“You can start with some introductions, Bubble,” Mom chides when I wedge myself back in between Trystan and Mason now that Deidra is rocking Eamon to sleep again in the living room.
“Sure thing. Everybody, these are my bosses. Trystan, and the big boss, Mason.”
“For that fancy new job that’s paying you all that money. I hope she’s worth it, boys,” Dad jokes.
“She absolutely is”, Trystan adds with a wink, his grin clear.
“Alright then. To your right, Mason, is my uncle Dion; he’s Aunt Maeve’s husband, the one in the green dress who you kind of met when we arrived. Mom’s sister, well, one of them anyway. Next to him are my cousins Donny and Elliott, Elliott’s girlfriend Isla, another aunt, Frieda, and her husband, Mathis. Their children aren’t here today, but they have four. Around the end of the table are my eldest brother, Connor, his wife, Shae, and baby Niamh. Tommy is also theirs; he’s over there in the Bluey sweatshirt, next to Aunty Caitlin, my favorite and only sister.” I make a heart shape with my hands and narrowly avoid a piece of bread thrown by Liam. Child!
“Fuck you too, Bubble,” he says, before Geoffrey smacks him on the shoulder. “Sorry, then we have Liam and Geoffrey, Aunty Phyl, Uncle Ray, Kynan with the terrible taste in music. Megadeath, really, Ky?”
“You said get something. I got something. Jesus fucking Christ.”
“Dad’s brother Charlie and sister Imogen, Aunt Maeve who is Dion’s wife, but they don’t sit together.”
“That’s because I can’t stand listening to that man chew,” she fires back.
“My mom, Molly, Dad, Glyndon, his mom, Uta. Gail, other Liam, Ronan, and Sean are in the living room with Deidra and Eamon, and I think Sara is in the bathroom, maybe?”
“She must be taking a shit because she’s been gone a good ten minutes.” Liam adds, and is again smacked on the shoulder by an exasperated Geoffrey.
“I think that’s it. Everyone present and accounted for.”
Mason frowns. “I thought that guy’s name was Chippy?” he says, pointing to Kynan. “Or is that a nickname like Bubble?”
The room erupts into riotous laughter, a cacophony of wheezy inhales and shrill amused titters, and wiped tears.
“Oh, son, that’s fucking gold,” says my dad, wiping his own eye after trying, and failing, to take another sip from his whiskey before he dissolves into fits of shaking shoulders. “Chip… Sorry, lad. Chippy is the fucking dog.”
“I’ll drive us home in his Range Rover. We will not fit in the Bugatti. Terry or Joel can take it, Bri. It’s fine.”
We are leaving the warmth of a happy family home, arms laden with foil-wrapped containers of food, enough to feed a small army. Both Maeve and Molly offered plates to the security guys parked out front. The confused look on their faces when two feisty Irish expats sidled up to the driver’s window and knocked while brandishing plates groaning with turkey, chicken, vegetables, bread, and all the sauces. I tried to tell them they wouldn’t accept the plates. They wouldn’t eat while they were on duty, only taking small sips from sealed water bottles. Molly and Maeve are insistent women, and to be honest, kind of scared the shit out of me. So, I walked with them outside, in stained navy sweats and a Megadeth T-shirt, and gave them the okay to accept the food and enjoy it. If Molly had her way, they’d be crammed in around those double doors like the rest of us, but I politely informed her that security had a job to do, and part of that required establishing a perimeter between us, and any potential threat. She nodded in that way people do when they don’t quite believe you, but don’t want to offend you. My men, however, gave me more than one odd glance at my choice of attire. Not by choice, fellas, but out of necessity. The same look Kynan gave Bri when she asked about the white stains near the pocket of the navy pants. “It’spaint. What, did you think they were cum stains?” She may not have, but I wondered.
Trystan would never fold his long legs into the Bugatti, so taking him in his car made sense. He had joined Glyn and Dion in several post-dinner drinks. Drinks poured with a heavy Irish hand. All the good intent, and all the poor decisions. So, to save him from himself, and his car from bouncing off parked cars, I heave him into the backseat of the Rover, steering him around the containers of food, and help Bri into the passenger side.
I was hoping our drunken cargo might sleep off his food and drink coma. But no, the man sings show tunes and Ed Sheeran in a bad Irish accent. I don’t have the heart to correct him. Neither does Bri. She’s content to let him babble on, singing the correct lyrics softly and giggling like a giddy schoolgirl when he stuffs up and begins again.
“There’s a Target bag of soiled Versace and Chanel with chunks,” he exclaims, the words tumbling out with the telltale slur of way too many single malts. “Today has been the best fucking day ever. I bet it topped the shit show over at No Mercy Manor, right? How was the old homophobe?”
Normally, I could throw a sideways glance at Trystan, and he’d fall in tune with me if he wasn’t already. Only tipsy Trystan isn’t having any of it. He looks everywhere but in the rear-view mirror. Dammit.
“Old homophobe?” Bri queries, a frown marring her brow.
“Magnus,” I mouth back.
“A day of two distinct halves,” I offer. The day began with business and bullshit. It continued with chaos and undeniable family connection. How it will finish, well, that’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it? “How much did you drink, Hynd?”
“A lot,” he slurs. “Twelve, four, maybe. I dunno. I love your family, Bubble. And I love you.” Sabrina twists in her seat toclutch his hand, offering him a dazzling smile and giggling when his fingers morph into flexing, grabby jazz hands. “I love this one, Mas. I don’t ever want to let her go. You’re stuck with us, Bubble. You’re never going to pop. Never…”
By the time we hit the I-95 North to take us back to the penthouse, his soft snores compete with the house jazz and synth mix he had playing through the stereo. Yeah, Tryst, it’s enough to send me to sleep too. Luckily I have a pretty girl next to me to focus my attention on. When it’s not on the road, that is.
How isit that someone can go from snoring like a bandsaw to wide awake and talking twenty words to the dozen in the blink of an eye? Somebody is well-rested!
Between the three of us, we transport all the food back to the penthouse. Trystan keeps stopping to peel back foil lids and eat directly from the container like a savage. My first task is to shower and change clothes. Bri takes the leftovers and begins stacking them into the refrigerator according to contents. Each tray has detailed instructions regarding contents and reheating tips written on the foil in Sharpie. Washing off any stray remnants of baby barf and the cloying cloak of my family’s influence, I stand under the jets of steamy water for a long time. Each drip follows a different path along each arm before sliding off the ends of my hanging fingers. If only everything slid away so easily. To clear away the muck and detritus just by willing it to drip from your fingers like poison. If fucking only. I wrap a towel around my waist and dry off before changing into sweatpants. “What are you two talking about?”
“You, mostly.” Trystan cocks a challenging brow. Is he still pissed?
“And he’s been demanding to know all about my childhood and how I got the nickname Bubble.”
