The Real Deal

The question comes from Tess’s husband, a balding dark-haired guy who seems to be trying to grow a goatee. My shirt is faded gray with an illustration of an office chair on it, and the words are printed in blocky letters. THE BEST THING ABOUT MY JOB IS THAT THE CHAIR SPINS.


“A store in Brooklyn. One of those places that sells Moleskine notebooks and LPs and T-shirts for hipsters,” I say, since that seems to be what he wants to hear. The married guy in the suburbs is always endlessly fascinated by the life of singles in the city. Plus, it’s the truth.

“It’s awesome. Love it. I want one,” he says as he bounces a baby on his shoulder.

Tess rolls her eyes as she tugs at her dark blond ponytail. “You work at a bakery. You don’t have a chair that spins. You don’t even really have a chair.”

“I don’t either, but I still like the shirt,” I say.

“See? He gets to have one,” Cory says, following it with a hearty yawn.

That’s my point exactly. Married dudes want what single guys have, even if it’s just the duds. Judging from the bags under his eyes and the tone of voice, this guy might be on the exhausted end of married.

“Fine. I’ll get you one,” Tess says, but it doesn’t sound flirty or affectionate. More resigned. Then, out of nowhere, a curly blond toddler climbs up from under the table and onto her lap. The kid smacks a small hand on his mom’s cheek.

“Hi, Mom.”

“Say hi with your words, not your hands,” Tess admonishes.

He swats her again.

Tess sighs and gives her husband an exasperated look.

Cory speaks to his son in a sweet but teaching tone. “Davey, what did we say about hands on faces?”

As Davey answers, I’m about ready to tug off my T-shirt and hand it to Cory. Seems the dude could use a pick-me-up.

A fat orange cat named Mo lounges on a well-worn leather armchair in the sprawling living room adjacent to the dining area. He stares at me with big green eyes. He never blinks. On the wall, a black-and-white tuxedo cat clock ticks and winks, ticks and winks.

“Can I get you something else to eat?” April’s mom asks me.

I set my fork down, having cleaned my plate. “No, thank you. That was as perfect as a breakfast can be.”

I can’t remember the last time anyone cooked breakfast for me. Oh, wait—I can. It was Richelle, the market researcher, who served me pancakes the morning she told me she wanted me to move in with her. The offer was tempting, considering she had a two-bedroom in the Village. She was loaded, and her closet full of Vuitton and Louboutin was like a billboard advertising the swell of her bank account. I didn’t date her for money, though. I had no idea how well-off she was. I’d gotten involved with her after she hired me as a professional sleeper. She was impressed with my reports on the beds, and loved the touch of humor I included in my write-ups. Then she wanted me to show her my favorite uses for a bed. They were her favorite uses, too.

We grew closer, then close enough for me to share things I rarely shared with anyone. I told her things I don’t tell anyone. Big mistake. A few days later, she rescinded the move-in-with-me offer, along with all her job offers, too. Kicked me out the door with barely a goodbye kiss.

Yeah, that gave me a bitter aftertaste when it comes to opening up my heart to someone.

I don’t miss her. She showed her true colors early enough. I do miss her pancakes, though. They were excellent with blueberries and syrup.

Before Richelle, breakfast was solely a do-it-yourself-dammit meal. My aunt didn’t make us breakfast when we lived with her. She was, however, remarkably talented at leaving a box of Rice Krispies on the kitchen counter for Heath and me. Milk was a different story. We had to get that ourselves.

It’s hard to fault her. She got stuck with the short end of a stick she never wanted when we were sent to live with her as two messed-up teenage boys, unexpectedly orphaned. But my brother and I figured out what we needed to survive on our own.

When we finish, and after I help Pamela clear the plates—hello, the newest guest has to help clear the plates—we take our seats again at the big breakfast table.

“It’s time,” April whispers with mischief in her tone.

“Good. Because I’m dying to know your little secret.”

She laughs, tossing her head back. “It’s so very scandalous.”

“I’ll be shocked, right?”

“Completely. Eyes bugging out of the head and everything.”

“Good thing you didn’t give me too much warning, then.”

She sets her hand on my arm. “I find it’s best to take snack-size bites when it comes to learning about my family.”

She has no idea.

April’s father stands, grabs a cowbell from the table and rings it. Loud and bright.

A boatbuilder, he’s the kind of man who works in the sun. But his skin doesn’t look like tree bark, so I bet his wife has kept him supplied with top-of-the-line sunscreen his whole life. She looks out for him. I can tell by the way she gazes at him adoringly. It’s how my dad looked at my mom, once upon a time.

A lump has the audacity to form in my throat, and I swallow it away, looking at the timekeeping cat’s tail switching mechanically back and forth until the feeling disappears.

“Everything okay?” April whispers.

Perceptive one. “Everything is perfect,” I whisper, then brush another kiss on her cheek.

It’s a harmless kiss, like the one I gave her last night in the train station. Cheeks are not verboten. Her eyelids flutter, though, and I catch a faint whiff of her shampoo. It’s ridiculously sexy, and it smells like raspberries. Jesus Christ, I want to kiss her again. I want to move her hair off her neck and learn what the delicate skin there tastes like. I want to drag my nose through all those blond curls. The softest gasp had floated from her lips when I kissed her on the porch, and now I’m damn curious what sounds she’d make if I kissed her deeper, harder, all over.

I spread the napkin over my lap.

The conversations slow and still, and all eyes turn to the patriarch.

“Greetings and good morning to Hamiltons, in-laws of Hamiltons, and friends of Hamiltons, both old and new,” he says, but doesn’t look at me, and I sense it’ll take some time to win him over.

“I couldn’t be more delighted to welcome all of you to the Hamilton Family Reunion, to thank you for traveling to Wistful, and to let you know that this year, more than any other year, I want to bring this home.”

He bends to his chair at the head of the table, grabs something square and silvery from the seat cushion, and holds it high above his head. I peer at the picture frame in his hands. The image inside is a trophy, Vince Lombardi style, with a replica of a wooden boat rather than a football.

“We’ll do it, Josh! I know we can,” Aunt Jeanie says with a fist pump and a festive cheer. Her husband, Greg, a skinny, quiet guy with a silver mustache, echoes her fist pump with one of his own.

Josh smiles, but it’s rueful. “I hope so. It’s been eight years since we claimed the trophy. Eight long, devastating years of my best friend and business partner besting me at the Quadrennial Hamilton and Moore Summer Lawn Olympics and Games.”

Holy shit. It’s a competitive reunion. It’s not just picnics and barbecues. It’s events, games, and contests.

April leans in to whisper. “Bob Moore is my dad’s best friend, who lives down the street and runs the company with him.”

“Real useful to give me the details now, cupcake,” I tease.

She shrugs and shoots me a cute smile.

Her dad’s voice booms across the breakfast room. “And this year, I know we can do it. I know we can beat him at cornhole, Frisbee, watermelon eating, scavenger hunt, egg toss, and even Junk in the Trunk.”

I arch a brow at April, and she smirks. “That’s a newer one, and it’s so fun,” she whispers, but I don’t glean any more details since her father resumes his speech.