“No. You’re screwed, and I love that for you,” Emy says, releasing me from her embrace.
“We still have to find a Wickham, though.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem. Hey, random attractive man, want to flirt with my gorgeous self? Kiss me and get paid to do it?”
I roll my eyes. “You write the best sales pitches.”
“It’s like I have a degree in it or something.” Emy brushes her dark silky hair over her shoulder for good sassy measure. Her eyes zero in on my chest. “Your bra doesn’t fit.”
I adjust my bra. My under-wire is poking into my side, making me fully aware of its ill-fitting nature. “I think it’s the new birth control. The girls blew up overnight.”
Cue choking from the living room. “Seriously? Close the door again, I’m right here.”
“Your sister has boobs. Stop listening in on our conversations or get over it,” I say back.
“I’m sorry, Alouette. Who technically owns this house?” Gus says with his signature parental tone. It was funny when we were younger, but now it’s annoying. He’s only four years older than me. That’s it. Not the forty he pretends. I wish he would stop seeing me as the little girl he needs to protect and parent and start seeing me as an equal. He’s dating Emy, for Pete’s sake, and she’s a few weeks younger than me.
“I’m sorry. Who does all the cooking and cleaning? Do you even know how to work the washing machine?”
“I have an IQ of 160. I could figure it out,” Gus bellows.
“Did you have an IQ of 160 when you used the laundry detergent pads in the dishwasher?” I bite back a giggle. Last year, Gus boasted he figured out a way to load the dishwasher to its highest efficiency and banned anyone else from touching it. I didn’t fight his ego. It meant less work for me. But then we all started feeling a little sick, Gus more so than anyone, so I took over his job for a week. The minute I went to load the dishwasher, I realized his mistake. He’d been using laundry pods instead of dishwasher ones.
“The packaging looked the same. That’s a branding and marketing issue, not my fault.”
I open my mouth to tell him that if he had taken the time to read, an activity he abhors, he’d have seen his error instantly, but Emy’s warm hand covers my mouth.
“We love and appreciate you and your brain, Gus,” she says.
“Love you too, Em.” Gus’s voice softens. It’s sickening.
“I’d appreciate it if you could not work him up so much. I love you, but you need to remember he’s lost his whole family and is dealing with depression, too,” Emy whispers to me in the bedroom.
I sigh. Of course, he is. Gus gave everything up for our family. He left his one true love in hockey behind in high school to concentrate on his college-level studies because it promised greater financial security for the rest of the family. Then, away at college, he worked diligently at night on a code he sold to care for our Memere and the rest of our aging family.
He’s my rock, and I hate to think I haven’t been able to be that for him lately.
“I’ll try to be better.” I flatten a curled ribbon on one of the bonnets.
After a few guilt-laden moments, Gus’s phone rings. “Hey, is your dumb ass almost here?” he answers with a slightly elevated voice. Here? What does he mean by “here?”
My eyes flicker to the magazine still sitting open on the table while a nervous flutter terrorizes my abdomen. There’s only one man Gus speaks bro-ey to, and I hate that knowing who’s on the other line is giving me belly swoops. Those should be reserved for fictional men who get decimated by a woman after lightly touching her ungloved hand or something.
“Huh, Jack usually calls you first.” Emy smiles.
Which is a fair observation. When Jack needs either of us, he calls my phone since Gus notoriously never answers his, and I always do.
Well, Ididalways answer.
But three days ago, when they threw Jack into the penalty box, I, uhm, had a rash of thoughts that I will not pollute my mind with thinking about a second time.
Willoughby raises his head from his bed as if he can sense my spiraling indecency. A libidinous pug to his core—my sincerest apologies to my childhood stuffie, Quackers Von Quackenstine—I suspect he has a second sense for these things.
Jack leaning against that penalty box, needing saving, is a more pervasive image than I thought it would be. I don’t trust my ability to remain calm around him and not give away how much I’m struggling with my feelings.
So I may have ignored his last three or five tries.
Guiltily, I shift the dresses on the rack. Veronica posted a nasty video about their break-up on Instagram a few days ago, coinciding with his bad temperament on the ice. I’m sure there is a relationship between the two, and he needs to talk to someone about it. The break-up meant more to him this time than he’s letting on. It had to. From what I’ve gathered through her social media profiles, Veronica is as close to flawless as a human can get, with her charitable works, boss lady attitude, and dedication to nourishing her body, mind, and soul.
