Page 3 of Plunge

CHAPTER THREE

Fletcher

“You’re invited!” The postcard features green and yellow raindrops pouring down on a cartoon baby. The happy font on the front of the card sits in start contrast to my sister’s angry scrawl on the back: You better come the hell home for Hunter’s baby shower. —D

I toss it back in my suitcase along with the other mail my assistant thought I should have with me on vacation. I’m not sure how she managed to time the arrival stubs from paid bills and insurance documents perfectly with my island hopping, but I guess that’s what I pay her for.

My brother Hunter is having a baby, and I’m camped out on a beach waiting for some no-strings tail to wander my way. I signal to the resort staff to bring me another drink and slouch lower in my lounge chair. I really don’t feel like going home to a family function where all my siblings are parading around their stable, respectable adult lives.

The days in the Caribbean flash by in a drunken haze, but I’ve got another week or so until I need to be in Abu Dhabi to prepare for the next auto race program my company is producing.

I extend my stay another week and let my sister’s calls go straight to voicemail. I’ve gathered that she’s been doing most of the planning for Hunter’s baby shower, but she also does a lot of the planning for all the dumb festivals in my hometown and nobody seems to care too much when I miss Autumn Apple and the Cherry Blossom parades.

From the deck of my lanai I have a perfect view of the beach volleyball tournament that sprang up while I was sleeping off my last round of Pina coladas. I lean on the railing, sipping water and just watching. Every now and then an errant ball rolls close enough that I can wink at the pretty young thing who stoops to pick it up.

Only because I’m this level of distracted do I answer the phone when my brother Archer calls. I vaguely remember that he’s been having trouble wooing a woman he likes. Again, I’m not sure why he thinks I can be at all helpful with that.

“She’s gone skittish again,” he blurts, before launching into a long discussion of how he can’t seem to win over this woman that apparently only wants him for sex. Honestly, I’d love to have this sort of problem.

Another tall, tanned athlete jogs over in her tiny bikini to snag the volleyball her opponent slammed into the sand. I think about Archer’s situation as I stare at her—wouldn’t it be nice if they all walked away from me immediately after sex? If they all ignored my calls instead of wanting something deeper? “It’s hard for me to relate to your situation, bro,” I tell him, taking a long pull from my water bottle.

He sighs and asks if I’m coming to Hunter’s baby shower, which I’ve just noticed is taking place Thanksgiving weekend. “I don’t think so, man. It’s a lot of hassle to deal with customs and visas and all that. My next event is in the UAE. Besides,” I rush in before he can come back with a counterpoint, “aren’t baby showers usually just for women? Is that a thing men are supposed to attend?”

We argue a bit more about what a shitty son I am for never coming home, and then my brother casually drops a bomb that turns my blood to ice. I drop my water bottle and the cool liquid splashes on my bare feet. I stare at the beads of water clinging to my toes. “Say that again?”

“Mrs. McMurray had a stroke.”

Thistle McMurray’s mother, Teresa, was friends with our mother for years. But they’re both in their 50s, and it makes no sense that my ex-girlfriend’s mother would have a stroke. I feel the hairs on my arms stand up as I think about Thistle, about the last conversation I had with her mother before I left Oak Creek ten years ago.

Archer’s right about one thing. I really don’t come home too often. And there’s a reason for that: the McMurray family.

I clear my throat and draw in a breath. “First of all, that sucks, dude. Second, why would you tell me that information?”

My brother ignores the question and starts explaining that Teresa can walk and seems just fine other than not being able to talk. I stop paying attention again and work on my breathing, staring at the water on my feet as it evaporates in the hot sun.

Archer rattles on. “Hunter was explaining it to me but it was all above my head. She can type and think still. Anyway, Thistle moved home. I’m going to hire her.”

I stagger back on the deck, tripping on the lounge chair and falling onto it with a clatter. Did my brother seriously just say he’s going to hire my ex? “Like to work for you? What the fuck, Archer?”

“Dad sort of suggested it. Well, him and the giant headache I got working until 4am to prepare Q-3 taxes for my last client ahead of the deadline.”

“What does that have to do with Thistle?”

I can almost feel Archer rolling his eyes at me, but I don’t give a shit and wish we could go back to just talking about this woman using him for sex. He spits out, “Thistle is in town for the foreseeable future. She’s a CPA, too. It makes sense.”

“I’m not comfortable with this,” I manage to grunt out.

“Well, man, if I hadn’t told you, you wouldn’t even know because you never come home. So.” Neither of us speaks for awhile. I hear him tapping his fingers on the table. “You gonna offer me any advice about Opal?”

When I don’t answer, he starts back in asking me if I’m coming home. I can’t think. I hang up and flop back in the chair.

I focus on my breathing, knowing that my high school girlfriend from ten years ago shouldn’t be affecting me this viscerally anymore. It’s not normal. I grab onto my hair and start tugging, finding the stinging sensation on my scalp to be soothing as I try to calm down.

It’s not like she and I had any sort of noteworthy ending, apart from the fact that I got her pregnant and fucked up both of our life plans. I also lost the respect of every adult in town, including Teresa, who will evidently never scream at me again because she can’t talk anymore.

A shrill whistle from the volleyball game draws my attention back to the present and I stand up. Suddenly, I can’t be here anymore. I need to move, get my ass in gear. If I bury my head in work and prepare for the next event, I won’t have to think about all this shit.

I pull out my phone and dial my assistant. “Emily,” I shout as soon as she picks up. “Get me the next flight to Abu Dhabi.”

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