Page 55 of The Wrong Brother

They both loved Rafferty’s work as much as I do and were incredibly helpful in setting everything up. We made him an art-specific email account and Instagram. They also helped me compile a list of helpful hashtags to try to get his work seen more. Now that it’s done I’m equally excited and scared to show him. I want him to see how proud I am, how much I want to support that part of him, but I’m afraid he’ll be mad at me for overstepping. The scared part is winning. I keep putting off showing him. He’s talked to Ka‘eo since then, though, and is currently working on a design for the fundraiser t-shirts. I had to awkwardly text Norah while they were on the video chat so they wouldn’t accidentally reveal the art account.

On a coffee break, I pull out my phone and log into the new Instagram account. Rafferty Simms Art has three hundred new followers! I’ve only posted one piece of art so far but the second post was the photo I used for his profile. I have no doubt that’s where the followers came from. It’s my favorite photo I’ve taken of him. He’s in the corner of our bedroom, on the stool in front of his easel. He’s shirtless (yummy) and all those gorgeous muscles and tattoos are on full display. His hair is pulled up in a sloppy bun, he has paint speckled on his forearms and fingers, and his posture is relaxed. I snapped it when he was looking right at me, smiling. He’s so handsome and you can tell how happy he is, doing something he loves. I wanted to leave a caption, explaining who he is but it felt weird writing as if I was him and weirder still like writing like an anonymous stranger. I left it simple: “creating magic.”

There are quite a few dirty comments about women wanting him to make magic with them. Whatever ladies, drool away. I post a second painting, this one from the series he’s been doing recently. I haven’t asked what they’re supposed to be but I like how they make me feel. He told me this one, a diagonal creamy curve radiating out with colors blending from rosy pink to a worn denim blue, is titled “Home.” I scroll back, looking at the photo of Rafferty again when the small business department’s receptionist comes up behind me.

“Who’s the thirst trap, Catherine?”

I jump in surprise then laugh at how ridiculous I am. “Where’d you hear that term, Margie?” She’s in her late 70s and the most matronly woman I’ve ever met. I adore her.

“My granddaughter taught it to me! This is the first time I’ve tried it out. Did I do it right?” We walk back towards my office together since Margie’s desk is in the alcove nearby.

“You did, I’m impressed!” I’m about to ask after her granddaughter when I stop short, the thirst trap leaning against my open office door.

“Oh, honey, I thought that was an anonymous picture-gram man—nice one.” Margie nudges me forward and goes back to her desk.

It’s strange seeing Rafferty in my cold, clinical-feeling office building. He’s too vibrant to belong here. He brushes a chaste kiss across my cheekbone, but no touch from him feels chaste.

“You forgot your lunch. I didn’t want you to be hangry by the time you got home.” He’s leaning into me, his fingers possessively on my hip bone, his lips still close to mine.

“No one wants to deal with hangry Catherine, am I right?”

The new voice makes me jerk, sloshing hot coffee over my own hand and taking all the good feelings with it. I don’t want to deal with this shit right now. Gleaming white teeth are flashing at me from that smile I used to think I loved. He looks perfectly turned out from his shiny, parted hair to his shiny, expensive leather shoes.

“Connor. I don’t believe we have an appointment today.”

He laughs like I said something hilarious. “I had some receipts I wanted to drop off to you and,” he glances at Rafferty, “I was hoping we could talk.”

“If you need help, Margie, the receptionist, can show you,again, how to log in and access our secure dropbox. You should be using that to send me all the necessary paperwork, like receipts. It will save you driving over here, especially without an appointment when I don’t have any time in my schedule for unscheduled meetings.”

He nods, looking oddly sad, and hands me a folder. Rafferty gestures back towards the elevators.

“I’m heading out too, let’s walk together. I had a question about gifts.” They walk out, Raff shooting me a smile over his shoulder. Margie appears at my side, a roll of paper towels in hand. I take them gratefully, cleaning up the spill and myself.

“I don’t know what all that was about, honey, but that thirst trap of yours is a keeper. You hang on to that one.”

I can’t disagree with her. Rafferty handled that much better than I would have. The rest of my afternoon meetings go off without a hitch and I’m even able to make it home early! Rafferty isn’t home yet and I’m giddy with the thought of making dinner and surprising him. I pull a page from his book and put on some music while I’m throwing together an Asian salad. I plate everything up and put two filets of mahimahi in to broil.

In a fit of inspiration, I strip naked and slip on my highest pair of heels and a frilly apron my grandmother gave me that is really too pretty to actually use. I hear his key in the lock as I’m bent over, pulling out the fish. I may pause there, for maximum effect, not straightening up until I hear his sharp intake of breath. It’s all in the details.

“What is my Kitty Cat cooking up in here?” Rafferty’s smile is hungry.

“Are you ready to eat?”

“I definitely want to eat what I’m seeing. I’m all sweaty though.”

“I could be too if you work hard enough.”

He eats me on the countertop and kitchen sex delays our dinner further. We give exactly zero fucks. Wait, that can’t be right. There’s absolutely fucking in there. We simply don’t care about the cold mahimahi. I’m still getting the hang of the sexy talk. The party is this weekend and I can’t find it in me to give any fucks about that either. We’ll still go because I don’t want to let Bob and Helen down, but none of the rest of the shit I was worried about even matters. It all seems so trivial now. I know how the columns tally and I love getting to be the one who truly sees Rafferty.

After dinner, I give him a gift: the patches I’ve been working on. He was very complimentary about the first one and I’ve been anxious to finish so he could see the rest. I hope he thinks they’re cute and funny. I want them to show how much I value all the facets of us, that it’s more than sex and much more than helping me save face at a party. I made an “S.F.” with a frame made from mirrored showerheads, shampoo bottles, water droplets, and bubbles for Shower Friends. There’s another with “N.F.” that is surrounded by fluffy pillows, streaming golden rays that I hope look like sunlight, and little floating “z’s” for Nap Friends. The third one has a block script reading “B.C.F.” with small books around the frame for Book Club Friends. The fourth has a fancier script for the “S.F.” to differentiate it from the first one. It has hearts, lips, and a little pile of laundry consisting of a bikini and shorts. Fingers crossed that he gets it’s supposed to represent Sex Friends. There’s another one I want to make but I’m struggling with what images to put in the frame to illustrate the name. And, to be totally transparent, I’m not sure if it’s a patch he’s ready for yet. He seems more hesitant than I feel but I was afraid if I waited for inspiration to strike or more surety, he’d never get any of them.

He opens the box, spreading each one out on his lap, looking at them closely. His reaction is…subdued. I try not to let it hurt my feelings. I don’t know everything he did today, maybe he’s particularly tired? He kisses my cheek and thanks me for the thoughtful gifts. I am a teensy bit disappointed. I thought he would love them. I hoped he’d laugh and maybe he’d smile at our inside jokes. I’ve gotta figure out the last one. Maybe seeing the finished set together will truly express everything. That could make all the difference.

Rafferty begs off of reading together, saying he’s too tired. He curls on his side, facing away from me. I’ve gotten used to going to sleep wrapped in his arms. I feel distance stretching between us and I don’t understand what caused it. I press my front to his back, big spoon to his much bigger “little” spoon, desperate to regain that closeness. His breathing tells me he’s not asleep but the fact that he’s pretending tells me enough. I press my lips between his shoulder blades with a shaky breath, swallowing back my tears.What did I do?

35

rafferty

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