Page 11 of A Very Un-Shakespeare Romance
“You’re stressed to the max, so you get a pass this time.”
Tim sat across from them on the matching white leather ottoman. Robbie nearly winced at howArchitectural Digestthis place was, a magazine he’d only glanced at once in the dentist’s office because all the others had been taken. He liked things clean and orderly, but the theme of this place fairly screamed two things: beach and family-friendly, from the boating and ocean subjects in the paintings and knickknacks and inspirational sayings hanging from the walls likeBeach Life is Sunshine andSmiles, I Can See Clearly Now, and his favorite,Life is Better in Flip-Flops. Kill him, right now.
“Also, you’re going to have to clean your mouths up.” Tim tipped his beer at them accusingly. “You can’t be saying fuck and shit and everything else you string together around Reagan and Cassidy.”
“But fuck is my go-to word,” Billie complained. “If I stop using it, I won’t have anything to say. I’ll be a mute. Like inMonty Python.”
That sent Robbie into even more laughter. “Come on, Tim. That was funny.”
“Keep it down, will you?” Their baby brother jerked his head toward the stairs. “The girls might have been asleep when we tucked them in, but they won’t be if you keep braying like hyenas.”
“Mother hen is already doing her job.” Billie slugged his beer and groaned. “God, I needed that. I never knew kids had so many questions or needed to play with something every f—reaking minute. Were we like that? Mom would have killed us. I mean, what the hell would I have played with—”
“Yourself,” Robbie broke in.
“Right? Big Stallion does like to come out of the pasture.”
This old dick joke led to more snorting laughter from him, but he was glad Tim joined in this time. Their youngest brother always had the hardest time feeling like he belonged. Mostly because they were rough and sometimes crude, and Tim wasn’t.
“I never asked so many questions,” Billie continued on his rant. “What state are we in now? Why does that cloud look so weird? Don’t you just love Miss Purrfect’s collar?”
Robbie had to wipe tears leaking from his eyes as he guffawed at Billie’s girlish impression. “Why in the world did Tara name that cat Miss Purrfect? That feline is the farthest thing from perfect. It’s downright hostile.”
Tim’s lips twisted as he drank his beer. “That’s because you’ve taken it out of its environment and keep glaring back at it. And Tara told me she named that cat perfect because she wanted her girls to know it’s all right to snarl and scratch when they have to—and it doesn’t make them bitches. Just independent women.”
Billie slapped his forehead. “You’re kidding! Wait. I thought dogs were the bitches. Not cats.”
Robbie’s shoulders shook with laughter. “You think Tara, who had no trouble telling Sister Mary Louis that she couldn’t make her do something she didn’t want because God gave her free will, would care about that little detail?”
“God, I forgot that story.” Billie got a nostalgic smile on his face. “I can still see Sister’s blank shock as she stood there in front of our class. That nun was never speechless. Mom laughed when Tara came home with me that day to do her homework.”
“And Mom usually didn’t laugh about discipline issues,” Robbie said with fond remembrance. “But Sister was in the wrong for trying to make Tara stop wearing ribbons in her hair. From the minute she had hair, she wanted something pretty in it.”
“Her girls are the same way,” Billie said with a laugh. “Reagan asked if I could change the bow in her hair while you were driving. She said she wasn’t feeling it anymore. Can you believe that?”
“You drive different cars depending on your mood,” Tim pointed out, as if it wasn’t a well-known fact that Billie had a collection of them, or near enough, because he liked renovating old cars in his spare time. “Tara—and now her girls—beautify. I think it’s cute.”
“Well, I think it’s a little nutso, especially since Reagan asked me to make sure the bow was straight. The point is, I’m having Father O’Malley say a mass for our dear mother and all the others out there who put up with this crap. And I’m seriously considering snipping my you-know-what to make sure I don’t end up having to raise any kids who ask ridiculous questions and want me to do things like adjust their glittery bows.”
“You might give it a few months before making that kind of decision,” Tim pointed out with an eyeroll. “But if you’re already cracking after a car trip of barely thirteen hours, I can’t wait to see how you are in three or four days.”
Billie’s response was to pick up a small seashell from the glass coffee table decorated with them and throw it at their brother.
He caught it deftly. “And you should stop throwing things. We need to set a good example for the girls.”
“We roughhoused as kids,” Robbie put in. He took another swig of his beer, mentally thanking Tara for thinking to pick it up. “With Kathleen, if you recall.”
“Our baby sister is more like a guy thanks to all of your brotherly influencing.” Tim stood and gently put the shell back on the coffee table. “Tara’s girls are girly girls like her. We can’t treat them the same way.”
“You mean we can’t take them to the salvage yard or give them a welding set for Christmas like we did with our sis?” Billie asked.
Kathleen had become a metal artist, so Robbie figured they’d done something right. But from the look Tim was giving Billie, he decided he’d better not say so.
“Baby bro,” Billie continued, “if you start listing all of the things I can’t do, you’re going to find yourself pantsed and dumped in the ocean out there.”
Billie’s threats and imposing nature was the very reason Robbie had asked him to come along, but he knew it was time to intercede. “None of us are going to like refraining from cussing or throwing things at each other—”
“Basically not being ourselves,” Billie added sullenly.
