Chapter 19
Chapter
The morning after book club always comes with a dash of a hangover.
Not a terrible one, because Shawn always makes sure to get plenty of take-out food for us to gorge on and soak up the shots fired during our wars. But there’s still a subtle ache in my head, a fuzziness in my mouth, and a queasy tilt to my stomach.
Nothing a towering glass of water, a couple ibuprofen, and Shawn’s frittata can’t fix.
I’m halfway through my shower when I remember it won’t just be me and my brother at breakfast.
George is here.
George saw the book club version of me.
Beth with no boundaries.
“Damn it,” I mutter into the steaming hot spray, remembering how I stood on the table hollering about evil mushrooms and then practically huffed the guy while he was trying to pick a movie.
I spend longer in the shower than I normally do, then take the time to blow-dry my hair and braid a section of the red strands back from my face.
Shawn keeps hair ties in the top drawer of the guest bathroom for me.
He keeps a lot of stuff here for me. Or maybe he stocked the place for female visitors, and I’m just benefiting from his bang-buddy chivalry.
Either way, I always know he’s got a box of tampons on hand, which was useful that one time I forgot my menstrual cup.
I find my overnight bag on the chest at the foot of the bed and dig out the pair of jeans and tank top I brought. My turquoise waitress uniform is in the bag, too, and because I’m heading to work straight from here, it would make sense for me to put it on.
But I don’t want to think about my gig at the diner when I’m having breakfast with my brother in his luxury apartment. Not because I’m ashamed of my job.
Only, it reminds me of how different our lives are.
And how I don’t think he’ll want them to overlap once he finds out about my lie.
My legs go weak, and I sit down hard on the mattress, bouncing a bit. Tears push at the backs of my eyes when I think about my upcoming birthday.
When I imagine my brother’s face as he learns I’m just another person who lied to him to get to his money, I blink fast and stare around the room, searching for something to take my mind off the sad future.
A few books sit on the bedside table.
I pick them up. The top one is Shawn’s annotated Mexican Gothic.
A quick flip shows me the normal bright yellow highlighter marks he uses paired with his notes in blue pen.
The next book in the stack is The Undertaking of Hart and Mercy, Shawn’s choice for next month.
A colorful cover with a big heart tells me he’s continuing his love-conquers-all mission.
Will that be our last book club?
It’s May now, and my birthday is at the end of July, so maybe I’ll be able to claim one more before Shawn cuts me out of his life.
I shove both books I hold into my bag and study the one remaining. Another copy of Mexican Gothic, and at first I assume it’s mine. But none of my dollar-store tabs are sticking out the side.
Paging through, I realize that corners are folded down and notes are written in light pencil marks.
George’s copy.
Did he mean to leave this for me?
No. Can’t be.
He must mean for Shawn to have it. Or he thought he was getting the guest bedroom and left it here for himself.
I set the book down, fingering the spine. Reluctant to let go.
But I force myself to, zip up my bag, and head out to the kitchen for my frittata.
And I come upon a sweaty, shirtless George guzzling water.
“Holy hell,” I mutter before I can stop myself.
He sets down the glass, then starts at the sight of me.
“Hey, uh.” He glances down at his bare, glistening chest, then back up at me. “I went for a run.”
“Sure. Makes sense.” Stop staring at his nipples.
Only, they’re perfectly round, and his chest has the lightest dusting of brown hair, and I’m immediately transported back to that motel room bed, when a sleepy George pressed that exact chest against my bare legs.
He was so warm and clingy. The palms of my hands ached to touch him then, the same as they’re tingling to do now—
“How does broccoli and cheddar sound?”
I yelp and reflexively clutch my left boob to keep my pounding heart in place as I glance over to find an equally shirtless Shawn in front of the stovetop heating a cast-iron pan.
“Oh my god, when did you get here?” I try to regulate my breathing.
He quirks a brow at me. “I’ve been here the whole time. You know this is my place, right?”
Of course I know that. But I’m not about to explain that I was so distracted by George’s naked torso that I wasn’t even aware there was another person in the room.
“Did you both encounter a shirt thief?” I snap, feeling crabby that there’re so many chests in my eyeline.
“Only the weak wear shirts,” Shawn taunts. “We are strong men. The elements don’t affect us.”
“You whine like a baby when I turn the thermostat up two degrees,” I point out.
“I’m going to take a quick shower.” George grabs a duffel bag and strides past me. The scent of his sweat mixed with his cologne hits me and short-circuits my brain.
“Broccoli and cheddar?” Shawn asks again, bringing me back online.
“Yeah. Good. Tasty. Yum.” And then I drop my hand, realizing I’m still holding my boob.
My brother gives me a bemused look, and I have to admit that maybe I’m not fully functioning yet. It’s only that George went to use the guest shower. The one I was in. Where I was naked. And now he’ll be naked, too.
It’s almost as if we were naked in there together…except that doesn’t make any sense and I’m losing it.
“You’re always extra weird when you’re hungover.” Shawn snorts and goes back to preparing me breakfast.
I hold back my retort because he doesn’t deserve to get bitched at for presenting me with a hot George first thing in the morning.
Although, I could lovingly torment him…just a little bit.
“Did you go running, too?”
“Yep.” He bobs his head and hums along to a blink-182 song playing from the invisible speakers mounted around his place.
“Darla goes running sometimes,” I say, oh so casually.
His back muscles tense. “Don’t see the appeal, personally.
But she says she can go forever. Endless stamina.
Like sometimes, I’ll be working a shift, and she just shows up.
Ran all the way from her house, which has to be at least four miles away.
” He’s not moving, totally focused on what I’m saying, and I try not to smile in evil glee.
“Sally always chides her for coming in dripping sweat, wearing nothing but a sports bra and short shorts. But Darla just chugs some water and runs back home. Eight freaking miles round trip. Blows my mind.”
“Huh,” Shawn says, his attempt at nonchalance obvious as he picks up eggs and puts them back down in the carton without cracking them. “And uh, does she do that…often? Certain days of the week or…?”
“Hmm. Not sure. Never really kept track.”
“Cool. Yeah. Sure. Why would you?” He grumbles the response and starts chopping broccoli aggressively, no doubt picturing my friend in all her running-goddess glory. Serves him right.
I could handle book club with George, but getting an eyeful of his athletic body first thing in the morning is just cruel.
George reappears as Shawn is pulling the savory-smelling frittata from the oven.
We eat at the island, the two of them standing and me perched on a stool because I’m going to be on my feet for the rest of the day.
Best to give my soles a break while I can.
Shawn chats about the next book, the one he picked out, raving about how it’s a cozy fantasy with cowboys and love and zombies.
Okay fine. It sounds interesting, I’ll give him that.
Most mornings after book club I handle dish washing since Shawn cooks, but George claims the task before I can. Still, I grab a towel and start drying, realizing belatedly that Shawn has disappeared, probably to shower.
“Thank you,” George says as he hands me a fork.
I shrug. “You’re the one doing the hard job. Drying is easy.”
“No, I mean thank you for letting me join. Last night. I know that book club is something for just Shawn and you.”
I pause, my fingers pinching the tines of the fork with the towel, then I resume drying.
“He told me what yesterday was for you.” I make sure the fork is extra dry.
“I’m sorry. That’s…I just…” What do you say to a person in their grief?
Is there any right thing? I know there’s plenty of wrong things, so I’ll try not to blurt those.
“I hope that if you were having a hard time, watching me berate Shawn for his fanciful book notions distracted you. At least for a little while.”
The corner of George’s mouth twitches into a smile even as he stares down at the soapy dishes he’s handling.
We work together quietly, the silence surprisingly companionable.
“She took me up my first time,” George says finally. “My mom.”
“Flying?”
“Yeah.” He pauses, and I wonder if talking about her is difficult or if he’s just unused to it.
“She had her license. Loved planes. And cars. And speedboats. Most anything that went fast.” He hands me a dripping plate.
“I think that’s part of why she fell for my dad.
Because of BBN and all the vehicles the company has access to. ”
That makes sense, in a superficial kind of way. Not that I plan to say that.
“You two went flying a lot?”
A crease forms between George’s brows as he scrubs at the frittata pan. “Not really. When I was younger, we did. But not so much as I grew up. She got into aerobatic planes. Real adrenaline-fueled stuff. Not my speed.”