Page 17 of Hold You Close
She groans. “I’m sorry, I know I shouldn’t give you shit today of all days, but you said you could be there.”
“I thought I could. Look, it’s a Wednesday night. We won’t be that busy.”
“That’s what you said last time you didn’t come in on a weekday night, and there were two fights in line.”
I frown and change lanes without signaling. You’re a reckless driver, I hear in my head. “You’ll have to handle it, Drea. I’ve got family issues.”
She sighs. “Okay. I’ll see if I can get a second bouncer for the door tonight. Maybe another one for inside, too.”
“Fine.”
A pause. “The service was beautiful.”
“Thanks.”
“Are you . . . okay?”
“I’m fine. Call me if there’s an emergency.” I end the call before she can even reply.
I’m not okay. I’m so far from okay I can’t even see where the line for okay begins. I’m livid, hurt, confused, and if I’m honest, I’m scared out of my fucking mind. Three kids. I am now responsible for three kids. And I have to be good at it, because that’s what my sister wanted.
It will be a huge lifestyle change for me, but for those kids, I’ll do it.
What I won’t do is pretend I’m not very upset at said sister. First, she goes and dies on me--I know that’s not the most mature way to look at it, but I’m a broken man. Then, she leaves everyone under the fucking sun a goodbye letter except me. Why?
Of all the people who needed one, I needed it the most.
London gets one.
The kids, of course, get one.
Hell, even our parents, who we only see at Christmas, get one.
But not her brother, the one she decided should be in charge of raising her kids. Nope. I’m just the low man on the totem pole.
When I get home, I go upstairs and look into all the bedrooms. Needless to say, they are not suitable for children. One has a freestanding sex swing in the corner, which I hurriedly disassemble and hide in the loft of my three-car garage. One has a collection of toys under the bed—and I’m not talking about the kind from Fisher Price. I gather them all up and stuff them into a suitcase, then shove the suitcase in the attic. The last one might be okay except there’s a mirror on the ceiling. I cringe. How the fuck am I going to explain that? I only have three spare rooms, so if the girls don’t want to share, one of the kids will end up in here. There’s no time to remove it, so I decide to move the damn bed and claim it was here when I moved in.
My very discreet housekeeper changes the bedding any time I have guests, and she always keeps the rooms clean and the bathrooms stocked with fresh towels, but I double-check it all anyway. I want to feel as prepared as possible.
Downstairs, I look around at my kitchen and living room. What else would the kids need besides a place to sleep and put their clothes?
Food?
Shit. That could be a problem. My housekeeper grocery shops for me, but I’m not much of a cook.
I walk over to my fridge and open it. A bunch of takeout boxes. Eggs. Bacon. A few apples. Ketchup and mustard. In the freezer are a few bottles of booze, trays of ice cubes, a frozen pizza, some chicken breasts, and a mystery container, probably full of something Sabrina made and brought me, but has been in here so long I forgot about it. I take out the pizza box and stare at it, but it’s not enough to feed four people. Six if my parents come. Seven if I break down and include London.
Sticking the box back in the freezer, I walk over to the sliding glass door that leads out to the pool and look across the back yard. She’s outside—I can see her standing on her deck, holding a glass of wine in one hand. She’s changed out of the black suit into a tank top and shorts, and her hair is down.
When I bought this house two years ago, I had no idea the yard backed up to hers. When Sabrina realized it and told me, I had a good laugh about how furious it was going to make London to live so close to me. To be unable to ignore my existence like she’d been so hell-bent on doing for the previous fifteen years. To be forced to see and hear me enjoying life while she’s over there drinking wine and talking to her cat.
She turns in my direction, but I know she can’t see me. My windows are mirrored glass, so I can see out, but you can’t even see a shadow from the other side. I like my privacy. She takes a sip from her glass, and I think how easy it would be for me to walk out there and call to her. Invite her over. Tell her I could use a drink too. Tell her I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to be such a dick today, but my best friend is gone and my life is upside down and I don’t want anyone to know I feel so fucking alone I could cry.
But she’d only sayI told you so. That’s what women do. You show them any sign of weakness and they fucking move in for the kill. Those moments today when she pretended she wanted to get along with me so we could give the kids hope were just bullshit. She only wanted to use this as another opportunity to prove I’m an irresponsible jackass, unfit to take care of the kids. One morefuck you for what you did to me, Ian, as if I haven’t already paid the price.
After giving her one last glare, I move away from the window, pick up my phone off the counter, and call my mom to find out what time she’ll be over with the kids and what they like on their pizza.
“I don’t wantto watch Captain America, Chris,” Morgan says as she rips the remote from his hand. “I want to watch Gilmore Girls. You don’t get to hog the remote!”
