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Becky glances from my look of dread to the walls of the room. Her gaze lands on a giant poster of Melanie Finlay. The model – who was seriously hot when I was eighteen – is naked, but for the whipped cream covering her three important parts.
Becky brings her fingertips to her lips. ‘Cute.’
‘I can only apologize. Mom, we really need to talk about you redecorating this room.’
My mother wafts a hand dismissively. ‘I’m just pleased you can finally understand how traumatic it is for a mother to have a randy teenage son. I’ll see you both downstairs. I need to check that Uncle Jack isn’t making charcoal of my meat.’
When we’re alone, Becky turns to me, her fingertips still pressed across her lips, failing to disguise her mocking grin.
‘Come on. I was eighteen.’
‘Melanie Finlay though, seriously?’
‘As if you didn’t have the Backstreet Boys pinned up all over your bedroom.’
‘You’re such a loser, Drew Harrington. I’d bet the real estate partners would vote for you in a minute if they could see what a freak you are.’
Now she’s laughing, hard, and I can’t help joining in. She’s so damn beautiful when she laughs.
Killing that thought, I make for the door. ‘If you want to clean up, the bathroom is along the hall.’
‘Thank you. And thanks for bringing me here, Drew. I know you don’t invite people here often.’ She steps toward me. So close, she’s looking up at me in her flat shoes. ‘I also think I know why. And, for the record, I don’t think you should worry. This home, your family, you should cherish them.’
I swallow hard. How does this woman see through me like my skin is made of glass?
‘This place is amazing. I adore it. It’s so full of… love. And your family is incredibly sweet.’
Now I feel ridiculous and guilty in equal measure. I should have known she’d react this way. God, everything about this woman is good. So much better than me.
Her gaze drops to my lips, my own eyes falling to hers. I want to kiss her. Every bone in my body wants me to press my lips to hers. To feel that soft, plump flesh.
Friends. Friends. Friends. Friends. Her long-term relationship. My bid for named partner. And Edmond’s words that haven’t left me –she’s been through enough. His warning was unequivocal and so unlike my placid friend. He meant it.
‘You think my family is sweet because you haven’t met Uncle Jack yet.’
Her eyes flicker. She smiles. This time, it doesn’t fill her cheeks. ‘Actually, I have. He’s great, although I’m not sure he’s the best choice of chef. I think it’s possible your Aunt Kathleen did a little bottom wind when she shook my hand too.’
And on that note, I drag myself away from her and outside to the yard.
Everyone is sitting on plastic furniture around the small lawn and on the deck. Between the row of houses running parallel to ours, we can see the coastline, now lit only by street lights.
The barbeque is loaded with meat. Salads, potatoes and sauces fill the outside dining table. Wine and beer are flowing. My mother and Millie are telling Aunt Kathleen and Aunt Nellie all about Becky’s patisserie skills. Uncle Jack, Uncle Frank and my dad are standing around the barbeque, Uncle Jack in an apron that shows a naked man sporting a ripped torso. Uncle Geoffrey looks as if he’s fighting to stay awake, his bottle of beer leaning to one side in his hand. My brother-in-law, Eddie, is appeasing Annalise and Timmy, playing ball on the lawn. He holds up his beer in acknowledgment.
My mother catches my eye and gives me a certain kind of look.
‘Stop it. Right now,’ I tell her, my voice not sounding as determined as I mean it to. And I do mean it to sound very determined.
Ignoring her, I spend some time chatting with my aunts and uncles. When Becky comes out back, I pull up a chair for her next to mine. We eat and talk through the night, laughing and joking. After midnight, the aunts and uncles leave, the kids are asleep, my dad is also asleep, or passed out from beer and sugar, since he took out the majority of Becky’s cakes himself.
‘Well, let’s get these two to bed,’ Millie says, nudging Eddie, who is holding both sleeping kids on his lap.
‘Us too,’ my mother says through a yawn. ‘Wake up, Bill, you old man.’
My dad snorts, or snores. His legs kick out reflexively when my mother tips back his chair. ‘Jesus, woman. Are you trying to kill me?’
After we say our goodnights, Becky and I clear the remaining glasses and empty bottles away. When I bring the trash bag outside, she is standing on the deck. Her long hair blows in the gentle breeze, her arms are folded across her chest, her head is tipped back.
‘It’s a beautiful night. The moon is so pretty and I can see the stars. I haven’t seen this much from the city.’
