Chapter 18
Chapter
Shawn gave me a key to his place years ago, but I never use it.
A knock on the door means I’m much less likely to walk in on my brother participating in an activity a single man might take part in when living alone.
People fall in love with Shawn within minutes of meeting the guy.
If he doesn’t want to spend a night—or afternoon before book club—alone, then he doesn’t have to.
So like the conscientious sister I am, I knock on his door.
There’s the sound of pounding feet, and I recall how when we were younger Shawn could never just walk anywhere. The guy sprinted as if he was getting timed. Sometimes he’d run to the destination, then come back to check on me, then race back to wherever we were headed.
I swear his nanny dumped Monster energy drink in his OJ. She was probably taking bets with the other caretakers on how soon until my brother broke the sound barrier.
The door whips open to show a grinning Shawn. “Beth! Hey!”
He slips into the hall and shuts the door behind himself. Normally, he only pops over to open the door, then jogs back the way he came. This is different.
This is suspicious.
“Do you have a woman in there?” I mean, that was the whole reason I knocked.
“What?” he sputters. “No. Of course not. It’s book club night. I’d never hook up with someone on book club night.”
That sets a little warm fire burning in my chest. That Shawn holds this monthly get-together in as high regard as I do.
“Okay, then why are we still in the hallway?” I heft my overnight bag higher on my shoulder. “Do you have something embarrassing in there?” I groan. “Tell me you didn’t get a bird.” Shawn is convinced he wants a parrot. “They live forever. I am not taking care of it when you die.”
“Rude. And no, I didn’t get a bird.” He offers a sneaky smirk. “Yet.”
“Shawn—”
“Okay.” He holds up his hands. “No surprise pets. But there is someone inside. I invited them to book club.”
Excuse me, what?
An accusation pushes at the tip of my tongue, fueled by betrayal. This is our thing. How could he invite someone? Especially without telling me first?
Shawn didn’t even invite Tiffany when they were engaged.
Still, instead of snapping, I take a calming breath.
Even though I have the urge to guilt him about this unplanned addition, I remind myself that bringing one of his friends to book club is small beans compared to the secret I’m about to reveal to him in two months.
“Who?” I grumble, which is the best I can do.
“George.”
“What?” I yelp the word, a tangle of emotions tumbling and twisting inside my chest. “George is here? For book club?”
I glance down at myself, taking in the paint-stained leggings and extra-large, mustard yellow sweatshirt that proclaims I’m a Yellow Pine Middle School kickball champion.
I am not a champion, nor have I ever played kickball in a tournament.
Marge had extras from the team she coaches, and I never turn down a free sweatshirt.
All this to say, I look ridiculous.
Good. You have no reason to look cute for George Bunsen. None at all.
“He is.” Shawn holds his hands palms up in supplication. “This was a last-minute thing, I swear. I only invited him yesterday.”
“But why?” I’m whining, probably worse than the losers of the middle school kickball championship.
Shawn grimaces. “Today is a tough day for him. I already felt like shit because I forgot the anniversary.”
There’s a tug in the bottom of my stomach as some of my annoyance wears off at the edges.
“Anniversary of what?”
“His mom passing.”
Oh. Oh hell.
George’s mom is gone?
How did I not know that? Well, I guess that’s what happens when I try to avoid any kind of news or updates about BnB-related topics. I guess I just assumed the Bunsens were a carbon copy of the Newtons. If I ever gave a thought to George’s mom, I only envisioned a twin of Meg Newton.
Shawn doesn’t talk about his mom too much with me because, well, awkward.
But I’ve gathered that she met Karl in college during some joint fraternity/sorority function, and they married not long after graduating.
Meg Newton mainly does work with charities, sitting on boards and arranging events and whatnot.
I met her once, on the day Shawn and I were introduced.
In my mind, she’s an intimidating, reserved woman concerned with her image in society and working under the assumption that money can fix most things.
But George’s mom was her own woman who I know nothing about.
“When did that happen?” I murmur, wondering if he can hear us through the door. Probably not, with how much my brother pays for this place.
“Five years ago. It was unexpected. Harriet…well, there was a lot in her system. Pills and…it’s just a hard day for him.”
In an instant, I’m transported back to the night Shawn and his stoner friend picked me up from the hospital. The night I found out my mom had an aggressive form of breast cancer. The night I was sure she got a death sentence.
I thought I was going to lose my mom. George actually did. Five years might seem like a long time to some people, but I bet the hurt is still as bad as when he first found out.
He showed me an up and over. Something he did with his mom.
I rub my chest, not sure what the feeling in my breastbone is, only knowing that it’s big.
“I get it,” I say, and Shawn’s shoulders relax at my understanding. “We can do book club another night.” That offer hurts to make. I’m not sure how many more of these I’ll have.
“What? No! I’m telling you; he definitely doesn’t want to just sit around sad all night.
” Shawn slips my bag off my shoulder, making it impossible for me to leave.
“He used to spend the day with Elle. But even though their divorce was amicable and they’re friends, he told her he was good. But I know he’s not good.”
Bomb dropped.
“George was married?” I gape at my brother. My George Bunsen knowledge has a hell of a lot more holes than I realized.
“Yeah. But he’s not broken up about it. Trust me.” Shawn grips the doorknob. “He just gets lonely sometimes. And that’s where we come in. We’ll have book club, like normal.”
“Like normal?” I can feel my eyebrows creep up my forehead as I try to focus on what’s unfolding in front of me instead of getting trapped in thoughts about George’s ex-wife. “You know how we discuss books isn’t exactly socially acceptable.”
Shawn throws an evil grin over his shoulder as he pushes his way into his penthouse, taking my stuff with him. “We do book club the right way.”
I huff and follow after him, knowing I cannot act the way I normally do with my brother in front of anyone else. Definitely not George.
Maybe Darla. She’d find it amusing.
We walk through the foyer into the kitchen/living room.
And there’s George, perched on a barstool, staring at the beer in his hand as if the surgeon general’s warning is news to him. He focused on his drink the same way in the motel last week before Masters of the Air helped break the tension.
“And now we’re all here!” Shawn drops my bag next to his massive sectional before strolling to the oven. There, he pulls out carry-out containers he’s kept warm. I smell the savory goodness of Chinese take-out.
But even the delicious aroma of General Tso can’t distract me from the third in this equation.
“Beth,” George stands abruptly. The stool wobbles, but he catches it and greets me with a nod of his head.
That head. I can still feel the weight of it on my stomach.
Don’t blush. Don’t think of him rescuing puppies and offering you his delicious-smelling shirt so you could sleep comfortably.
Don’t think of up and overs.
Don’t think of him once being married to a woman you’ve never heard of before.
“Hi. George. Hello,” I croak. Clearing my throat, I glance around for something to dispel this tension that’s suddenly thrumming between us. My eyes fixate on his beer again, and I point to the drink. “Hope you found a bottle opener for that.”
His stare drops to the brown bottle, and when it raises again, humor is crinkling the corners of his eyes.
“I did. But I can open yours the caveman way if you want.”
Yes, please.
“Dig in!” Shawn sets plates on the island’s granite countertop, then rubs his palms together eagerly. “You’ll need your strength.”
George’s brows pop up, and I cringe internally. “For book club?”
Shawn nods while shoveling pork fried rice onto his plate. “Did you get a chance to read the book?”
“Yeah,” George picks up a plate and offers it to me. That’s when I realize I’m still hovering a decent distance away, probably looking like I’m about to flee.
Maybe that would be best before my flight instructor sees the type of person I truly am. The Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde switch elicited by book club.
“Good,” Shawn says, clueless to my reticence. “Then maybe you can hold your own.”
I want to insist that we’re not going to put George through our normal traditions. No one deserves to experience that. But then my brother will pout, and Shawn has a golden-retriever-puppy level of pouting skills.
The best course of action is to keep my composure. I will lead by example, and Shawn will have to fall in line.
This will be a pleasant, sedate evening during which three intelligent people calmly discuss a piece of literature.
Easy.
—
An hour later, through no fault of my own, I end up standing on a thousand-dollar, one-of-a-kind coffee table, shouting at my brother about fictional characters while he pours shots. And this is when I realize I’ve let the evening get away from me.
But I can’t let Shawn think he’s right about this. I just can’t.
“Francis cannot be trusted as far as I can throw his skinny ass!” My yell reverberates through the penthouse, echoing off the towering ceilings.
“I believe you could throw his skinny ass pretty damn far.” Shawn waggles the tequila bottle at me. “Hence proving my point that Francis can be trusted. He won’t betray Noemí.”