Page 32 of The Retreat

“Sit down and find new listings.” When I glance behind me, he’s pointing to the couch with a hard set to his jaw.

“Yes, daddy,” I sass him and plop down on the leather.

With his eyes on me, I unbutton my shirt and strip it off, tossing it to the side.

“Why are you taking your clothes off?” Owen is at the island with his mug in hand, watching me.

“If you want me to do something for you, I need you to do something for me.”

“Colin…” He drags out my name in warning.

“Wear the shirt.” I grab the shirt wrapped in plastic that got put back on the couch for whatever reason, and throw it at him like a frisbee.

It lands on the stone countertop and skids to a stop about two feet from him. He looks at it, looks at me, back to the shirt, and sighs.

“Fine.”

A crescendo happens down the hall as I slip my: Slut Bunny shirt on. Owen is stripping out of his own and pulling on the white crop top as a slightly disheveled Oliver appears. He stops immediately when he sees the shirt his brother is wearing.

“What the fuck is happening?” Those furious eyes turn to me. “Fine. You asked for this.” He points a threatening finger at me, then storms to what sounds like the office, coming back a few seconds later with a leather-bound book that’s no bigger than a postcard and a bag of prescription bottles.

“What is this?” I barely manage to catch it when he throws them at me.

“His pills. Good luck,” Oliver snaps.

Opening the book, I start to read.

Likes: chocolate muffins, Japanese yellowtail sushi roll from Sugarfish,silk pajamas, dark rooms. Do not turn on the big light!

There’s a list of doctors and phone numbers, pharmacies, and a prescription refill schedule.

“It’s on you if he throws himself off a building,” Oliver says at length.

“He wouldn’t do that.”

“I might if you two don’t stop fighting over me,” Owen deadpans.

Oliver turns on him. “When was the last time you ate?”

“I don’t know.”

Oliver turns back on me, raising his voice. “You’re not even feeding him.”

“He’s an adult! Why the hell do I have to feed him? He knows where the kitchen is,” I throw back.

Owen shrugs, “Because I won’t.” He picks up his coffee and takes another drink.

“That can’t be good for your anxiety,” I tell him.

Oliver walks over and takes the mug out of Owen’s hands, then pours it down the drain. “Are you not tracking his caffeine intake? No wonder he’s not sleeping. Has he had any water? You need to download this baby tracking app.” Oliver quickly finds the app on his phone and airdrops it to me.

“Is this for infants?” I deadpan. Seriously, has he gone off the deep end?

“Make sure to share the results with me,” Oliver demands, ignoring me.

“Are you two co-parenting?” Owen asks.

Oliver and I both turn to yell “No!” at him.

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