Page 97 of The Homemaker
“This isn’t my first suit either,” I say.
“It’s your first big boy suit,” Blair says before sipping her wine. “And don’t give me that look. I’m just stating the obvious. You know I fell in love with your jeans and wrinkled T-shirt.”
“The suit I have still fits me. And I’m abig boy,so …”
The tailor clears his throat and mumbles, “I don’t think it counts if it’s off the rack.”
“The hell it doesn’t,” I mumble. “Ouch,” I grit through my teeth.
“Sorry, sir,” he says.
He’s not sorry. He poked me on purpose.
“Your owliness is a real ick, babe.” Blair wrinkles her nose.
“My owliness? And what is an ick?”
“I know you’re unsettled right now. But we’ll be in New York before you know it. So, can you just stop moaning and groaning about everything? It’s an ick. A turn off.”
“Oh, lord, son.” Hunter shakes his head. “Don’t be an ick. I’ve dumped too much money into a third wedding to let my daughter change her mindagain.”
“Hunter!” Vera snaps.
“I’m kidding.” He tips up his chin, scratching his neck while sliding his gaze to me. “I’m not kidding,” he whispers.
“What if I have a few icks with you too,” I say to Blair.
Silence.
It’s so quiet I can hear the tailor gulp, the pin sliding through the fibers of the imported Italian fabric.
Vera presses a hand to her throat like she’s choking on her response.
Blair narrows her eyes, head cocked to the side. “Oh,really? And what might those be?”
“Run,” Hunter whispers.
“I didn’t say I did. I just askedwhat ifI did? Would you want me to mention them?”
“Seriously, son. Run!” Hunter says with more urgency.
Vera frowns at her husband.
“Yeah. Let’s hear them.” Blair sets her wine on themarble coaster atop the dark wood table next to the velvet sofa.
“Don’t be stupid,” the tailor whispers.
“No.” I pull back my shoulders because I’m not running out of here with my tail between my legs. “I don’t have anything to share right now. But it’s nice to know that if or when I do, you’re open to listening.”
Am I owly? Yes. Why? I think it has a lot to do with a certain homemaker. Honest to God, I love Blair. But I can’t stop thinking about Alice. I can’t stop wanting to touch her, feel her skin against mine. Maybe it’s infatuation—my own moment of temporary insanity. And as I think this, I feel terrible because everything in my head sounds selfish and insensitive.
Maybe not the tailor, but I need someone to give me sage advice. My father would have done it. He’d say something like, “Murphy, you already know everything you’ll ever need to know in life.”
I know my head hurts. My heart aches. And my instincts are shit.
There are the things that peopleshoulddo in their lives. Then there is Murphy Paddon, who does the opposite. Most of the time, I regret it. But sometimes, I get it right. The odds are not in my favor.
The trip home is uncomfortable, to put it mildly. Hunter makes me ride in front with him. When I glance back at Vera and Blair, daggers fly toward my head. After Hunter parks in the garage, he reaches for my arm just as I open my door to get Blair’s for her. He gives me a quick headshake. When the women disappear into the house without a backwards glance at me, he releases a deep sigh.
