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His face was red, and his hands were shaking. Meaning this outburst wasn’t just about my surprise wedding. If it were, he wouldn’t be here. Wouldn’t have even bothered to mention it. In his eyes, it would be par for the course with me.
“You don’t need to get married to legally bind yourself to someone. Especially someone who hasn’t lived in this town for fifteen years. I don’t get it.”
“There is nothing for you to get. Hazel and I are happy, and that’s enough.”
He turned his back and stomped to the large windows that looked out at the mountains. “This is so Remy,” he said to the view in front of him. “Always cutting corners. Never doing things the right way. Thinking with your dick instead of your brain.”
That was too far. He knew nothing about Hazel and me.
I crossed my arms, breathing deep to temper the rage flaring up inside me. He was jumping to some pretty hurtful conclusions. “Like you should talk.”
He spun around and glared at me from across the room.
“Who are you banging this weekend, huh? Miss Nipple Piercing? Or Miss Pink Skirt? What about Miss Redhead with Weird Ears? Give me your phone. Let’s count the number of booty-call contacts you’ve racked up since you’ve been here.”
In addition to being smart and ambitious, Paz had always been a playboy. Girls threw themselves at him as far back as middle school. He was tall and good-looking and had this air of indifference that, for some ridiculous reason, drove girls insane.
He’d always dated casually, but it wasn’t until he came back to Lovewell that Henri and I got a peek of the contacts in his phone. Each one was saved using physical attributes and random details. No names. Turns out my big brother had a digital black book of hookups. He wasn’t dating at all. No, he was fucking around with nameless, faceless women every chance he got. And while I was not one to judge consensual adult fun, the sheer number of contacts he had made the whole thing kind of gross.
“Shut the fuck up,” he hissed, whipping around to face me finally.
“Because dehumanizing woman and objectifying them rather than using their actual names is super fucking healthy, dude.” I took a step closer and dropped my arms. “Try therapy. It works.”
“This isn’t about me. This is about you”—he pointed a finger at me with far more violence than anyone should be capable of so early on a Sunday—“being a mess of a man who can’t get his shit together.”
“Wow,” I scoffed, “your brotherly concern is heartwarming. Worry about yourself. I don’t discard women like tissues.”
“This isn’t about me.”
“Yeah, you said that. But maybe it should be.” It was rare I stood up to my older siblings. I was a lover, not a fighter. And conflict was something I avoided if at all possible, especially with my family.
But this wasn’t about standing up for myself. I was protecting Hazel too. We were in this together. I had convinced myself that people would understand and be happy for us. But standing here, staring my brother down, it hit me. They wouldn’t. The bond we shared may have been unconventional, but it was ours. And I would do everything in my power to protect it.
“Henri and Adele aren’t over here screaming at me. In fact, they’ve both congratulated me.”
“Trust me, they’re equally pissed. Henri’s just too busy with work and his kids, and Adele is off fucking some professor.”
I winced. Sure, Adele was a grown woman, but I avoided any mention of her dating life if at all possible. Details about my sister’s sex life were hard to stomach. Especially because she had a type. Academic guys. Glasses and elbow patches. Treated her like shit.
She stayed far away from anyone who worked in logging. Hell, anyone who worked with their hands at all. She had taken shit from guys at work and in school over the years, so she overcompensated by seeking out men who were the complete opposite of those she’d spent her life proving herself to. Being a woman in our world wasn’t easy. I didn’t begrudge her happiness, but what she hadn’t figured out yet was that these guys belittled her more than a good number of men who’d grown to respect her and her abilities over the years.
“So, of course, good old Pascal has to come and clean up the mess you made. Did you knock her up or something?”
A throat cleared a few feet away, and there was Hazel, standing in the doorway to her office, noise canceling headphones around her neck. Her glasses were crooked and there was a purple pen stuck in her ponytail.
Paz and I froze.
“Pascal.” She said his name slowly, emphasizing every letter. I swore a shiver raced through him. “I can’t believe you would even ask that. It’s not 1950, for Christ’s sake. And our relationship is none of your business.”
The look on her face was pure venom. I’d known her all my life, and though she was serious and worked hard, I’d never seen such a stony expression from her.
If I hadn’t been so terrified by the look on her face, I would have taken a moment to appreciate just how goddamn adorable my wife was.
Yoga pants, a tank top with a baby sloth on it, and her requisite dark glasses. That long dark hair piled on top of her head. She was tiny but formidable.
She walked to the center of the room slowly, every step deliberate. When she stopped in front of Paz, she propped her hands on her hips and tipped her chin up, scrutinizing him.
Paz, not one to be easily intimidated, especially by a five-foot nothing woman in a sloth tank top, narrowed his eyes. “Sorry, Pip,” he said coolly. “I was just chatting with my brother.”
