by Sara Ney
“Be grateful for the other presents you received,” Buzz loudly commands.
I can see that Tripp wants to plant a facer on Buzz and would have started a tussle if we were ten years younger.
I catch Chandler and Hollis exchanging glances, confirming what I suspected: Buzz bought Tripp an actual present but is withholding it to pull a prank on him.
Typical.
It takes another hour for Buzz to come clean, plus waiting until the living room is devoid of wrapping paper, boxes, and bows, all the new gifts neatly stacked beneath the live tree. Tripp flops down in the leather recliner, feet up, dog at his side.
“What’s this?” Buzz is looking behind the television cabinet, bent at the waist, rooting around.
Tripp ignores him so he talks louder.
“Weird!”
Tripp still won’t look at him, burying his face in one of our dad’s wildlife magazines.
“I think I found something.”
No response.
Buzz holds up a package: a plaid-covered box with a green velvet bow and gold loopy ribbon. Gives it a shake.
He is so lame.
I roll my eyes at his theatrics but watch, transfixed, gaze shifting from one brother to another and back as one attempts to ignore the one bandying a present in the air.
“How did this get back here?” Buzz wonders out loud, parading around the living room, flipping the gift tag with his forefinger. Flicks it open and reads out loud. “To Tripp, from…” He pauses… “Huh, there’s no name here…!”
I roll my eyes a second time. Could he be laying it on any thicker? Tripp isn’t taking the bait. Or, if he is, he’s doing a spectacular job pretending to ignore the most obnoxious Wallace sibling God ever created.
“Who could it be from?” Buzz continues, humming in curiosity. “Santa?”
Tripp lets the corner of his mouth tip, betraying himself.
“Was someone a good boy this year?” He shoves the package in Tripp’s face, earning himself a smack to the arm, the box in our brother’s hand almost falling to the carpet. “Hey, hey now! Gentle!”
Tripp’s humor fades, and he holds the magazine up higher, blocking our brother from his view.
“Don’t ignore me.” Buzz pushes the magazine down. “This is yours.”
“I don’t want it.”
“Yes, you do.”
“You’re a dick, go away.”
Buzz holds the present out with one arm, presenting it as if it were on a silver salver, waiting and waiting and waiting for Tripp to take it.
“Fine, maybe I’ll open it,” he taunts, marching across the living room and plopping down on the couch, peeling one corner of the wrapping paper back. “Ooo what is this…”
Tripp’s ears twitch. Nose flares.
Like a child, he wants that present but isn’t about to admit it.
Buzz, oblivious to the death glare his brother is shooting his way, happily rips the bow off the top, sticking it to the top of Chewy’s head, the dog curiously wagging his tail and sniffing the wrapping paper.
“What is this? Huh, boy? Is this a present for Uncle Buzzy? Should Uncle Buzzy open it?”
“Stop calling yourself Uncle Buzzy,” Tripp complains, setting the magazine on his lap.
“I can call myself whatever I want. That’s what The ChewMeister would call me if he could speak English, wouldn’t you, boy?” He prolongs unwrapping the box by focusing his attention on the dog.
“That’s my dog, and I’m not letting you call him The ChewMeister. It’s stupid.”
“So I can’t call myself Uncle Buzzy and I can’t call him The ChewMeister? It’s Christmas, man—take a chill pill.” Buzz lifts his face and calls toward the kitchen where the women—except for me—have gathered. “Chandler, are you going to bang the crabby pants off this guy or what? Do us all a favor and—”
“Trace Wallace!” Mom shouts before he can finish his sentence. “Don’t you dare say it! Have some manners.”
He shrugs, grumbling under his breath. “I’m just saying, do us all a favor.”
Tripp’s eyes are glued to the box as our brother lazily peels back yet another strip of tape, and all the while I wonder what could possibly be inside.
The thing is, all three of us are great gift givers. We love it. I start early in the year, gathering up things as I travel, finding cool shit in the cities where I happen to be working. Nothing I ever give is boring—at least, not in my opinion.
So I wonder what’s inside the box, because for all his many flaws, Buzz does love spoiling people rotten. He gave me a leather travel wallet with my initials painted in gold, a matching travel backpack, and a new carry-on suitcase, all of it personalized and coordinating. Totally beats the inexpensive crap I’ve been flying with.
The point is, we’re givers. But for some reason, these two cannot get along. Bicker, bicker, bicker. They can go on and on about something, beating it into the ground, only stopping when our parents get involved. Or Buzz’s wife, or Tripp’s new girlfriend.
The Christmas thing went on for a full day, Tripp refusing to open the gift, so I cannot imagine what it would be like having the pair of them along to look at properties, bickering and arguing in front of a real estate professional—probably bringing their partners, too. The entire thing would become an embarrassing shit show.
Famous brothers or not.
“I appreciate the offer,” I tell Tripp, coming out of my reminiscent daydream. “But…”
“Oh come on—you can trust me. We won’t act five. Scout’s honor.” He makes the sign of the cross instead, as if that’s going to change my decision.
I take a bite of apple and immediately regret it, the acid kicking up dust inside my stomach. I set it on the counter and push it to the side. “Need I remind you, you and Buzz were booted out of Boy Scouts when you learned to tie a bowline knot and used it to tether him to a tree.”
“Please.” He snorts. “Buzz got himself free after three hours. Give me a break—I was teaching him basic survival skills.”
“My point is, the two of you can’t be in the same room together without getting into an argument. The last thing I need is you guys fighting in front of a realtor—I would be so embarrassed.”
“I wouldn’t be.” My brother laughs. “Who cares what anyone thinks?”
I do.
For the most part.
“The last thing I want to happen in front of strangers is a repeat performance of Christmas.”
“I’m sorry, but the asshole gave me an empty box.”
“No, he gave you a custom sweater with Chewy’s face on it, and a sweater for Chewy with your face on it.” I shoot him a look. “Plus an engraved gold dog tag. Don’t even try to lie and say you haven’t worn the sweater. It’s so awesome.” And expensive. And such a great idea—I wish I’d thought of it.
Tripp scoffs. “So what if I’ve worn it.” He picks at the sleeve of his shirt.
“Anyway, no way am I going anywhere with the pair of you. You’re so immature.”
He purses his lips, letting the subject go. “Just think about it though—don’t discount the idea of having a place of your own. You shouldn’t be renting.”
The baby in my stomach agrees, letting me know it’s there by fluttering. Or maybe it’s just my imagination.
“I’m not stupid, you know. I know you didn’t lose a contact lens on the ground, and I know you’re not just here because you don’t have a place to stay.” He pauses, allowing for a short lull in the conversation. “You can tell me why you’re here when you’re ready.”
I stare in awe, wondering where this insightful guy came from and what he did to my brother. Then I remember to close my gaping mouth. Is this what having a girlfriend does to a man? Makes him more sensitive and perceptive? Because while Tripp has always been protective and supportive, he’s also always been kind of a dick.
Tripp pulls the fridge open and stares into it, pulling out a large container. “Hungry? Chandler has a
thing tonight so it’ll just be us.”
I give the apple a cursory glance. “Does she spend a lot of time here?”
“She’s starting to.” He shrugs, popping the lid on the container and sniffing it, holding it out for my inspection.
My nose wrinkles in the air. “What is that?”
“Chicken and rice. It’s only a day or two old, so we should be good.”
I could do chicken and rice—if it doesn’t make me gag going down. Ha ha.
This morning sickness business is a damn drag and killing my appetite; I wonder when Tripp will notice that.
Chewy pants by my side, resting himself at my feet, finally curling into a ball.
They say pets can sense when you’re pregnant or sick—I wonder if the same can be said about pets that don’t belong to you. Is the dog aware of it? Can he tell?
Don’t you be giving away my secret, Chewy, I silently tell him, giving his ear a little pet with the tip of my toe.
“How long do you think you’ll be crashing here? A month? Two? Not that it matters,” Tripp reassures me, getting down two plates out of the cabinet. “Stay as long as you need.”
Sixty days under my brother’s watchful thumb? Uh, I don’t think so.
“I was thinking a week.”
Tops.
The less time I’m tossing my guts in his toilet, the better.
“One week to find a new place?” He stares at me like I’ve lost my mind, and you know what? Maybe I have. “Not going to happen, but dream big.”
“What room do you want me in?” I ask, though I’ve already dumped my stuff in the blue bedroom at the end of the hallway upstairs—the only guest room with its own bathroom. Tripp’s house is gorgeous, but it’s nowhere near the McMansion Buzz’s house is, with fewer rooms and less privacy.
Where Buzz is flashy, Tripp is more modest.
He feeds me rice and chicken, the pair of us worn out from our days, neither of us prying for information from the other. Yes, I want to hear about his new girlfriend, and yes, I want all the gossip about the wives of his football teammates.
But I’d rather take myself upstairs, kick off my shoes, and face-plant on the bed. Possibly take a steaming shower to be alone with my thoughts.
And when I’m able to start the water and step into the cream tiled shower stall, I blink up at the ceiling, letting the day sink down the drain. My forehead hits the cold wall, and I let out a breath.
What the hell am I going to do?
Two
Mateo
The last time I saw True Wallace, she was sliding out of the hotel bed the night of her brother’s wedding—sneaking out the door in the early morning light, shoes in hand, cringing when her hip hit the desk but not looking back.
She thought I was sleeping.
Not exactly something to brag about, but definitely something I haven’t been able to stop thinking about.
Not a day has gone by where I haven’t wondered what she’s doing, or crept on her social media because she’s been impossible to get ahold of.
Here I thought she and I were getting along great, but apparently I was wrong.
I pick up the glass in front of me on the bar and swirl it, mindful that my younger sister, Gloria—or Glory, as we all call her—is skeptically eyeballing me (as usual), eyes narrow while she watches my face.
“What?”
“What’s wrong?”
Damn, she knows me too well. All my sisters do, all six of them, probably because they outnumbered me growing up and escaping them was impossible. Especially since a few of us shared a room.
Seven kids in a three-bedroom house? They weren’t about to let me have my own space—no way in hell.
I shrug a little in Gloria’s direction, wanting to spill the beans about my personal life. “Nada.” Nothing.
She rolls her eyes. “Nada? That’s what girls say when there’s something wrong but they want you to beg.”
“So? Maybe I’m not ready to talk about it yet.”
Her head gives a slow nod. “Okay, fair enough. All you had to do was say so.”
“Te lo dije.” I did say so.
Glory nods again, letting a stretch of silence grow. “We can’t stand here all night. They’re going to come looking for us, and unless you want to tell everyone your business…”
I glance over my shoulder toward the rest of our family, gathered around the long table at the restaurant where we’re gathered for our Aunt Zoila’s birthday. Salads and chips and salsa and queso line the table, along with pitchers of margarita and sangria, the whole Espinoza clan taking up the entire room.
I don’t want to tell everyone my business, but I do want to get this off my chest.
“I’m being ghosted.”
My sister’s eyes go as wide as saucers, and she damn near spits out her drink. “You have a ghost in your condo? I thought it was new!”
Ay. “No, dumbass, I’m being ghosted by a girl—she wants nothing to do with me.”
Glory leans against the counter, two frozen margaritas in her hands—one for her, one for our sister Mariana, although she’s slurping on them both.
Gross.
“Who would be dumb enough to ghost you? Eres asombroso.” You’re amazing.
Spoken like a protective younger sister.
In Glory’s eyes, I can do no wrong. Throughout the years, I’ve protected her, stood up for her, shielded her from the bullshit surrounding her—mostly the normal sibling rivalry crap that comes with being the youngest in a family of seven. Older sisters suck sometimes.
But guys do, too—and since Glory is in her early twenties, she has lots of learning left to do and has already been screwed over enough times.
“It doesn’t matter who.”
My sister doesn’t agree. “Of course it matters.” She sips from one of the glasses. “Who is this person? Was she born on Mars? Did someone drop her on her head when she was a baby? Why would she not want to talk to you? This doesn’t make sense.”
I preen at my sister’s indignation.
“How many dates have you been on?” Glory asks.
“Er…officially? Cero.” Zero. Zilch.
None.
“You haven’t been on a date? Why?”
I can’t tell my baby sister I hooked up with someone once and didn’t have the decency to ask her on an actual date—not when I constantly lecture her on men being pigs who only want to bang.
“We…”
“This woman isn’t a jock chaser, is she?” Glory pulls a face, curling her lip—a clear display of her thoughts on the gold diggers who routinely circle athletes like vultures.
“Have you ever met a self-respecting gold digger who ghosted a famous baseball player?” I swipe my glass up off the bar and turn toward our family, who have all but forgotten about us. Loud, boisterous, celebratory.
“Famous?” My sister laughs. “Listen to yourself.”
“Please, we both know I get recognized on the street.”
“By men,” Gloria teases. She follows behind me, trailing as we weave back through the restaurant to the table. It was quicker coming to the bar for a drink than asking the server, who’s been overwhelmed by our party since we all flooded the restaurant. “I’m not going to let this go, you know—you’re going to have to give me the scoop on this person. It’s not every day my big brother falls in love.”
She says it amidst a cluster of our relatives, and I nod so she’ll quit talking—Nona doesn’t need to hear this, nor does our mother, who brings up a wedding any chance she gets.
Besides, I’m not entirely sure my ego can handle retelling the story of True and how she got away. How she wants nothing to do with me.
I’m not about to tell Glory that a couple months ago, I slept with someone only a few short hours after meeting them, even though I fucking know there was a connection True Wallace refuses to acknowledge.
My mind drifts, despite my loud, boisterous family.
I hadn’t realized True
is so pretty, but I do now as she takes a seat across from me at the wedding for Buzz Wallace and stares at me across the table.
Huge dark eyes framed by masses of even darker hair, and a grin so eerily like her brother’s. She smiles at me far too long and looks away, shyly lowering her head before tipping it to listen to whatever the bride is saying.
True Wallace is magic.
I’m not normally aloof when I approach a woman, but this isn’t just anyone—this is the sister of my good friend and teammate, and messing with sisters is no bueno.
Off limits.
Hard no.
Still, it seems we can’t keep our eyes off each other. The bro code rules go unspoken, unwritten, and unobserved.
Don’t date your friend’s sister, don’t sleep with your friend’s sister, don’t…
You get the picture.
I do a great job keeping my distance, if I do say so myself. I politely greet her at the reception, my palm tingling when she reaches out to shake it for a formal introduction.
“Espinoza, this is my sister, True—True, this is José.”
“Actually, my name is Mateo,” I say, giving her petite palm a firm grip. “José is technically my middle name. I don’t know why José stuck.” And I don’t know what compels me to tell her that, why I care that she knows my actual name.
“It’s nice to meet you, Mateo. Buzz talks about you all the time.”
He does?
“Good things I hope,” I tell her, though what I want to say is, He failed to mention that you’re fucking adorable and you sound like a goddamn angel when you speak.
Thank goodness I don’t say it, because that would be weird. And Buzz Wallace would strangle me right here and now—the same way I would if he were messing with one of my sisters.
“Matty, are you listening?”
I jerk my head up to see another one of my sisters watching me, one brow arched quizzically.
Glory snickers. “He’s daydreaming about su amor.” His love.
Three of my sisters stare, and I curse my parents that I have so many of them.
Meddling. Bossy. Sisters.
“His what?” Camila is looking at me as if she can’t believe what Glory is saying.