“Right-o, Daddy-o.”
His lips purse.
I roll my eyes behind his back as he walks me to the elevator bank. Like the gentleman he was raised to be, Dad pushes the down button for me and waits for the car to arrive.
“Have a good time tonight,” he says. “If we don’t see you at the house this weekend, have a good weekend.”
It sounds odd hearing your parent tell you to have a good weekend as if you’re a regular employee and not their daughter.
“Thanks Dad.” I laugh, grateful for the elevator’s arrival, and sigh against the wall when I get in and the door closes, thankful to be alone. Thankful to be done for the day.
Okay, I admit it: this job is painful.
It’s not horrible—there are worse things in the world than being your dad’s gopher and being bored at work, especially in this economy—but the atmosphere is stuffy and cold, which makes the workplace suck.
Typical Westbrooke vibe.
I don’t bother heading home to change my outfit for Hollis’s house; it’s Friday, so this morning I decided to dress casually, ended up wearing jeans and a sweater—perfect for lounging around on my cousin’s giant, comfortable couch.
There are half a dozen cars in the drive when I arrive, stomach already growling, my manners niggling at me—should I have stopped and gotten something to bring along? A bottle of wine perhaps? Salad dressing? Dinner rolls?
Shoot, I don’t know, but it suddenly feels rude showing up without food to share. Hollis and Buzz have been gone all week and she most likely hasn’t been to the store.
Relax—they have people for that.
Not that Hollis has become lazy, but Buzz has a housekeeper who thinks it’s her new mission in life to keep him and his new wife fed. Every week she keeps their fridge stocked, house clean, and bellies full.
I shake off the guilt at arriving empty-handed and lift my hand to the door to knock. When it’s pulled open, it’s not my cousin’s face that greets me or even her new husband’s, but the one face I didn’t think I’d be seeing again any time soon.
Tripp.
“What are you doing here?” he rudely questions, filling the doorway, wearing gray sweatpants and a Blues hoodie. His feet are bare, but he’s wearing a stocking cap as if it’s twenty degrees outside and he’d catch his death without it.
I square my shoulders. “I was just going to ask you the same thing.”
There.
That should shut him up.
“It’s a family dinner,” he tells me, opening the door farther so I can enter.
“Good thing I’m family,” I smart back, stepping inside with a toss of my hair, mumbling “Ass” under my breath.
I don’t wait for him to catch up but stop short when I arrive at the kitchen, a vaguely familiar older couple seated at the counter staring at me, along with another young woman who can only be the other Wallace.
True. Their sister.
We’ve met, but only briefly, amidst the chaos and confusion and excitement of the wedding parties and preparation, surface small talk and banter, though nothing deep.
His sister.
His parents.
My stomach churns.
I haven’t seen my cousin since the wedding, and I’ve only met his mother and father once. All they actually know about me is that I know karate and can lift their son.
Oh god, what if they hate me? What if I’m only that girl from the tabloids—the one he was photographed sucking face on the sidewalk, in the rain?
“Chandler dear,” Mrs. Wallace says, rising from the barstool and coming at me with outstretched arms. “How lovely to see you!”
“Dial it down, Ma,” Tripp mutters, still behind me, no doubt shooting her one of his famous agitated looks above my head.
“Hi there.” Nervously, I tuck a stray lock of hair behind my ear and give everyone a wimpy little wave, accompanied by a wobbly smile. “Am I interrupting a family thing? I hate to intrude.”
There must have been some mistake, or a miscommunication between myself and Hollis—I thought friends would be here, not just a gathering of Buzz’s family.
Which definitely makes me feel like an interloper.
They all look so comfortable, lounging around in their casual clothes, my cousin and her new husband tan and glowing from their week in the sun. Relaxed. Happy. His arm is around her shoulders and he’s kissing her temple, their lips then meeting for a quick peck.
That’s what love looks like.
Easy.
Comfortable.
“Chandler!” Hollis exclaims, breaking away from the hubby to enfold me in a hug. “I missed you!” She takes my hand and drags me around the kitchen counter, where a feast is spread out. Food in giant tin chafing dishes, steaming hot and ready to eat. “Look at all this! I’m starving and you’re right on time—we were just about to eat and watch the Bolts play the Wildcats.”
My eyes stray to Tripp, who’s flopped onto the living room couch.
“What about him? Does he have a game this weekend?”
“No, it’s a bye week.” Hollis is already busy handing me a plate and utensils and digging into the piping hot lasagna to explain what that means. Luckily, I already know the term since I was raised in a family where they live and breathe sports.
In sports that play every single week during their season, each team gets one entire week off and doesn’t have a single game.
This is Tripp’s week off.
I thought he had off during Buzz’s wedding, but I must have been mistaken. Perhaps they did a good enough job planning the entire thing so he could attend, what with their agents and managers and publicists scheduling everything—they must have all coordinated so the brothers could be together.
When my plate is full—bearing garlic bread and salad, too—I am ushered to the massive table off the kitchen where a few other things are set out, tiny cheesecakes and brownie bites.
“You’re going to have to roll me out of here when we’re done,” I tease, eying a strawberry dessert. “Where did these come from?”
“I made those, dear,” Mrs. Wallace tells me, taking the chair across from me, motioning for her husband to sit down next to her. True sits next to him, Buzz on the other side of his mother, and Hollis on one side of me, leaving only one space for the remaining Wallace.
By my side.
How convenient. They couldn’t have made their strategy any more obvious.
When Tripp straddles the bench I’m on to sit his ass down, he bumps my back with his plate, nudges my knee with his thigh, and hits my arm with his elbow—as if he is an elephant in a delicate tea shop that cannot stop breaking things.
The man is about as subtle as a runaway dump truck plowing through a dining room wall.
And he has his eye on my meal.
“Are you going to eat that?” His hand is halfway between us, fingers taking on a claw shape—aka: grabby hands. Steering toward my carbs.
“Do not start that again,” I grumble, too hungry to tolerate his antics so early on in the evening. “You have a plate of food—stop bothering me.”
“I thought we were friends” comes his low reply, his teeth tearing into the garlic bread in his hand. “Friends share.”
“Just because I kissed you does not make us friends.”