I ignore the subtle insult. “Her name is Quinn.”
“You two been together long?”
“We’ve known each other a long time but didn’t start dating until recently.”
Bobby cocks an eyebrow. “Until you got her pregnant, you mean?”
“Pretty much.” Other than Sam, no one knows the nature of Quinn’s and my relationship.
Bobby laughs. “And I thought you were the smart one. How long have you known her?”
“Do you remember Dean Dawson?”
He blinks, face twitching as he tries to think. I wonder what a scan of his brain would look like. He’s done considerable damage, I’m sure.
“Your roommate in college?”
“Yeah.”
Bobby nods. “You spent a lot of time there. Mom and Dad talk about the Dawsons like they’re the fucking Kardashians.”
I laugh. “They’re much better.”
“They sound like good people.”
“They are. All of them.” I can’t find fault in any of the Dawsons, not even Logan and Owen, whose main reason for opening a bar was to have one-night stands with female patrons.
“Dean’s okay with you dating his sister?” His eyes widen, and he holds up his hand. “Fucking fuck. You knocked up your best friend’s little sister,” he says with a laugh.
I bring my hand to the back of my neck, laughing. “No, he’s not okay with it at all.” And in that moment, it hits me hard right in the chest how much I miss my brother. We were close once. I looked up to Bobby. He was everything an older brother should have been. And then he wasn’t, and suddenly I didn’t matter anymore.
Fuck, I wish things were different. It’s weird to think about, actually. Sitting down with a beer, talking to my brother about how dramatic and stupid Dean is being. Confessing how I’m upset over losing a friend but even angrier about how Dean’s childish behavior is upsetting Quinn.
I’d tell him how I’ve had the hots for Quinn since the first time I saw her when she was only fourteen but looked much older in that tight black dress she was wearing. Fifteen years of friendship and brotherhood is gone, and we’ll never get it back. And I wish with all my heart Bobby could recover. That he could go to rehab and stick with it.
But he hasn’t, and he won’t.
There’s a good chance he won’t even remember this conversation in the morning.
“Dean’s pissed at me for hooking up with his sister and pissed at Quinn for hooking up with me. He’s getting married two days before Quinn is due.”
Bobby’s eyes widen. “Man, that’s fucked up,” he says and bursts into laughter. I look at him hard for a few seconds, and then the knot in my chest loosens. “What about the rest of them? They think they’re better than everyone, don’t they?”
And the knot tightens back up. “No. They don’t. They—” I stop. I don’t owe Bobby an explanation. He’s not going to change. I’m never going to get my big brother back, and I’ve already accepted it. Sighing, I turn away to get my phone.
“What are you doing?”
“Mom and Dad are looking for you.”
“I’m not a baby,” he rushes out and I work hard to bite my tongue. “Can’t we hang out? Catch up? Look at you, little bro! You’re a motherfucking doctor with a baby on the way.” He looks around, almost as if he’s realizing where he is for the first time. “Where is your baby mama?”
“Don’t call her that. And she’s at home.”
“Fuck. You weren’t kidding when you said you just started dating, huh?”
I get my phone from the coffee table and sit on the couch. Bobby starts to walk forward, but I hold out my hand. “Take off your shoes. And your socks. Actually, hang on.”
I hurry down the hall and grab a pair of socks from my drawer and a sheet from the closet. Call me paranoid, but the time Bobby brought home bed bugs is still seared into my memory. He’s still standing in the small foyer when I get back, looking around the apartment like he’s trying to figure out where he is.
“Bobby?” I extend the socks. Still not sure of his surroundings, Bobby takes the socks from me and puts them on. Our roles have reversed, and he’s not the older brother looking out for me anymore.
I spread the sheet on the couch and motion to it. “You should sit. Get something to eat. I need to call Mom and let her know you’re okay.” ‘Okay’ is a relative term here.
“You always were a buzz kill, doctor,” he spits as an insult.
“I’m always looking out for you.”
“Are you, Arch? Are you looking out for me?” He wobbles his way to the couch and plops down. I text Mom, letting her know Bobby showed up and is alive.
“I shouldn’t have to.” I sit on the armchair across from him. I don’t trust my brother at all. He might mean well but will end up leaving with anything he deems valuable, desperate to sell whatever he can for drug money. “What the hell happened to you, Bobby?”
“You,” he sneers.
“Me?” I huff, leaning back.
“Yeah. Do you know what it’s like living in your shadow? Mom’s always bragging to anyone who’ll listen about her son the surgeon. It’s fucking sickening.”
“You started using before I even graduated high school, so don’t even try to put this on me.”
“You’ve always tried to one-up me,” he goes on. “And now all I hear about is my son the surgeon,” he says in a high-pitched voice, imitating Mom.
I think of Quinn’s pretty face. Of the sound of our baby’s rapid heartbeat. Stay calm…stay calm…stay calm…He’s sick. It’s not right to take it out on him. But, fuck, it’d feel so good to let loose. To tell him how I really feel while throwing a few punches.
I missed senior prom.
Mom and Dad almost didn’t make it to my pre-med graduation.
They were out of town and out of touch when I started my residency.
I didn’t tell them about my child because they were busy dealing with his shit.
He. Hurt. Quinn.
“It’s not my fault you pissed away your future. I worked my ass off and went to med school.”
“You think I wouldn’t like to be a doctor? I could do it, you know. If I really wanted to I could,” he rants. “But I’m not a sell-out like you. I stand up for what I think is right, and the healthcare system in our country is bullshit. I refuse to be part of it.”
“Okay,” I say with a nod. I can’t disagree about our healthcare system needing work, but I’m not even going to get into it with him. Bobby becomes the world’s greatest debater when he’s drunk or high.
Mom replies to my text, saying she and Dad are on their way.
“You think I’m a loser, don’t you?”
I look at Bobby and the anger turns into pity. “No, Bobby, I don’t. I think you’re sick and need help.”
“I don’t fucking need help!” He stands up, eyes getting more and more bloodshot. I let out my breath, wishing I were back in Chicago with Quinn. Hell, I’d even take Eastwood over this. Dealing with Dean and his petty drama would be a welcome change.
“Okay,” I say again, knowing there’s no reason to go round and round with Bobby. He’s under the influence of something and he’s losing whatever small touch with reality he has. “Sit down.” I motion to the couch. When it comes to Bobby, I can either be angry and pissed or disconnected. It’s how I deal, and I know it’s not healthy.
I just don’t see the point in investing more.
“Are you hungry?” I continue. “I have leftover tacos in the fridge.”
“Yeah. Sure.” He sinks back down, shoulders twitching up and down. Hurrying into the kitchen, I take Quinn’s leftovers that she couldn’t finish and pop them in the microwave. I move back, needing to keep Bobby in my line of sight.
He leans back on the couch, and I can’t tell if he’s twitching or shivering. The microwave beeps, and I grab the tacos and go back to the living room. Bobby looks at the plastic take-out container and narrows his eyes.
&n
bsp; “What’s wrong with this?”
“What do you mean?” I ask, still holding out the tacos.
“Who the fuck doesn’t eat their tacos from a restaurant?”
I wish I could laugh. “Quinn.” Saying her name is like taking a pill, and I instantly relax. “She’s been having a lot of morning sickness.”
“Oh yeah. You fucked her and got her pregnant.”
“Don’t talk like that. She’s the mother of my child and I love her.” The words escape me before I have a chance to think about them.
But they’re true.
I love Quinn.
“Sorry, dude.” Bobby holds up his hands, shaking his head, and then goes back to the taco, eating as if it’s his first meal in days. It probably is. “Didn’t realize this shit was serious.”
“It is. She’s having my baby.”
“But she’s not here.”
Leave it to my junkie brother to get under my skin. I run my hand over my face and stand, wondering if I should hide all the booze in this place before Bobby finds it. Watching the minutes crawl by, I sit back, waiting for Mom and Dad to get here and deal with their firstborn.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“I came to apologize,” Bobby says with his mouth full, looking at me as if I asked what color the sky is.
“Before then. When you threw the door open, hurt Quinn, and almost hurt my baby.”
“You’re never going to let that go, are you?” He licks taco grease from his fingers.
“No.”
Picking up Quinn’s half-eaten burrito, he meets my gaze. “I haven’t seen you in a while.”
I keep my eyes on him, waiting for him to go on. He’s lying, and it’s painfully obvious. He twitches again, and sweat breaks out along his forehead. Something isn’t right.
“Hey,” I say and sit up. “Stop eating.”
“Fuck you.” He stuffs the food in his mouth. Dammit. It’s frustrating enough to deal with patients who eat before surgery. The last thing I need is for him to start seizing with a mouthful of Mexican food.
“No, really. Stop.”
He shoves the rest of the food in his mouth just to prove a point. I stiffen, trying not to let myself think of the dangers of throwing up while unconscious. Mom and Dad aren’t far, but time is crawling. I wait for what feels like an hour and check the time on my phone again. It’s been two minutes.
Bobby finishes the food and sets the empty container on the coffee table. He leans back, brows furrowing, and looks at me.
“I am sorry, Arch. I’ve been a shitty brother.”
“Yeah,” I agree. “You have.”
“It’s just…it’s so hard, you know?”
“No,” I say honestly. “I don’t.”
He rubs his forehead, becoming agitated. “I can’t explain it. It’s just there. Inside. Deep inside.”
Shaking my head, I exhale. I wish I could understand what he means. Maybe I could help him.
“Forget it,” he says and leans back, hands twitching even more. Then he brings his hand to his chest, pressing hard.
“You need to go to the hospital.” I stand, phone in hand.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re going through withdrawal.”
“Stop acting like you know everything because you’re a fucking doctor.”
“I don’t know everything,” I say. “But I do know what withdrawal looks like.” I didn’t learn that in med school though. I’ve seen it enough times firsthand. “Come on. I’ll take you.” I extend a hand to help him up.
“No.” He stands and swats my hand away. “I’m fine,” he repeats.
But he’s not fine. The color drains from his face and he staggers back, falling to the floor.
7
Quinn
“Fine. Be mad at me. But you’re being overdramatic.” I take off my shoes and shake my head. “I wasn’t gone that long.”
My words do nothing, and Lily continues to glare at me. Luna jumps up on the counter, meowing for food, and the others come running. Neville rubs against my legs, and I reach down to scoop him up.
“I think you got fatter since I left.” He starts purring, and I carry him with me to the pantry. After I feed the cats, I change into pajamas and sit on the couch to call Archer. He doesn’t answer, so I leave him a message letting him know I got home safe and sound. He must have gotten called in for surgery, and my heart aches for him. He’s such a hard worker and needs a break, especially with everything that happened this weekend.
I drag my suitcase into my room, pull out my essentials and push the suitcase to the side, saying I’ll empty it later. Really, it’ll sit there for at least a week before I get to it. Bringing my phone into the bathroom with me so I can answer if Archer calls back, I take a shower.
My phone rings as I’m getting out, but it’s not Archer. I wrap my towel around myself and answer.
“Hello?”
“Hey, sis,” Logan says. “I haven’t talked to you in a while. How are things?”
“Good. I just got back from Indy. I spent the weekend with Archer.”
“And he’s still treating you well? We don’t need to go over and threaten to break his knuckles or anything, do we?”
I laugh. “No, you definitely don’t. Archer treats me better than anyone has.”
“That’s good to hear. I really don’t want to have to hurt him. I like the guy.”
“That makes two of us.” I put my phone on speaker and go into my room to start getting dressed for the night. “Have you talked to Dean recently?”
“Yeah, we all went over for dinner Sunday night.”
“And?”
“He’s still being an immature ass. All Mom talked about was planning for the baby shower and Dean didn’t say anything, but you could tell he was pissed.”
“He’s such a baby.”
“He’s always been one. Don’t worry about it. He’ll get over it eventually and then will realize what an ass he’s been.”
“They can move their wedding date if it bothers them that much. I can’t change my due date.”
“I think he’s more mad about Archer liking you more than him now.”
“Well, I can offer things to Archer that he can’t.”
“Gross, Quinn.”
“Hey, I am pregnant.”
“Are you still getting sick every morning?”
“Yeah, and it lasts all day. I caved and started taking medication to help with it. How are you guys? Is Owen around?”
“He’s always around. We’re good. Nothing has changed much on our front.”
“You both need to find nice girls and settle down. Have some babies too so we can have playdates.”
Logan laughs. “If I find a nice girl, I’ll gladly settle down. Owen, on the other hand…we both know how that’ll go.”
“Right,” I say with a snort of laughter. The day Owen settles down is the day hell freezes over. Though as a believer in true love, I think he’ll find someone to come into his life and change all that. “I miss you guys,” I admit with a sigh, struggling to get my pajama pants on one-handed. My wrist is aching again, and I know I won’t be able to splint it as well as Archer did for me this morning.
“Then move back here.”
“But I like my job and the city.”
“Then stop complaining.”
I sink down onto my mattress. “I’ll complain all I want. And I’m not above pulling the pregnancy card.”
“You’re stooping low, sis,” he says with a chuckle. We talk for a few more minutes before hanging up. I go into the kitchen to find something to eat, and the only thing that sounds good right now are Sour Patch Kids. So healthy, I know. I’m down to one box, I take them into my room, sitting in bed while I catch up on emails and the work I’m able to do from home.
An hour later I’m all caught up, and I exit out of my emails and open Pinterest, browsing nursery ideas. My apartment is really nice, with a great view, but isn’t family fr
iendly. I only have one spare bedroom, and I use it as an office. I suppose I could combine the office with the master and turn that room into the nursery, but if Archer moves in, we’ll be tight on space.
Knowing I’m getting ahead of myself, I log onto the building’s website to see if there’s anything else available. They offer bigger arrangements, and I can definitely afford it. I took the smaller space when I moved in since it was just me, and this has worked perfectly.
There’s another apartment available two floors up with double the square footage of what I have now. I’ll have my same view plus another wall of windows on another side of the building. I click through the pictures, thinking it’s perfect. There’s plenty of space for the baby and me, and of course Archer if things keep going as well as they are.
And then I think about my childhood and how much I loved being in the country. I grew up riding horses and being an active member in our local 4H group. The crime rate is drastically lower in Eastwood, and the pace of life is just slower.
I put my hand over my stomach, unable to ignore the anxiety building inside me. I love my job. I really like the city. But I always assumed I’d end up back at Eastwood. It was part of the big picture in my mind, though I didn’t often let myself get that far ahead. I probably imagine raising my kids in a big, old farmhouse just because that’s how I was raised.
Lots of people live in the city. They have kids and they turn out just fine. There’s nothing wrong with staying here. So why am I starting to feel guilty about it?
Getting even further ahead of myself, I check out houses for sale in Eastwood. There’s only five, and none are houses I’d buy, though with Dad being a contractor, it makes sense to build something new anyway.
My phone rings again, and this time it is Archer. Closing my computer, I smile as I answer, missing Archer already.
“Hey, babe,” I say.
“Hey. How was your flight?”
“Fine. We got in faster than I thought. Did you get called in for surgery again?”
“No.” He lets out a sigh. “Bobby showed up again. He went through his usual bullshit apologies and then passed out.”
“Like, passed out drunk?”
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