Chapter Eight Bram #2
Anyway, after my grandmother died, I sold the family nursery to the longtime manager, put the substantial inheritance into a trust for the girls, and laid the past to rest. It’s done.
We’re all okay. We’re all working to be good to each other in the creaky, cluttered house bought with spare change and sweat.
“I just think that you may have associated love with privation, that’s all,” Sloane finishes.
Leo waves her off. “That’s not Bram’s damage. The problem is that he’s too good. No one ever taught him how to be selfish.”
“Or,” I say, “seeing as I’m the expert here, perhaps you’re both wrong, and I’m simply focusing on my kids and my career. I don’t have the time or energy for anything else.”
I’m given identical silver-eyed stares of doubt.
“Really,” I protest. “I’m not interested in”—I nod in Leo’s direction—“whatever it is that you do with your love life.”
“Love life?” Leo sounds offended.
“I’m perfectly happy with the way things are,” I maintain. “And if there’s anything I was missing, I wouldn’t find it doing some kind of facile, drive-through intimacy.”
“You’re right,” Leo says, earnestly. “I’d say you could only find it while actually driving. Or while parking. Or while having your parking spot stolen, perhaps?”
“Hmm. Why do you think she caught your interest when no one else has?” This Socratic musing is from Sloane.
“I have ideas,” Leo volunteers, and starts counting on his fingers. “Spankings. Sweater sets. Parking revenge. Sounds made while spanking—”
“Ew,” Fern says from the door. “Do I want to know?”
As one, we adults whip around to face the teen, terror in all of our faces.
“How much of that did you hear, sweetheart?” Sloane asks right as Leo splutters, “I was talking about an old woman who lives in a shoe!”
I push myself off the love seat and go to the door.
It’s warm out, the last of the truly hot days as September starts contemplating autumn, and Fern’s cheeks are bright red.
The fine dark hair framing her face is damp and clinging to her temples.
“Did you walk all the way here from school?” The hike up the hill is no joke, even from the faculty parking lot.
“Maddie dropped me off near the student union before she took the littles to the park,” says Fern. “She said that if I played my cards right, I could talk you into letting me use the laminator for some of my smaller flyers.”
I smile at Fern. “Maddie was right. We’ll laminate the heck out of your flyers.”
“Flyers for what?” asks Sloane.
“I’m running for student body president.” Fern looks terrified and proud . . . the same expression I wore when I cradled her little swaddled body for the first time.
“Baby’s first campaign!” Leo says with delight. “How deep are your opponent’s pockets, Fern? Actually, don’t answer that, it doesn’t matter, your uncle Leo’s are deeper. Do you want a billboard? Let’s get you a billboard.”
Fern looks aghast. “Uncle Leo! We can’t spend more than fifty dollars on our campaign!”
“And?” asks Leo.
“I mean, people might guess that I’m spending more than that if there’s a billboard with my face on it.”
Leo considers this. “And if I bought the billboard company?”
“I think they’ll still measure the advertisement in value, even if it’s technically free.”
“Well, is there an auditing committee? Some kind of snitch line? Tell me what I’m up against, and I’ll tell you how we get around it.”
Fern looks to me for help, and I just shrug. “We should follow the rules, honey, but I can’t lie, I’d love to watch you beat Simon.”
Her shoulders slump at the mention of Simon—but it has the opposite effect on the Saint James cousins.
They explode in noise and gestures—they both hated that kid—and Leo is already promising to buy off Midwest teen influencers to ruin Simon’s life, while Sloane is planning out a series of elaborate shopping excursions to give Fern the perfect weaponized campaign wardrobe.
This continues as they follow us upstairs to where the laminator is, and then on our way home, Fern picks up the chatter where the cousins left off, talking about debate prep and what she should wear and if she should force Simon to engage on the policy items he stole or come up with even better ones on her own.
When we get home, Maddie has already served the twins tomato soup and grilled cheese for dinner and is reading them a Curious George book.
After Fern wolfs down her own grilled cheese and pounds up the stairs to work on her plans for a debt-free lunchroom, I lean against the opening leading from the kitchen to the living room and watch Maddie listen seriously to Letty’s suspicious questions about why the Man in the Yellow Hat doesn’t take better care of Curious George, and then give equally serious answers.
Berry is trying to burrow under Maddie’s arm, and then against her thigh, and then behind her, between Maddie’s back and the couch, and Maddie handles it with a matter-of-fact affection.
I . . . don’t know how it makes me feel.
Or rather, I do know how watching it makes me feel, but I don’t know how I feel about the feeling.
How I feel about the tight, possessive heat in my chest, about wanting to watch her with the twins instead of doing anything else—about how good she looks in my house.
It’s primitive, the way I feel. I’m not a primitive person.
But later that night, as I’m braced against the shower wall with my forearm, my free hand working rhythmically below my navel, I am something worse than primitive, I’ve become something dishonorable.
She makes me fucking filthy, into a man I barely recognize, someone so obsessed with her green eyes and her soft mouth and her tight pussy that he has to beat off in the shower just to hope for a chance at sleep later.
Why do you think she caught your interest when no one else has? Sloane asked today, and I don’t know, I still don’t have an answer, and even as I release thickly against the wall, I’m at a loss.
I press my forehead against the tile, water sluicing from above and dripping off my nose and lips, and tell myself to stop. Just fucking stop. She’s too young. She’s too on my payroll. She’s too good at making me think and feel things that I don’t need to think and feel.
And most important, she’s just starting out here in Mount Astra. She’s got a bright career ahead of her, and the last thing she needs right now is some sweater vest–wearing professor trying to swoop in and appoint himself her bossy, greedy, spanking-curious daddy.