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“Well, you can’t give up. Deep down—like way deep, beneath the fuck-off calm, beneath the attitude, beneath all the stuff you think you have to do and be to protect yourself—you are the sweetest person I know. You deserve to be happy. And fuck anyone who keeps you from creating the life you want, whether it’s our parents or your boss or your own bad habits. You can succeed, Rea. You already are.”
His words made tears prick behind my eyes. God, how unfair was it when your “perfect” big brother was actually perfect?
So, naturally, I made a retching noise to hide how genuinely touched I was. “Ugh. When the hell did you become so in touch with your emotions, Jonathan Turner Wellbridge, The-Fucking-Third? Our tight-assed Puritan ancestors are rolling right now. Mother’s going to excommunicate you from the family. And are you telling me Flynn chooses to have this kind of toxic positivity in his life? I’m starting him a GoFundMe. Hashtag-Free-Flynn.”
JT’s laughter exploded through the speaker. “Our ancestors can fuck right off. So can Mother, for that matter. And Flynn loves my positivity,” he said with all the smug confidence of a man who knew he’d found his soul mate. “He might even like my unsolicited advice… sometimes.”
I laughed, too, though it might have been a bit watery. “You know, that man’s so fucking gone for you, I bet he probably does. But I do not appreciate sound, well-meaning advice from kind, intelligent people.” I kicked another frozen chunk of dirt and snow. “Especially when following that advice might result in failure of never-before-experienced levels.”
“You’re so dramatic,” JT groaned. “It’s true what they say about middle children.”
“Seriously? For the last time, Katharine Hepburn is not our sibling,” I insisted, as I always did when JT tried to claim our mother’s spoiled bichon frise was her third child.
“Tell me she’s not Mother’s baby. Tell me Mother doesn’t like her better than either of us. I dare you.”
McGee’s forced cough came from several yards behind me, and I glanced over my shoulder to see him give a firm nod toward the bus. “We’ve got a relief driver waiting for us in Dayton,” he called across the desolate space between us.
“Okay. Two minutes,” I yelled back.
“What you’re holding is a mobile phone,” he insisted. “You can talk on the bus.”
“And yet, the reception’s better here, so… two minutes,” I repeated, saccharine sweet but not yielding.
McGee gave me the world’s most sweeping eye roll as he stepped up into the coach.
“See?” JT said excitedly. “There you go. You know how to handle yourself, Reagan. Just keep doing it.”
That was precisely the problem, though. I knew what I needed to do—ignore my sexy boss, kill everyone at PennCo with kindness and stun them with my intelligence, prove myself as many times as necessary until I got the job on my dad’s campaign—and I could do it.
So why was I having so much trouble remembering that when Thatcher was around?
Still, it gave me a boost to know that JT had confidence in me. That he recognized my tenacity when other people—namely our parents—seemed to view me as a running list of things I’d tried and quit.
“JT, I gotta go,” I said. “Thanks for calling. I feel… marginally better.”
“Good. Chin up, buttercup. And if you’re feeling down, just channel Patricia Wellbridge at the Box Day competition: Failure is impossible, therefore, anyone who says differently is a fool unworthy of your notice.”
I ended the call with a laugh despite my sour mood and stepped onto the bus, grateful to get out of the freezing wind. But when I went to close the door, McGee stopped me with a head shake and a gruff “Don’t bother. Still waiting on the boss.”
I narrowed my eyes. “You rushed me back here when Thatcher wasn’t on board yet?”
“Yep.” He made himself comfortable on the sofa and raised an eyebrow in challenge. “We wait on him; he doesn’t wait on us. I figured, better to let you wait here than have you chasing us down the frozen highway in your douchey loafers.”
I clenched my hands into fists. “You know,” I said sweetly. “I don’t care what people say. I think lines give a person’s face character.” I traced the skin above my own eye in the exact spot where McGee’s eyebrow-pop had formed a deep crease on his forehead. “Growing old gracefully is a brave choice.”
McGee clapped a hand to his face and scowled. “I told you, I’m not wrinkly.”
“What? No, of course not. I was just speaking hypothetically.” I turned to hide my triumphant smile and busied myself finding alcohol in the galley kitchen. I could almost swear I heard McGee snort behind me, but I refused to turn and check.
JT was right. I knew how to handle myself.
In addition to a can of raspberry hard seltzer, I found a plastic-wrapped charcuterie tray in the fridge. I yanked both out and popped a bunch of fresh grapes on the platter before setting it on the dining table and sliding into the booth.
The instant Thatcher boarded the bus a few minutes later, it felt like all the oxygen in the space was suddenly sucked in his direction, including the molecules I’d been using to breathe, but I kept my attention resolutely focused on my snack.
He paused beside the table. “Hungry? I could have bought you a slice of suspicious pizza inside.”
“And risk despoiling your luxury lavatory?” I smiled. “I think not. Besides, a Wellbridge has certain culinary standards.” See how calm I could be? I could handle this. Tenacity, baby.
