border of the Czech Republic and working in the Vogtland region. I think this might be the place where Hansel and Gretel went missing. A couple nights ago, some of us followed a path through the woods and ended up in the CR, and after the weird shit we saw, I can easily write scary children's stories now. Photos attached.
* * *
The thermal springs around the Kammerbühl volcano are wild, but I speak no Deutsche and some of the people in this village think I'm a witch. It's like, cool, whatever, but stop throwing holy water at me, you know?
* * *
I'm headed back to Spain soon, and we can talk then. Any urgent/Matt's-on-the-ledge-again issues?
- e
From: Matthew Walsh
To: Erin Walsh
Date: November 16 at 09:12 EDT
Subject: RE: answer your phone
* * *
E –
Whenever I think my life is complex, I get an email from you about sneaking into foreign countries and holy water. It reminds me that I need to put aside bail money for when you get arrested.
* * *
And no, I'm not on the ledge. Things are good. Let me know when you're back in Spain.
* * *
M
From: Erin Walsh
To: Matthew Walsh
Date: November 16 at 23:09 CEST
Subject: vague much?
* * *
M –
Not trying to get all psychiatric on your ass, but I'm pretty sure saying "things are good" is your way of telling me things aren't exactly good.
- e
From: Matthew Walsh
To: Erin Walsh
Date: November 17 at 06:41 EDT
Subject: things ARE good
* * *
E –
The sun isn't up yet and I've been in my office for almost an hour.
* * *
I'm registered for a triathlon this weekend and I haven't swam for more than ten minutes since Labor Day.
* * *
Patrick fired another assistant. The current total for the year is now four fired assistants, and we're placing bets on whether he makes it to a clean five.
* * *
Sam wants to add roof gardens to every single project that comes through the door, and he doesn't actually know enough about landscaping or horticulture or anything that might qualify him to put gardens on top of roofs, but no one wants to tell him that.
* * *
Riley still can't zip his pants and I had to explain to him why we ALWAYS double check that we've turned off the main water line before doing any demo. And yes, I had to explain it while standing in two feet of water.
* * *
But yeah, things are good. Where are you?
M
From: Erin Walsh
To: Matthew Walsh
Date: November 18 at 11:29 CEST
Subject: RE: things ARE good
* * *
M –
I notice you didn't mention a word about chica. Is that done?
- e
From: Matthew Walsh
To: Erin Walsh
Date: November 18 at 19:31 EDT
Subject: RE: things ARE good
* * *
E –
Things with Lauren are good. Different. Complex. But good.
* * *
Where are you?
M
From: Erin Walsh
To: Matthew Walsh
Date: November 19 at 01:09 CEST
Subject: Italy
* * *
M –
I'm in Naples. Spending time in the lab and then rubbing Vesuvius's belly for a bit. No travel on my calendar for a week or two, not unless someone wants to sneak into the CR with me again. And I'm totally game for that.
* * *
Expand on "different but good." Let it out, kid. Just let it out.
- e
From: Matthew Walsh
To: Erin Walsh
Date: November 19 at 22:17 EDT
Subject: RE: Italy
* * *
E –
Come home for Thanksgiving or Christmas or whatever. You can stay at my place and you don't have to see Shannon. Let me know when you want to come, and I'll order a ticket for you, but I can't talk about this shit over email anymore. Meet her and you'll get it. You'll love her. Come home. Even for a few days.
M
From: Erin Walsh
To: Matthew Walsh
Date: November 20 at 20:02 CEST
Subject: RE: Italy
* * *
M –
Will I love her as much as you do?
- e
From: Matthew Walsh
To: Erin Walsh
Date: November 21 at 05:49 EDT
Subject: RE: Italy
* * *
I hope so.
25
Lauren
With only nine months until the doors of my school opened, I was rounding the curve and finally seeing the end of this marathon. As the first day neared, my confidence grew. I understood the role I'd fill when it was time for teaching and learning, and I loved everything about it. I needed kids and classrooms, and the craziness of running the building was nothing compared to chasing down vendors, board members, state officials, and researchers. The preparation, the non-kid, non-classroom stuff I could do without.
Lifting my head from my hands, I groaned at the forty-four emails suddenly clogging my inbox, and that groan stretched into a full-blown whine when my phone started vibrating with an incoming call. My number one draft pick teacher declined my offer earlier in the day, and as if the phone were to blame for that turn of events, I wasn't taking any calls until this day perked up.
The call went to voicemail, but another quickly followed. Peeking an eye open, I saw my father's picture flashing across the screen. Two options sat before me: answer, or expect a member of the armed forces to come find me.
I really did not want a SEAL fast-roping down the exterior of my building right now.
"Hi, Dad."
"There's my girl!" he boomed.
"So where are you today?" I was several weeks behind in my travel blog readings.
"Outside Rosarito, but that's not the purpose of this call," he said. "I heard
from one of my sailors last week, Paraza. He's in private contracting now, and doing well for himself. He asked about you, and I updated him on the progress of your endeavor, and he wants to provide funding for your operation. He'll have someone in his office call you to establish the agreement."
"Wow, Dad, that's wonderful. I don't know what to say."
"Nothing to say. Teach those kids, put them on the right path; that's all you can do," he said. "Is the work going well? You're staying focused on the targets?"
I laughed. "Yeah, as much as possible. Some of these days are challenging, though, and it's hard—"
"Only easy day was yesterday, Lolo. Remember that."
"I know, and I do. That doesn't mean it's any less frustrating when I spend three months cultivating a candidate and she backs out at the last minute."
"Give in, give up, or—"
''—give it all I've got, I know. I know, Dad. I don't need that reminder."
And I didn't. I repeated that mantra until it pounded through my body, beating in time with my heart. It kept me centered when the work was exhausting and aggravating, and detached from everything I loved about schools. It kept me going when I debated how many more brick walls I could safely demolish with sweet talk and pastries. It kept me driven when I wanted to spend my mornings wrapped in Matthew's arms, avoiding the world beyond his touch.
Dad didn't deserve my sharp tone or my impatience, but a small part of me wanted to wallow in defeated misery for a moment, and he wasn't having it.
"Make it through the mission, Lolo. It's a long one, but you knew that going in. You knew the stakes, and you knew the score. Get your head in the game, and don't let the scenery slow you down. You'll regret it."
I'd heard this speech before, as had countless Navy SEALs. There was a gravity to his words, a weight that pelted my skin like the driving rain, chasing me toward my destination. It worked; this speech had pushed me through my toughest college courses and the most difficult days in the classroom. It made my issues feel insignificant, irrelevant, and surmountable. Nothing stood in my way after one of the Commodore's 'leave nothing on the road' speeches.
"I know, Dad. I'm on it."
"Excellent. Now let's talk about you coming to Cabo for Christmas. It's the only thing your mother wants, and you know what happens when I don't get her the right gift."
Matthew's head rested between my breasts, his arms wrapped tight around my body, and we stared out his bedroom windows while I ran my fingers through his hair. It was the kind of drowsy euphoria I adored, the languid place where we were sticky and sweaty, and staying entwined was the only option. We dug in, clinging to each other, pulling and squeezing, and just wanting more contact because there was no other way to express the fiery, desperate desire between us.
"I like being with you at night," he murmured.
His words vibrated against my nipple, and I squirmed beneath him. "Me too."
"And I like waking up with you." He shifted, suddenly fascinated with my nipples and inspecting them with his tongue.
"Mmhmm."
"And I like fucking you in the middle of the night."
"Also good," I sighed, my hands fisting in his hair. His fingers traveled down my belly and toward my center while his teeth scraped over my nipple, and I closed my eyes, enjoying this orchestrated attack on my body.
"And you need to find a new place, right?"
"Mmhmm." Didn't want to think about that right now. At my price point, apartment hunting aligned with the college calendars, and I missed the critical September move-in window. The options this time of year were woefully anemic, but Shannon was lining up tours after the holiday and she promised to find something spectacular. Moving and packing and figuring out how to get all of my shoes into tiny city closets weren't my favorite discussion topics.
"So why don't you move in with me? You can live here, and we can do this every night." He was hard against my side, and I knew he was a breath away from levering up and fitting himself inside me.
"Don't we already do this every night?"
Matthew's fingers retreated and he released my nipple without ceremony, leaving me aching and on the verge of incoherent begging. Sitting back on his heels, he stared at me, seemingly unconcerned with the erection pointing in my direction. I tried not looking it in the eye, but it was hard to miss.
"No, Lauren, we don't. I wait all day for an opening from you. Then I persuade you to have dinner with me. Then I convince you to spend the night with me. And that's what we do every day."
I didn't see it that way. To me, there was no doubt we'd see each other but we didn't figure out the where or when until later. Our days were hectic and often took us in unpredictable directions. Why not wait until the evening to make plans? And it wasn't like we hadn't been together every night for the past two months.
"Sometimes I think you're still looking for exits," he said. He stood, pulling on pajama pants and pacing in front of the windows. This was the side of him I rarely saw: angry Matthew. He typically operated within degrees of seriousness, all piercing stares and hipshot stances, and I knew he didn't get all the way up to angry very easily. "I always feel like you're five minutes away from blowing me off."
"I'm not, I'm just—"
"—busy, I know. I've heard all about your schedule and the demands of your work."
There were only two ways to have this discussion: as mature adults, talking it out over coffee and pastries, or as lovers, intoxicated from happy sex hormones, and free to be totally honest and bare with each other.
Coffee and pastries made the most sense for a normal couple, but I was more interested in the naked option. If he dropped those pants and came back to bed, we'd be able to sort this out the only way we knew how.
"That's not what I was going to say." I sighed and ran my hands through my hair. I reached for his t-shirt and pulled it over my head.
"I want to be with you. Here, a new place, I don't care, but let's do it. Think about it. We basically live together. Nomadically, of course. The only thing that would change would be figuring out where to go and staying there."
"Matthew, I don't think I can do something like that right now."
He arched an eyebrow at me. "I work all the time, too, and that's not about to change. I want you with me, every day. We'll sleep together every night, and I know you need that as much as I do, and you won't have a tantrum the next time you forget to pack the shoes you want."
"It wasn't a tantrum, I was simply expressing some frustration… Nevermind. This is ridiculous."
He shot me a bland look. "Give me one good reason why not."
"I have a great little apartment that I love, at least for a few more months, and I like things a certain way. I've lived alone for a couple years now, since Steph got married. I don't know how to coexist anymore. And please come back to bed."
"Let me tell you what I think about that." Matthew ticked off his responses on his fingers. "First. I'll move in with you until your sublet ends. And you've been coexisting with me since October. Face facts, sweetness."
Perhaps my favorite Walshism—biting and growling aside—was the way he and his siblings made lists everywhere, all the time. They couldn't run to Dunkin Donuts for an afternoon coffee without a neatly written list, and they talked that way, too. Though I never admitted it to Matthew, I adored Riley's idiosyncratic lists. They always went something like, "first of all…and B…moving on to point numero quatro," and I couldn't keep a straight face when he lapsed into Spanish.
"Second. If you want to stay here, I want this to be our place. However you want it. I'll get a storage unit for Erin's junk, and you can have an office. I'll build you some bookshelves. You need bookshelves, and I need you. Or we'll get a new place. You tell me what you want, and I'll give it to you."
"Matthew, please stop. Your reasons are lovely, but they don't change—"
"I'm not finished, and I know I'm interrupting you, but hear me out. Third. I've lived alone even longer, but I'm
willing to compromise on just about anything. I'm not willing to compromise on you."
"This is just really fast, Matthew, and it's been—"
"None of that matters. I want you and I've known it for a long time, and I don't want to wait. I can't. I can't wait anymore."
Whenever my students misbehaved or did something inappropriate in my classroom, my emotional constancy held strong. I was ready with the stern glances and pursed lips, and they never knew I was boiling with aggravation, or cracking up when a kid read the word tentacles but said testicles. But I couldn't access that muscle when it came to Matthew. I knew my stunned, stupid reaction was all over my face, and I was helpless to hide it.
"The way you're looking at me right now," he said, his voice turning thick, his words plucked one by one. "It tells me you have no idea that I'm lost to you, that I'm in love with you, that I can't fucking breathe without you."
He stared at me, his hands propped on his hips and his gaze solemn, and I focused on that expression because I couldn't handle his words. He was used to getting what he wanted with that look. At least three occasions sprang to mind where that look was all it took to get me on my knees.
The Walsh Brothers Page 22