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“Aw, Dais. Don’t cry now. Tears and chiffon don’t mix.”
She’s right. But neither do lies and a group of people so great they give ol’ Alexander a run for his money—and I’m so deep in the middle of that mixture that I don’t know if I’ll ever get out.
Friday, May 10th
Flynn
As I snag my duffel from my gym locker, Jude lets out a deep sigh behind me. I glance over my shoulder to find him easing himself off the bench that resides in the middle of the locker room, his movements looking more like those of an elderly grandma after a rowdy game of backgammon than a fit, thirty-eight-year-old man who just got done with his daily workout.
“You good?”
“Am I good? Ha!” He grimaces. “No, I’m not good. My legs are Jell-O. I feel like fucking Bambi, dude. Next leg day, I’m not letting you lead the workout.”
A laugh jumps from my lips, and I lift my duffel over my shoulder and shut the locker door. “It wasn’t that bad.”
Jude scoffs. “My body says otherwise.”
“You realize I’m not forcing you to work out with me,” I comment and lift my brow to punctuate that sentiment. Truth be told, I never asked Jude to work out with me. Several years ago, he just started showing up and hasn’t stopped. I will admit, though, the time together is nice. He’s always so chatty everywhere else, but at the gym, he’s too busy gasping for air.
“And what am I supposed to do?” he retorts. “Meet Ty at fucking Planet Fitness and do yoga?”
You might think he’s joking, but Ty actually does attend yoga classes, along with God only knows what else, and it’s all in the name of keeping his revolving door of women spinning and thriving.
Over the last decade, I’ve yet to attend a family function without my second-youngest brother bringing some random woman along. And considering Ty’s never brought the same woman to a family function twice and the Winslow clan gets together two to three times a month, that’s a lot of fucking women.
“And Rem’s day-trading schedule makes him work out at two in the morning like some kind of damn vampire. You’re my only viable option,” he says, snagging his backpack from the bench and scowling as he shifts on his feet to stand upright. “And right now, I hate you.”
“You want me to see if they’ve got a wheelchair you can borrow?”
“Shut up.”
“A motorized scooter? Crutches?” I keep going, sarcasm and amusement lifting the corners of my lips, and Jude flips me the middle finger.
“I like you better when you’re being all surly and not saying shit.”
He doesn’t have to tell me twice.
I shrug and spin on my heel, more than ready to leave the locker room before the after-seven crowd takes over. But I only make it a few steps toward the door when Jude calls out, “Wait… Where are you going, man?”
I turn around to meet his eyes. “Home.”
“You don’t want to grab some dinner with me?” he questions. “I mean, it’s the least you can do for putting me through Satan’s leg day.”
“Can’t. I’m making Daisy dinner.”
Last night, she saw an Olive Garden commercial and started rambling on and on about fettuccine Alfredo. I told her I could make it for her sometime, and she looked at me as if I’d just said I was an alien from Mars. Though, it didn’t take long for her to make me promise to fulfill my homemade pasta offer ASAP, as in tonight after we both get home from work.
“Oh yeah, Daisy.” A big, shit-eating grin consumes Jude’s face. “Your wife that none of us knew about until you’d already married her.”
Actually, he did meet her. In Vegas. But just like Ty and Remy, he was apparently too drunk to remember, and I’m not going to be the one to tell him.
“Of all the people to get married before me, you were the last motherfucker I expected to pull that trick out of his mysterious hat. I mean, you were all ‘I don’t do the relationship and marriage thing,’ but now look at you. You’re someone’s husband.”
“You don’t like Daisy?”
“Get real.” He rolls his eyes. “She’s going to be a bridesmaid in my wedding, bro. Of course, I like Daisy. Sophie loves Daisy. I’m just still trying to figure out where in the hell she came from. Seriously, Flynn, how did you go from the guy who barely even dated to fucking married in the blink of an eye?”
“It’s a fake marriage,” I answer, giving him the full truth, but it feels foreign on my tongue. Like it shouldn’t even be there. Like it’s not the truth at all.
His response? An outburst of laughter.
“Oh yeah, okay, a fake marriage,” he repeats, using his fingers to make air quotes around his words. “Sure thing, Flynn.” He rolls his eyes again and keeps laughing as if I just told the biggest joke of the century. “How long did you know her before you got married?”
