Page 40 of Feel Me

“Hey, what’s up, Declan? Ready for the F-150 your ass needs to be driving.”

“No, Wren,” I say. “Wait, what the hell? You don’t even sell cars anymore?”

“That doesn’t mean I’m not watching out for you. And honest to shit, you’ve got to stop driving those metro-sexual pieces of crap. I can get you a deal on a sweet ride that will have women tossing their panties against your windshield every time you drive down South Street.”

“I don’t need a new car,” I insist. Compared to the rest of my family, I’m the most serious. I’ve had to be to get where I am. But I’ll admit this whole thing with Mel makes me even more serious because I don’t want to screw it up.

“Look, I have something to tell you,” I say, speaking slowly so she knows I’m not messing around. The problem is I’m more serious than she’s used to and takes it the wrong way.

“Holy shit,” she says, her voice cracking. “Ma’s dead, isn’t she?”

“What?No, listen.”

Of course, she doesn’t. “Finnie!” she yells to our brother. “Ma’s dead!”

“What?” Finnie shouts somewhere in the background.

“Declan says Ma’s dead!”

“Christ, Wren. Ma’s not dead. That’s not why I’m calling!”

“Ma’s not dead?” she squeaks. “You sure? Is she sick?”

“No!” I snap. “I just talked to her the other night when she came in from Bingo.”

“Then why would you make me think something’s wrong? Jesus Christ, you sounded like hell,” she fires back. There’s some shuffling. “It’s okay, Finnie, calm down. Ma’s not dead.”

“Then why he’d make you think she was?” Finn asks, sounding confused.

“God only knows, you know how he gets,” she tells him.

“You’re an asshole, Declan,” Finn shouts.

I am. An asshole for calling this nuthouse.

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Look Wren, I need some advice.”

She pauses. “About cars?”

“No.”

“Trucks?”

“No,” I say.

“How to dress like you actually have balls?” she offers.

“Just because I won’t wear that damn biker jacket you bought me for Christmas doesn’t mean I don’t dress like I have balls.”

If he wasn’t covered with ink, or didn’t drive a truck or muscle car, my sister didn’t consider any guy a real man. ThankGod, she upped her standards when she found Evan.

“I paid good money for that jacket,” she says, getting defensive.

“Lord help me,” I mumble.

“So what’s up?”

I take breath. “If you were single, what would you want a guy to bring if you invited him to your place for dinner?”

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