by Julia Kent
“Oh, God. It’s like what he said to me.”
She stops in front of me. We must look like mangy raccoons by now, makeup long worn off and hair like magpie nests. I have a hair clip and probably a stray shot glass in there. Shannon’s disco top looks like crumpled aluminum foil, and her eyes are tired.
So tired.
“He won’t let you pick him, right?”
I nod.
“He woke up to a world where his mother made this huge sacrifice, but he felt unworthy. Andrew has spent the last twelve years trying to make up for the fact that his mother loved him so much she chose to leave James and her boys behind for his sake.”
“And James never got the choice,” I say, the reality hitting me.
Headlights glimmer, then triangulate, the rectangles stretching and skewing with the turn into the parking lot.
“Ms. Warrick. Ms. Jacoby.” It’s Gerald. “Soon to be Mrs. McCormick,” he adds with a wink.
Shannon shivers as we climb in.
“Let’s go to Amanda’s place first,” she tells him on the intercom.
My head is in my hands with the blinding grief of what I’m hearing. “Andrew knows what the aftermath of losing someone so fragile is like.”
“Hey, I may have a life-threatening allergy, but fragile is a bit much, isn’t it?” Shannon chides.
“Honestly? No. No. It’s not. You and Andrew are at opposite ends of the risk spectrum on this, Shannon.”
She frowns and says nothing.
“He isn’t afraid of what I thought he was afraid of.”
“Commitment?” she asks.
I shake my head. “He’s afraid of the mess his death would leave behind. That one-in-a-gazillion chance that he’d be stung and not have an EpiPen and not get medical attention and...the Hobson’s Choice that Declan was stuck with is so rooted in Andrew and...I give up. I can’t puzzle through it any more. I feel like I’m just going around and around in a never-ending loop.”
“Like Andrew.” She sighs. “Like Declan.”
I jolt. “What do you mean?”
“They can’t, you know...” We’re exhausted, and the strain of months of wedding planning shows in her shoulders, the dark circles under her eyes, and I can hear it in her emotional voice. Shannon’s like a guitar string pulled too tight. “Declan is still haunted by the fact that he couldn’t save them both. James is angry he had his life ripped out from under him and couldn’t control the outcome.”
“And Andrew?”
“I don’t know.” Her voice goes quiet. “I think Andrew feels like he owes it to the world to make sure he never puts himself in any true risk.”
“Why do you?”
“Why do I what?”
“Live like a normal person. Go out into nature. Let yourself be around bees.”
“Because I’d go crazy spending my life mitigating all the what ifs. That’s not really living.”
“Why can’t Andrew see that?”
Newton is just close enough to the piano bar that the drive is almost over, especially at this hour of the night. As Gerald guides the limo into my driveway, I’m assured by the sight of lights on in the house. Mom made it home safe.
“I’m guessing it’s like Declan and James. I don’t know Terry well enough to know if it’s true for him, but I know that Dec and James can’t let go of the fact that this happened without their being able to fix it.”
Fix. There’s that word.
“And Andrew? I don’t think it’s the same thing, Amanda. I think he feels like he’s a sacrificial lamb. Like he got saved without his input. Like he has to live with the consequences of his mother’s decision and if anything bad ever happens again, everyone around him will fall to pieces. That’s one hell of a burden to carry.”
I won’t let you pick me.
The air becomes thick, my lungs like wet balloons as I open the door and wheeze, inhaling fresh air so quickly I feel faint. Three breaths later and I’m around the car, normal. Shannon walks me into my house and, without a word, zips into the downstairs bathroom.
Mom is snoring lightly on the couch. I walk over and reposition her bent arm so she doesn’t wake up with a cramped neck. A thick fleece throw blanket over her will help keep her from getting chilled. I can’t prevent the nasty hangover that is coming in the morning, though. For that, she’s on her own.
The sound of running water comes from the bathroom as I notice a large, flat package. It’s in a delivery envelope with a familiar logo. My name is on the label.
“I didn’t order anything,” I mumble to myself, rotating the large, thin package in my hands. With a perplexed sigh, I rip open the pull tab and remove the contents.
And gasp.
It’s from Andrew.
Fragile.
One of Yes’s best albums, and from the looks of it, this was from the original release in the 1970s, long before I was born.
Shannon walks in to find me holding the vinyl album in one shaking hand, the other fishing around in the envelope. My fingers brush against a piece of paper. I remove it, handing her the album. Eyebrows crashing together as she puzzles over it all, she nonetheless stays silent, and as if reading my mind, goes over to Mom’s record player and loads the album, setting the needle to the first song.
“Roundabout” begins, the first notes low and jaunty, strumming through my blood like tidal waves caused by dropping many moons into the ocean in rapid-fire succession.
Dear Amanda,
Enjoy.
AJM
She’s reading over my shoulder and inhales sharply. “That’s it? That’s it? Oh, Andrew...” Shannon’s voice gives me permission to let the tears flow, her exasperation and polite outrage confirming that all the mixed feelings I’m experiencing are the only rational reaction to this chaos.
“Why did he send me this? Why now?” I look at the outer package. The date is from weeks ago. It was mailed from the UK. Ah. A remnant of the past.
Just like everything involving Andrew.
One look at the album cover and Shannon smiles. “‘Fragile’, huh?”
All I can do is weep.
“You want me to stay?”
I shake my head. “I’m okay. I need to be alone.” Sniff.
Except I’m not alone. The music is a talisman of something I’ve lost, yet it’s also a comfort, reminding me of a world where it was once safe to imagine I could just be with someone and not feel an obligation to prove my worth. That I could risk my heart and not be left behind.
That I could choose love.
But love didn’t let me pick him.
Shannon hugs me, a good, tight embrace that speaks of change on the horizon. Then she leaves.
Good change is still change.
It destabilizes the world you thought you knew for just long enough to make you question everything.
Everything.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“I’m reconsidering this whole wedding,” Shannon announces to no one in the room as I crash in, carrying a coffee tray filled with love and caffeine. Mostly caffeine, because on this morning of her wedding Shannon has finally morphed into Bridezilla, and I have to really dig deep to find the love.
“Dude, the room is empty. You’re talking to yourself.” I hand her a white cardboard cup of inspiration.
“No, it’s not.” Shannon points down.
To a very angry pile of tartan and flowers.
“That is a table setting,” I say, giving her the hairy eyeball. “You are talking to inanimate objects. Did you get enough sleep last night?”
“Look closer.”
The centerpiece moves.
“Oh, no,” I say, jumping back in self-defense, palms out in a gesture of supplication.
That pile of tartan and flowers is Chuckles.
“Meow.”
That is the first time Chuckles has ever said a word to me.
He’s that desperate.
I reach down to pick him up and he snuggles in my arms. Either
that, or he’s using me for friction to wriggle out of the atrocity that is his outfit.
“What is he wearing?”
“Mom put him in a tartan kilt. See the pin? She made Mr. MacNevin secure an infant’s kilt pin for the—”
“Hold up. Infant kilt pin?”
She shrugs, two of her long, perfect curls sliding on her bare shoulder. “I guess it’s a thing. Anyhow, then they took the flower girl basket and Mom had it custom made for Chuckles.”
He looks like he’s wearing a saddle with two open baskets on either side, filled with rose petals.
“Mom says that as he walks, the petals will spill on the white silk runner behind him, and he’s the flower girl.”
Chuckles drops out of my hands and wanders over to the corner, curling into a ball and spilling all the rose petals on the floor.
Then he stands up and pees all over them.
“I hate to think about what he’s going to do when you throw the bouquet.”
Shannon bursts into tears.
“My mother is ruining my wedding!” she wails.
I can’t say all the normal niceties you say to your best friend in this kind of situation, because she’s right.
“Well, there’s always elopement,” I joke.
“Is Declan using you now to get to me?” she snaps.
“Whoa, whoa there!” I hold up my hands. “That was just a joke!”
“Sorry,” she sniffs, the word wispy and fragile in her mouth. “He’s spent the last month or so begging me to just run away with him and bag this whole stupid big wedding thing.”
“He has?”
“Plus he’s angry I made him abstain.”
“For a month?” I’d be angry, too. It’s only been a few weeks for me and I’m pretty grouchy.
“No. Three days.”
“Oh. Poor baby.” My sarcasm is as thick as the mocha syrup in her latte.
“You’re not being very sympathetic! The maid of honor is supposed to be supportive.”
I point to the lattes I brought her, mochas in the largest size Starbucks carries. There’s more caffeine in there than in a UMASS student’s bloodstream on the last day of finals.
“I am supportive!”
“Not when you suggest eloping,” she whimpers. “I’m so tempted.”
Tap tap tap.
Before I can answer the door, two little boys spill into the room, a bundle of nervous energy and out-of-control limbs.
“Auntie Shannon!” Jeffrey shouts, his lisp finally gone. He’s almost ten now, and growing like a weed. He races to her, clearly not caring or conscious of the fact that she’s in a slip, her corset loose around her torso, and she’s showing more skin than a Hannibal Lechter victim.
Jeffrey’s hug is full-force, all-love, and no holding back.
And it makes Shannon cry even harder.
“Why are you crying? Mom says this is the happiest day of your life, Auntie Shannon!” Jeffrey’s words are muffled because his face is buried in nineteen layers of muslin and taffeta and wool.
Shannon cries more. If she sobs with much more force her brain will slide out her nostril.
Tyler’s little face appears from around the open door. He’s painfully shy, but when he walks in the room he lights up at the sight of Shannon.
“Pretty!”
They are the ring bearers and dressed—you guessed it—in kilt tuxedos. Traditional kilt shoes, called Ghillie brogues, are like dress shoes without tongues and feature extra-long laces that wrap around the boys’ ankles. In fact, all the men in the wedding party are wearing the same shoes.
Chuckles rubs his side up against Tyler’s left foot, his leg lifting, and—
“No kitty! No! Turn the kitty off!” Tyler screams as he half-kicks poor Chuckles a few feet, sending a cascade of rose petals all over the corner.
Chuckles finds his footing quickly, but his attached basket inverts, making it impossible for him to walk, an extra inch of wicker rubbing along the ground.
He stops and lays on his side, like a female cat nursing her brood.
“You don’t kick animals, Tyler!” Jeffrey shouts.
“I sorry! I sorry!” Tyler’s speech disorder comes back when he’s nervous. “Turn the kitty off!” That’s his way of saying, Go away.
Carol rushes in, taking everything in with the practiced eye of a parent of two young boys.
“Did you kick Chuckles?”
Tyler buries his face in Shannon’s skirts and says nothing.
Carol turns to Jeffrey for an answer.
He looks at Tyler, then me and Shannon, assessing where his loyalties rest.
Just then, Jason arrives, whistling and happy as can be, wearing half his tuxedo kilt, a tool company t-shirt covering the top of him.
“Why does Chuckles look like a dying Tauntaun?”
“Tyler kicked him,” Jeffrey starts to explain.
“Did NOT!” Tyler wails from under Shannon’s skirt now, where he’s taken up residence.
“Why?”
“Because Chuckles was going to pee on him, I think. Look, Grandpa. All our shoes have laces.”
Jason’s face goes blank, then beet red. “Oh, shit. You’re right.”
“Dad! Language!”
“Sorry, Carol.”
“Shit,” mutters Shannon’s skirt.
Carol shoots Jason an exasperated look. “Great! It took two weeks to get him to stop saying that word last time.”
“Hey, Tyler,” Jason says to the skirt.
“What?”
“If I give you M&Ms, will you stop saying ‘shit’?”
“Okay,” he mutters as he comes out.
“Shit!” Jeffrey shouts.
Carol and Jason glare at him.
“What? If he gets M&Ms for not saying ‘shit,’ I thought I’d say ‘shit’ and then you can give me M&Ms for stopping saying it, too.”
Jeffrey is going to grow up to be a political campaign manager.
Or a pawn shop owner.
I point to the coffee tray and Jason and Carol give me looks of thanks as they guzzle their lattes. I take in the room. The groom, his new best man, and his groomsmen are supposed to be in a wing on the other side of the pool and reception courtyard outside. Each wing is a wall of glass, covered with thick curtains. From what Shannon’s told me, Andrew is here. He just refuses to be best man, or to go outside until the temperature cools down enough to reduce the risk of wasps and bees.
He insisted on confirming that the ambulance is here as well.
And planted EpiPens everywhere.
I hope one is shoved way up his butt, because if you’re going to have a stick up there, it might as well serve a functional purpose, too. My sympathy for his complex fear withers away in the face of not overcoming it for the sake of his own brother on his big day.
“What are you thinking about?’ Carol asks, interrupting my evil thoughts. “You look just like Chuckles.”
“Oh. Um...nothing.” I shake my head and drink the rest of my mocha latte. I’m not a fan of sweet coffee, but I just ordered on autopilot and here I am, letting sugar cut in on my caffeine dance.
“You okay?” She’s worried. “I’m sorry about Andrew.”
“I’m fine. Really.”
“Can you handle being around him?”
“No problem. Could you handle being around Todd after you two split up?”
She laughs through her nose. “He never gave me a chance to find out.”
Before I can apologize for my unthinking question, Jason bellows, “CHUCKLES!” and shakes out his foot.
The cat looks about as apologetic as Marie crashing Shannon’s bachelorette party.
“Damn it!” Jason adds.
“Dammit,” says Tyler the Human Mina Bird.
“Ten bucks and I’ll get him to stop,” pipes up Jeffrey, holding out an open palm.
I hand him the money and shoo him and Tyler out of the room. Easiest problem I’ll fix all day.
“What are you doing
here, Daddy?” Shannon asks as Jason gives her a barely-there hug, clearly a bit less enthusiastic as she’s half-clothed. “You should be on the men’s side, getting ready.”
“They’re fine. Hamish is passing around another bottle of whisky, and Declan isn’t even here yet. Just me, James, and Terry.” He laughs. “And Jeffrey and Tyler. Have to count them with men, right?”
No Andrew.
“Hamish is passing out shots right now? Before the wedding?” Shannon isn’t wearing her makeup yet, so she grabs the hem of Jason’s shirt and uses it to wipe her eyes. That closeness, that comfortable assumption that Jason will let her, sets my teeth on edge.
“The guys need a bit of the hair of the dog. Last night was brutal.”
“Last night?” Shannon has been living with Amy during the three days before the wedding, so she has no idea that the bachelor party went on for two nights in a row. I only know because Hamish called Amy last night, insisting that “Hamy and Amy” have a meeting to talk about proper hand positioning for the walk down the aisle.
And on other parts of her body.
A Scottish booty call at three a.m. is better left unmentioned the next day.
Amy rushes in, red-faced and fuming. She’s carrying her dress and wearing sweats, but her hair is clean and slightly damp. She has creamy skin, long, ringlet red curls, and bright blue eyes. Amy is the complete package: smart, emotionally secure, and gorgeous.
“How’s Hamy?” I tease.
Marie’s head whips around.
“He’s an ass! A complete ass! The arrogance of that man!” But her red-face is not from anger.
“Did he acknowledge the booty call?” I ask. Marie already knows about it, and Jason just left the room to check on the little boys. He scoops up Chuckles on his way out, holding the cat gingerly a foot away from his midsection.
“He says I made the booty call!” Amy wails.
“What?”
“He told me he was flattered, but he remembers receiving the call and that I’m cute, but not his type.”