Matt: "Dude, he doesn't have time to build a house right now. But," he pointed at me, "I'm betting she doesn't want something new."
Erin: "Still rocking the slimy player thing, Sammy?"
Riley: "Yeah, but if I know anything about Princess Jasmine and Optimus, PJ's buildin' the better house."
Sam: "I prefer slippery."
Shannon: "We'll do anything we can to help, Patrick. But if you ruin this wedding, I'll tear your balls off and feed them to you."
Nick: "Whoa. This escalated quickly. I'm really impressed by the full impact of the Walsh squad. Also, a little scared of y'all."
Erin: "May the odds be ever in your favor."
I already knew they weren't.
24
Andy
Fun fact: eleven-thirty on a Friday night was the best time to hit I-93 South and avoid holiday weekend traffic. My drive to the Cape was smooth sailing, and entirely motivated by a desire to avoid Patrick.
The Chatham Bars Inn on the far curve of Cape Cod was my kind of place—straight out of the 1910s, and recently updated with the best modern features while preserving the architectural integrity of the original structure.
On a better day, I would have photographed every nook, archway, and detail of the entire inn, but I was busy cleaving my brain into two separate and wholly unequal parts—the one focused on self-preservation and moving on from Patrick, and the one desperately in love with him.
It was always about Patrick. He was my ignition switch. I loved him years ago when I thumbed through the architecture school's grad student publications, and his thesis taught me how to cherish and honor the past, all while making it more efficient, more sustainable. Then, he was Patrick the craftsman and Patrick the visionary, and without knowing it, he fostered my architectural spirit.
Working with Patrick changed my life. He changed everything but I didn't let other people plan my future. I was hurt, and haunted by the reality that he kept something enormous from me for so long. He shook every belief I had, and I honestly wondered whether I wanted to build anymore.
Or maybe I was too busy being wounded to realize I couldn't even enjoy Bikram yoga or goat's milk cheese these days, let alone feel passionate about sustainably preserved architecture.
I hoped my late arrival would free me from all Walsh interactions, but Shannon and Lauren were leaning against the front desk when I entered.
"Shan, chill." Lauren beckoned me closer, and wrapped her arm around my waist while I checked in. "I have a wedding planner, and we're paying her a fortune to take care of all of these things. If there's something we've missed, life will have to go on."
"I just want you to have an incredible day," Shannon said. "I'm annoyed about the gift baskets, and want to have a few words with the manager."
"I'm not annoyed. This is a party. That's all. Gift baskets are not required, are they, Curly Sue?" I shrugged and glanced between them. I didn't want to think about weddings—getting me here was a big enough challenge. "Go talk to Will. He was really excited to meet you."
Shannon glanced toward the bar area. "He's at the bar, and Wes is the one talking to my sister?" Lauren murmured in agreement. "Homeboy seems a lot more interested in kicking Matt's ass than talking to me."
"And if that happens, my day will be far less incredible," Lauren said. "Use some of that legendary Shannon Walsh charm, and keep him away from my Matthew."
Armed with a renewed sense of purpose, Shannon moved toward the bar, and settled beside Lauren's brother.
"I'm so glad to see you," Lauren said. "What took you so long? This has been a wild night. I've been running all kinds of covert operations to keep these kiddos under control. I met Erin! Talk about a blood feud. She brought me a lava rock from Portugal, because it's old and new, and I already love her. And I just heard about the tunnel at the house? How crazy is that?"
"It was crazy," I murmured. "I'm sorry I'm late. It's been a hectic week, that's all."
"I know, honey. Let's get a drink with the hooligans before we go upstairs." She led the way to the patio bar, and I willed the sound of crashing waves and the scent of sea air to calm me down.
Sam, Riley, and Matt were clustered on one side, while Patrick stood behind them facing the ocean, his hands in the pockets of his navy shorts with his back to the group. What I wouldn't give to wrap my arms around his waist, press my face against his back, and just drown in Patrick.
Matt and Sam were recounting a story at Riley's expense, interrupting each other and dissolving into hysterical laughter while Riley looked as if he was trying to swallow a goldfish. On one of those better days, I would have thrown some gas on that fire and asked about aunts who slept with alligators, and black-eyed meatloaves, but those stories no longer existed in my realm.
Shannon and Will struggled to kick-start a conversation at the bar, and she launched into a detailed accounting of her plan to work her way through locally brewed IPAs this summer. Another redhead was on the opposite end of the patio with Wes, Lauren's other brother, and neither noticed our arrival. They were too busy staring at the sand dunes and looking like they were being held hostage.
I ordered a Riesling—everyone needed a real housewife—and let Lauren introduce me to her brothers. I couldn't fathom how curvy little Lauren was cut from the same genetic cloth as Wes and Will. They had Lauren's golden blond hair, theirs cut in closely cropped styles. They were shorter than Patrick yet huge, and I doubted their broad shoulders fit through standard, code-specified interior doorways. They represented a whole new branch of the Tight T-Shirt Brigade.
"Hey, Will, this is my friend Andy. She works with Matt," Lauren said, and patted her brother's shoulder. It looked like bone-in ham. "Andy, this is my oldest brother, Will."
"Will Halsted." He offered his hand, and it swallowed mine whole. "You're not part of them?" Will gestured at the array of Walshes scattered around the patio.
"No." I wasn't part of the inner circle anymore, and I'm not sure I ever was.
"Finally, an impartial witness. Sit down. I want the inside story."
"Are we not having a conversation?" Shannon snapped.
"Apparently she didn't take the hint. We'll talk another time, Andy," Will promised with an exaggerated eye roll, and he motioned to Shannon. "I don't spend nearly enough time listening to harpies. By all means, continue."
Lauren clutched my elbow and darted away from the bar as Shannon gasped.
Wes and Erin smiled politely at each other without speaking, and both looked relieved when we approached. "Wes, Erin, this is Andy. She's one of my very best friends, and an architect at the firm with Matt. Andy, this is my brother Wes, and Matt's sister Erin."
I gazed at Erin, taking in red hair and emerald eyes against alabaster skin, and I couldn't believe her resemblance to Shannon and her mother. "Hi," I managed, and fumbled to shake their hands.
For all of their similarities, Erin and Shannon were different in every way. Seeing Erin's skinny jeans and Moby Dick book cover t-shirt, I immediately wanted to befriend her—was there anything better than a Moby Dick t-shirt on Cape Cod? Seriously, no one would wear that without expecting a few ironic chuckles. I wanted to talk to the girl equipped with that kind of wit.
Shannon, on the other hand, was flawlessly pulled together in khaki shorts, a white tank top, and a breezy sweater that exposed one shoulder. She looked like a page from the Nordstrom catalog. Shannon was starlet waves, Erin was choppy side-swept bangs and shoulder-length layers. Shannon was smartly accessorized and Tory Burch espadrilles, Erin was a tiny, diamond nose ring winking in the darkness and simple leather flip-flops. In spite of it all, there was no mistaking them as sisters, and their resemblance to their mother was jarring.
Following a quick round of goodbyes and a steamy moment between Matt and Lauren—outside the attentive eyes of Will and Wes—we settled on the bed in my room with an exclusive bottle of tequila, a bowl of lime wedges, and two shot glasses. It was a recipe for mayhem if I ever saw one.
> "To your last night as a single lady," I toasted, and we knocked the liquid back.
Tequila: my Mexican medicine man.
Or my chupacabra, depending on whether I survived the night.
"To your obnoxiously skinny waist," Lauren said as she poured another round.
"And your indecently perfect double D-cups," I added, and our glasses clinked.
Lauren lined up another round. "To barefoot beach weddings and no white dresses." She laughed, and our palms slapped together in a high five.
"To growly, bitey boys who love us so much they turn into cavemen," Lauren said.
I held my drink high but my chin fell to my chest. It all hit me at once, and the dam broke.
Lauren plucked the glass from my fingers, and her arms wrapped around my shoulders in a fierce hug while tears streamed down my face. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"You're marrying his brother! You're Team Patrick by default. And it's over. So over. Nothing to tell."
"There are no teams, Andy. It's not over. It seems awful right now, but you'll get through. You know that, right?" I shrugged miserably and she handed me some tissues. "You will. I need you. Who's going to help me when the next girl infiltrates these boys? It's a matter of time until Sam or Nick, or—mother of pearls—Riley finds himself with the girl who's going to change everything for him. The way you changed Patrick." She squeezed my knee. "I need you to help me talk them through it and get them to the other side when it all goes to hell because it always does. And I need you to help me rein in Shannon when she needs it. You picked out my wedding dress, Andy, and you're drinking with me the night before my wedding. You're my family now, and I'm not letting you get away. I'll mediate couples' counseling before I let you cross state lines."
I sniffled and glanced in her direction. I wasn't used to having someone fight this hard for me, and I didn't know how to respond. I blew my nose loudly. "I hated you that day I met you at the farmers' market. I thought you were engaged to Patrick, and I hated you because I was already a little in love with him."
"Then don't let him go." She wiped the tears from my cheeks and handed me a glass. "Tequila," Lauren laughed. "Forget your problems, forget your man…hell, forget your name!"
I swallowed, and my throat was lined with sandpaper. The groan that followed did not improve the situation.
"Here." Lauren nudged a cool plastic bottle into my hand. "Drink."
I guzzled the water, and shifted to lean against the headboard when I noticed Matt's arms anchored around her waist and his head on her belly. "How much tequila did we drink?"
Lauren smiled and ran her fingers through Matt's hair. "He wandered up here around three. He doesn't know how to sleep by himself, and he was worried that Will and Wes were going to abduct him from our cottage. They have a history of intimidating the guys in my life."
"Awesome," I muttered, and groped the nightstand for my phone. Nearly ten o'clock and another night without a single text from Patrick. I didn't know why I expected him to reach out to me, but I fell off the logic wagon late last week. I turned toward Lauren. "You're gettin' married today."
"That's my plan. I might finish that bottle before six tonight, though." She nodded at the tequila. "Are you good with me hiding out in here? I don't want to talk to anyone about flowers or bacon-wrapped scallops or gift baskets, and if someone tries to curl my hair, I will start throwing knives."
"Stay. I need to walk the tequila out of my system." After cleaning up and changing into slim yoga capris, a racerback tank, and a thin black hoodie, I emerged from the bathroom. "If there're any premarital, uh," I circled my hand between Matt and Lauren, "activities, put the Do Not Disturb on the door."
Escaping the long shadow of the inn reduced the odds of running into any Walshes but it forced me to address the questions intruding on the back of my mind. The solitude forced a look in an unforgiving mirror. I sifted through every uncomfortable notion about my work, my relationships, and myself while I walked. It was time to get on with my life.
My calves started burning after four miles at a near-jog, and it was a welcome distraction from my thoughts. My path back to the inn meandered along the beach, and I sat in the sand, watching as the empty tent for Lauren and Matt's reception transformed into gorgeously dressed tables dripping with seasonal flowers and sea grasses, and bitter memories of my over-before-it-started Pinterest wedding complemented my stinging muscles.
Eventually I stopped moping on the beach and gingerly climbed the stairs to my room, and an envelope waited at my door. I assumed it was my bill. Lauren was gone, more than likely tipsy, and most certainly killing everyone in her path with kindness in the final hour before the ceremony. I kicked off my running shoes and clothes, and started the shower before opening the envelope. A shiver wobbled through my shoulders as I read the precise architect's lettering.
Andy,
We can make this work.
We're not the kind of people who do anything half-assed. We never walk away when it gets difficult or we can't find the right answers. We're perfectionists and we don't apologize for it because if there's anyone who can make something work, it's us.
We're not done now, and we won't be done tomorrow, or any of the tomorrows after that.
I love you and I need you. Come back to me.
Patrick
The envelope fell to the ground and I marched straight into the shower. My backside hit the cold granite tile of the floor, and I pressed my wrist against my mouth while the spray of the shower washed away my sobs.
25
Patrick
The ring twisted between my thumb and forefinger, the fine mill-grained detail pressing into my skin and leaving a dotted trail on the pads of my fingers. Set in a delicate constellation of five diamonds, each one spat fire into the setting sunlight. Five probably represented something. Matt was meticulous like that.
Minutes to feel a connection. Hours to fall in love with her. Days to knowing they couldn't survive apart. Months since getting engaged. Kids they wanted.
"Why don't you let me hold onto that?"
After a quick glance at Nick, the pad of my thumb passed over the stones, and I handed it to him. He secured it inside its velvet box, and unbuttoned his suit coat to stow it in his pocket.
It was too easy for me to destroy everything I touched like a tractor in a fucking china shop to be responsible for Lauren's wedding ring.
It had been hours, hours, since leaving the letter at Andy's door, and nothing. No texts, no calls, no smoke signals, no sight of her anywhere. I left my spleen in that envelope, and if forced to choose between nail-gunning my hand to a wall and waiting for a response from Andy, here's to hoping my tetanus shot was up-to-date.
Nick's hand curled around my elbow, and he jerked me out of my seat while on my other side, Sam kicked my shin. "Where I'm from, it's customary to stand for the bride," Nick hissed.
A string quartet played Coldplay's "Green Eyes" and I didn't need to look at Matt to know he was beaming like a love-drunk fool, or his fingers were closed around my mother's handkerchief. I shuffled to my feet, turning to watch Lauren step out of the inn on her father's arm. Commodore Halsted wore the Navy's dress uniform well, and Lauren was beautiful in a cotton candy pink dress.
The dress Andy picked out.
I searched the crowd for her wild hair, finally spotting her on the far end of the back row. Big sunglasses obscured her face, and she was sitting ramrod straight with her chin tilted up. Spine of steel. Her hair was pulled into a knot that resembled a bagel, and it was mildly absurd. Given the location, a seagull was bound to attack at any moment.
She ordered the strapless indigo dress online during a late March snowstorm that trapped us in my apartment for a long weekend. Pockets were cut into the full knee-length skirt, and she found that appropriately quirky while I saw it as an opportunity to do filthy things to her in broad daylight.
By all measures, the perfect dress.
The perfect weekend. Not so unlik
e each one I spent with her.
The need to remind her of that perfection pressed into my sternum, and I swiped my phone to life. Warning her about dive-bombing seagulls was also a critical concern.
"Oh my fucking God," Sam seethed, and he snatched my phone away. "Not now, you moron." Sam leaned around me and met Nick's annoyed expression. "Can you get him a shot of chlorpromazine or diazepam?"
"Dude, it's weird that you know what those are, and I don't usually roll with Schedule IV substances."
"Operative word being 'usually.'" Sam locked my phone and tucked it inside his breast pocket. "And by that, I can deduce that you have enough drugs to take out the A-Team over there." Sam nodded toward Lauren's brothers.
"You mean Thor and Captain America?" I asked. "Unless you have a tranq gun, Acevedo, none of us are taking them anywhere."
We broke into poorly concealed laughter, and Matt killed us with his eyes six, probably seven times.
I wanted to gaze at Andy for hours, but Sam and Nick's hands on my shoulders forced me into my seat when Lauren arrived at the altar, and their jabbing elbows eventually turned my attention toward the ceremony. It was over quickly, or at least the parts I listened to were over quickly. Tuning out syrupy promises of love and devotion was elemental to my survival, especially when I didn't have a flask of whiskey on hand.
Andy dissolved into the crowd once Matt and Lauren were down the aisle, and Sam dragged me by the collar to pose for photos. After eighteen thousand different groupings and poses, I started to protest the activity but realized we were together, our new family, for the first time. There wasn't much else to hold onto without them.
I shut up, going along with every one of the photographer's mundane requests. Was anyone clear on why it was necessary for us to execute a synchronized jump?
"Where is Andy?" Lauren asked, standing on her tiptoes to see into the tent. She turned back to the assembly and met my eye with a smile. "I want her here, too."
The Walsh Brothers Page 53