by Tawna Fenske
“Hey, I know all about not wanting to talk about shit.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Which is how we end up not talking about any of it, even though I’m starting to think we ought to.
But Chelsea starts rattling off directions, and I drive us into a neat little subdivision on the west side of town. Libby comes running out before I’ve fully stopped the car at the curb, and she scrambles into the backseat with crooked pigtails and a waterfall of giggles. “We had waffles and fruit loops and Annabelle’s kitten pooped on the floor.”
She delivers this news with breathless enthusiasm as she buckles herself into her booster seat. If she’s surprised to see me behind the wheel of her mom’s car, she doesn’t show it.
“…and we watched Frozen and ate popcorn, but Halie spilled some on the floor and then Emma peed the bed, but she tried to pretend it was Dipper.” She finally takes a breath and looks at me in the rearview mirror. “Can we go see Long Long Peter?”
Chelsea’s beside me in the passenger seat trying to look stern, but her eyes are filled with laughter. “Good morning to you, too, Miss Thing,” she says. “Are you forgetting something? Like manners?”
“Oh.” Libby grins at me. “Hi, Mark.” She doesn’t sound fazed, and her gap-toothed smile fills the rearview mirror as I pull away from the curb. “Can we go see Long Long Peter?”
“That’s the plan,” I tell her. “I hear you like swimming.”
Her expression turns puzzled. “Rabbits can swim?”
Shit. I should probably take a class in communicating with children. Chelsea’s rocking with laughter beside me, and I wonder if this is what it’s like to have a kid in the house. No need for television when you’ve got this kind of entertainment.
“Peter’s at my house,” I tell her, deliberately omitting the first part of his name. “I live at Ponderosa Resort. Would you like to visit and go swimming?”
Her hazel eyes go wide. “We can go on the slides?”
“We can go on the slides,” I confirm. “And afterward, we can get my brother to make us his famous chocolate banana strawberry waffles.”
“Yes!” Libby bounces in her car seat, then launches into a rambling story that involves a Snickers bar, a broken hula hoop, cat litter, and a skateboard. The details are sort of fuzzy, but I admire the kid’s enthusiasm.
Chelsea’s smiling in the front seat, and somewhere between the edge of town and the road leading up to the resort, I get this warm, pinching feeling in my chest. Is this what it would be like to have a family of my own?
But no. That’s crazytalk right there. How the hell could a guy with this many familial skeletons in his closet ever hope to have any sort of family of his own? That’s not fair to anyone, especially Chelsea and Libby. God knows they’ve been through enough.
“Can we listen to music?” Libby asks from the backseat.
Chelsea frowns beside me. “Sorry, baby. I left my iPod back at the house.”
“I have mine.” Granted, I’m not sure what’s on it, but I hand it over to Chelsea, and she hooks it up to her car’s stereo system. “What did you have in mind?” I ask Libby.
“Maybe Mary Poppins soundtrack?”
“Um—” Yeah, I’m pretty sure that’s not an option.
“Or how about Frozen?”
“How about Weird Al Yankovic?” I offer.
Libby’s face screws up in confusion. “Who?”
Fortunately, Chelsea’s quick with the iPod controls. She flips fast through my library, and the next thing I know, the three of us are singing along with “White and Nerdy.”
Libby doesn’t know the words, but she’s giggling and humming and making up her own.
This.
A voice whispers the word in the back of my brain, and I fight to push it aside.
This is what you’re missing.
No. I can’t think like that. None of us can afford to.
I turn up the stereo volume and keep singing all the way to the resort.
Bree steps out onto my porch as I pull up in front of my cabin. I texted her the heads-up about bringing Chelsea and Libby home, so I shouldn’t be surprised she’s here pretending to perform some rabbit sitter duty as an excuse for sisterly nosiness.
“Hey, girls,” she calls as Libby scrambles out of the car with Chelsea on her heels. “I hear you’re in for a little spring break action.”
“Yes!” Libby says as she flings her arms around Bree’s legs before my sister can bend down to hug her properly. “We’re having waffles in the swimming pool, and Mommy’s sleeping with Mark, and I’m sleeping with Long Long Peter, and rabbits can’t swim, but maybe Weird Owl Yankovic can.”
Bree looks at me while she digests this news, the edges of her mouth tugging up. “Is that so?”
Chelsea gives Bree a pained look as my sister pulls her in for a hug. “I swear I said nothing to her about sleeping arrangements,” she whispers as Libby scurries right through the front door like she owns the place. “You know how kids are.”
“I do.” Bree turns her smirk on me. “And I know my brother looks downright jolly this morning, so I’m going to go ahead and pat myself on the back for my matchmaking.”
“Bite me,” I mutter with absolutely zero venom.
Bree just laughs and yanks my arm so I’m forced to wrap my arms around her. “You get a hug, too, you big dummy. Thanks for being the hero last night.”
“I’m no hero,” I grumble, amazed as always by the fierceness of hugging from someone whose head only comes up to the middle of my chest. “Just a glorified babysitter.”
She pulls back and looks at me. “If that’s your idea of babysitting, remind me never to leave you in charge of my kids.”
I scowl at her. “You’re knocked up?”
“No.” She smacks me in the arm. “My future kids. You’ll be an uncle someday, you know.”
The thought jars me, though I don’t know why. It’s not like it’s never occurred to me my sister might breed. Or any of them, eventually. Sean and Amber are getting married, and isn’t that what people do afterward?
“Hello? Earth to Mark?” Bree waves a hand in front of my face, and I look down at her. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” I glance through my open front door and see Chelsea cradling Long Long Peter in her arms while Libby strokes his ears. They’re well out of earshot, but I lower my voice anyway. “You ever wonder about how many of us there are?”
Bree frowns. “Is this some kind of philosophical discussion about life on other planets? Because it’s a little early in the morning for that.”
“No, I mean us. Bracelyn kids. Dad got around. What if there’s more kids? Or what if some of us are—”
Not his. Just say it. Spit it out.
“Bastards?” Bree touches my arm. “Is that what this is about?”
I stare at her, not sure how to respond. And pretty sure “bastard” isn’t a word Libby needs to hear, though she’s safely in the house with her face buried in rabbit fur.
“I was thinking about that this morning,” Bree says, jerking me back to the conversation. “I was talking to your mom—”
“Since when do you talk with my mom?”
Bree sighs and ignores me. “I was talking to your mom and started wondering if it’s ever weird for you that she and Dad never got married.”
“It’s not.” What’s weird is Bree talking to my mother, since my mom’s the one Dad left Bree’s mother for. Not that we ever talk about it because we’re Bracelyns, and Bracelyns don’t talk about stuff. It’s in the handbook.
But seriously—what the hell?
Bree’s still talking, and I’m trying to follow along. “You know none of us think less of you, right? That you’re still exactly the same as the rest of us.”
But I’m not. She has to know that, right?
She’s staring at me like she’s waiting for some kind of answer, but I don’t know what to say.
Bree slugs me in the arm.
“Don’t make this weird. You know your mom and I talk sometimes.”
A thread of gratitude winds its way around my heart as I realize she’s totally missed why I’ve clammed up all of a sudden. She thinks it’s about her relationship with my mother, which has always been…interesting.
“Your mom’s a bitch,” I mutter, and Bree nods in agreement. “You can borrow mine anytime.”
“Thanks.”
The lump in my throat isn’t easing up, and I force myself to breathe. Is that what I spent my whole life doing with Cort Bracelyn? Borrowing a dad, pretending someone else’s father was my own?
If that’s true, who am I?
Not a brother, not to Bree or Sean or James or Jonathan or any of the other Bracelyn bastards running around out there.
And if that’s the case, what right do I have to even be here? To spend this money, to live here at this resort like I have a place at the table with the rest of them.
Is that what James was getting at the other night?
“Mark?” Bree gives my arm a little shake. “You okay, big guy?”
“Yeah.” I clear my throat. “Better get inside.”
I trudge past her through the door, conscious of her eyes following me inside.
We literally have to drag Libby out of the pool to go eat brunch. I’m pretty sure it’s lost on the kid that she’s got a world-famous chef not only preparing her chocolate banana waffle, but hand-delivering it to her at our corner table.
“Whipped cream?” Sean asks, and Libby nods with a reverence that’s almost holy.
“Yes,” she breathes, then amends it when Chelsea shoots him a look. “Yes, please.”
“Atta girl.” Sean sets a bowl of sliced strawberries next to her, along with a bowl of his famous homemade applesauce. “Gotta make sure you get your vitamins.” He winks at Chelsea. “I use whole wheat flour in the waffles, plus some other good stuff to make sure there’s some nutritional value in there.”
“Thank you,” Chelsea says as Libby picks up her fork.
“Yes, thank you,” Libby echoes as Sean sets an omelet in front of Chelsea with a flourish.
“Egg white omelet with fresh spinach, asparagus, caramelized shallots, gruyere, and cold-smoked Pacific Northwest salmon,” he says. “The home-fried potatoes were sourced from a farm just down the road.”
“Wow.” Chelsea picks up her fork. “This looks amazing. Thank you.”
“Bon Appetit.”
Sean comes around to my side of the table and hands me my own stack of waffles, plus a pile of bacon, a side of home-fries smothered in gravy, and a bowl of the chocolate-dipped strawberries he knows I’m nuts about. “Don’t say I never did anything for you.”
“Hell, no,” I say as I pick up my fork.
Shit, I’m not supposed to say hell in front of a kid. Or shit.
I mean, I didn’t actually say shit, but isn’t it wrong to think it in front of a kid? I didn’t get the manual.
“Heck, no,” I amend as Chelsea reaches over to help Libby cut up her waffle. “Thanks, man.”
Sean nods. “No sweat.” He stands there waiting for everyone to take a bite, which Chelsea does with an accompanying moan of pleasure.
“This is amazing, Sean,” she says. “You’re totally in the running for brother of the year.”
Libby looks up in confusion. “Who’s your brother?”
“They’re brothers.” Chelsea points to Sean and me, and Libby’s gaze swings back and forth like her mom’s just told her we’re professional ballerinas.
“They don’t look like brothers.” She looks us up and down with the critical eye of a six-year-old, and I can’t say I blame her.
“Families come in all shapes and sizes,” Chelsea says, so fucking good at using everything as a teaching moment.
I kick myself for thinking the word fucking with a kid at the table while Chelsea continues with the lesson “And people don’t all look the same,” she says. “You know your friends Kate and Julia?”
Libby nods as a flicker of understanding passes over her freckled face. “They grew in China instead of in their mom’s tummy, so they don’t look like her, and they have a lizard named Marcel.”
These details all make sense in a six-year-old way, so I nod like I’m part of this important life lesson. “Yeah,” I add. “Sean and I don’t have the same mom, but our dad—”
I stop there, unsure of a kid-friendly way to explain that our dad was a philandering cad.
“Dad spread a lot of love around,” Sean supplies, which makes him sound like he organized orgies for a living.
I shouldn’t think the word orgy around kids, either.
“He was a funny guy, our dad,” I offer.
Libby’s forehead gets all scrunchy. “Funny like Minions?”
“Sure,” I say, not positive what Minions means, but pretty certain that’s better than saying “funny like he stuck his dick in anything that moved.”
I shouldn’t think the word dick next to a kid.
“Sean, this is so good,” Chelsea says as she chews a bite of Libby’s waffle. “I’m already missing my bakery.”
“Hey, you can help yourself to our pastry kitchen anytime.”
“Pastry kitchen?” Chelsea’s eyes light up. “You have a dedicated pastry kitchen?”
“Yep, and it’s hardly ever used.” Sean shrugs. “We’re sorta between pastry chefs right now, so it’s all yours if you want to play.”
I nod at the key card sitting next to her plate, the one I programmed for all the resort facilities she might want to access. “I’ll get that set up so you can go in there anytime,” I tell her. “It’s gotta be better than the bare bones oven at my place.”
“It is,” Sean agrees, stepping back from the table. “I need to get back to the kitchen.” He slugs me in the shoulder. “See you at poker night.”
“Thanks, Sean,” Chelsea calls after him. “I promise to repay you with cupcakes for life.”
I dive into my waffle, figuring I’m less likely to blurt out inappropriate kid shit if I keep my mouth full of food.
“Where is your dad?” Libby asks.
“Dead.” I glance at Chelsea, who looks startled. “Passed away,” I amend, wondering if that’s the better word choice. “Pushing up daisies?” There, that sounds friendly.
Libby stabs her fork into a strawberry. “I don’t have a dad.”
I glance at Chelsea, not sure how to respond to that. She’s not looking at me, intent on carving up her omelet into tiny little bites. “Libby, do you want to go back to the pool after lunch, or would you rather go on a bike ride?”
Libby screws up her face and thinks about that, paternity issues forgotten for the moment. “Bikes,” she says. “Then swimming. Then rabbit. Then cake.”
“Sounds like a plan,” I tell her.
I’ve just shoved another bite of waffle into my face when James strides over. His shirt sleeves are rolled up, but his tie looks like he just ironed it. His hair is a little rumpled, but that’s the extent of weekend casual for James.
“Sorry to bother you, but I’ve got a maintenance question.” Noticing I’m not alone, he nods to Chelsea and Libby. “Ladies. Good afternoon.”
Everyone chirps their greetings while I swipe at my beard with a napkin. “What’s up?”
“Senator Grassnab’s campaign launch party next week,” he says. “They were planning to do it in the Liberty Ballroom, but RSVP numbers are coming in higher than they thought. His wife wants to know if we can move it outside.”
“To the south lawn?”
“No, the bigger one. The one by the golf course. Is that a problem with the PA system and the lawn maintenance stuff you were doing?”
“Nah.” I take a slug of chocolate milk. “You checked the weather?”
“Yes,” he says. “Zero chance of rain. Not that it rains a whole lot out in the high desert, but we’re not expecting any spring thunderstorms.”
I nod and consider how much time I’ll need t
o spend on electrical to get us set up for an outdoor event that size. “We’ll need space heaters if it’s running into the evening,” I tell him. “But we should be able to pull it off. Tell the senator sure.”
“Perfect,” James says. “Thanks for making it happen.”
“If it makes you feel better, charge him extra for the hassle.”
James snorts. “An Oregon senator announcing his run for president, and he’s doing it here,” James says. “I’m half tempted to give it to him for free, just for the publicity this buys us.”
“Do what you’ve gotta do,” I tell him.
I turn back to Libby and Chelsea, thinking I ought to say something about brothers or jobs or the U.S. political system. Some kind of age-appropriate teaching moment.
That’s when I notice Chelsea’s gone white as a pile of powdered sugar. “You okay?”
She nods and flashes a smile that looks glued on. “Fine. Totally. I just—I thought maybe I left the oven on.”
“At your house?”
She nods, but the color isn’t returning to her face. “It’s probably nothing. Just being paranoid.”
This time, her smile almost reaches her eyes. She turns to Libby and busies herself cutting slices of waffle, slicing it into bite-sized pieces. I watch for a second, wondering what the hell I just missed.
Glancing back at James, I shoot him a “what the hell?” look.
But since James is even more clueless than I am, he hasn’t noticed a damn thing. “Will I see you at poker night?”
“Sure,” James says with as much enthusiasm as if I’d invited him to a biker brawl. “Your place, right?”
“Six-thirty,” I tell him. “Don’t be late.”
“I never am.”
He wanders away and I glance back at Libby and Chelsea. They’re talking and laughing and trading bites of food, and I think maybe I imagined the whole thing a few minutes ago.
Or did I?
Chapter 11
CHELSEA
“You’re positive this is okay?” I study Mark’s face, looking for any sign he’s freaking out.
“Go,” he says. “I’ve got this.”