Page 49 of The Write Off

“To a fault.”

Smiling, she pushes herself back and stands, placing her hands palm down on the table and leaning forward slightly. “Would you like a closer look?”

She’s definitely trying to kill me.

Go slow.

Rilla has been fairly transparent that all of her relationships have been based solely on sex. It’s important to me that I make sure we don’t get so caught up in exploring each other physically that we don’t get to know one another better outside of the bedroom.

“Why don’t we move to the couch?” I suggest, as a compromise.

She takes her wine glass and walks by giving me a meaningful look that implies she enjoyed herself the last time she was there. I move our plates to the kitchen counter to deal with later.

I find her sitting with her feet tucked to the side underneath her. She leans on the armrest, her brown curls pulled to the side and resting on one shoulder. If she’s noticed I’ve entered the room, she doesn’t show it. When I place my wine glass and what’s left of the bottle on the coffee table, she looks up, her smile growing wider.

“I didn’t know you drew.” She holds up the notebook filled with drawings clearly done by someones who’s fine motor skills aren’t fully developed.

“Anna has been brainstorming fairytale retellings.” I sit, leaving a bit of room between us, but she scoots closer to me, making me fight a grin.

“Oooh! Has she read the one where Wendy falls for Hook? That’s probably my favorite.”

“I really hope not,” I chuckle. Her forearm feels cool as it rests against mine. Such a simple connection, but it’s nice nonetheless. “She wants to make everyone’s happily ever afters even happier. I told her we’d make a book together.”

“Aww, Uncle Logan is such a softie,” she teases. “She’s very lucky to have someone like you to encourage her.” Her fingers trace the crayon lines of the page like it helps her absorb the story.

“They’re both good kids, but they haven’t experienced much luck in life, so far.”

“Was their dad a lot like you? You know. Handsome, but crotchety?”

I force a laugh, watching the wine swirl in my glass. “No. He was the likable one. Everybody’s friend. Always had a big grin on his face and a joke to go along with it. Graduated top of his class from Tufts, just like my dad. Husband and father by twenty-seven. Board-certified surgeon at thirty. Dead at thirty-five.”

I feel like I’m reading a resume. My brother was quite literally the golden boy in my family. In my parents’ eyes he could do no wrong and most people who met him would agree. I found it a struggle to stay mad at him for things. I know for a fact that he worked his ass off at everything he excelled at, but he made it look effortless.

However there was one thing he did that didn’t please them. Not only did he impregnate a nurse he worked with, he had the audacity to marry her.

He took their disappointment in stride. I never saw him stressed or ill-tempered. He carried himself with an air of ease like he knew everything was going to work out.

Shannon was sweet and kind, both things my parents saw as weakness. They felt her profession was beneath Eric’s and the fact that she didn’t come from the right kind of family sealed her fate. They hated her and never attempted to hide it. Not when the children were born and especially not when Eric died.

“I’m really sorry. I get pissed at my brother too, but I can’t imagine losing him. How did he die?”

“Fatal arrhythmia.”

“So young.” She takes my hand and weaves her delicate fingers through mine. Such a small gesture, but it feels huge coming from her.

“Yeah. Apparently working seventy-hour weeks while juggling a family and multiple affairs isn’t good for your health.”

Everyone knew Eric was screwing around. His wife, our parents, the people he worked with, and me. If anyone ever confronted him about it, it was unbeknownst to me.

Looking back at it, I can’t even pinpoint why I didn’t address it. I should have talked to him, tried to make him see what he was doing to himself and his family. But ultimately, like everyone else, I chose to ignore the elephant in the crowded room. When he died in one of his resident’s beds, we couldn’t pretend it wasn’t happening anymore.

“That’s brutal,” she says, squeezing my hand harder.

It really was. Instead of grieving his death like any other personal tragedy, everyone went into damage control mode. My parents insisted on trying to contain it, but the medical community is small and word got around fast. The pitying looks Shannon received at the funeral were not only because she lost him, but how she lost him.

My sister-in-law took it like a seasoned vet. Her only concern was the kids, so that became my only concern too. I’d failed my brother; I wouldn’t fail his children.

“So,” I clear my throat, ready to move on from my dysfunctional family history. “Why is your brother the worst?”

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