Chapter 9 Family Dynamics
Chapter 9
family dynamics
After the MMA-style rock-paper-scissors yesterday it shouldn’t have come as a surprise to Wes that the Russo family took their competitions seriously. But when he emerged onto the back deck and saw the Olympic-themed decor complete with a big banner stretched out over the end of the dock that read VACATION WARS , he blinked slowly to take it all in.
At the base of the shoreline sat four yellow kayaks, each with a cluster of color-specific helium balloons floating at the head of the boat. Blue, yellow, green, and pink teams, it seemed. Inside each of the boats were two matching neon paddles and a little cooler filled with water. They looked like giant floating bananas.
A warm breeze was coming in off the Atlantic, rippling the waters of the Mystic River. Sailboats tied to personal docks bobbed up and down in the lapping waves. The sun sparkled on the water—and in the distance sat a lighthouse that looked as if it had a hundred years of tales to tell.
“Is it around the buoy or touch the buoy?” Uncle Giuseppe asked, scratching his combover while staring at the rusted buoy about a quarter mile out. It bobbed in the gentle swell, its bell giving a muffled clank as if it had given all it had to give.
Wes could appreciate that state. It seemed to sum up the past three months. He’d been giving without receiving anything in return. From the company, to Randy, to his ex, to his employees. No matter how much he gave, at the end of the day there was still more left to do. Only he was slowly crashing, and he would surely burn if things didn’t change. Problem was, he didn’t know what needed changing.
“It’s around. It’s been around for twenty years,” Frank said, as if his brother hadn’t had a memory slip—something Wes had noticed within the first few minutes at dinner last night. But instead of arguing with him after he’d told the same story three times, his family had sat patiently listening as if they’d never heard it before. Laughing at all the right times, his wife adding little bits here and there about what a brave, funny, honorable—fill in the blank—man he’d been, guiding him when he lost his way.
Most families would have cut the old man off at the second repetitive story. This family? They were different.
They were present and supportive and protective. Wes had never experienced such a fierce bubble of love. Not that he was in the bubble, he was merely an observer, but what he had observed touched him as much as it made him lonely.
There had been a moment though, a brief moment, when Giuseppe had told them about his knockout punch in the Golden Gloves fight when Wes had felt like he was a part of it all. It was the second go-around for this particular tale and Wes had felt an energy radiating from the other side of the table. It was Summer looking his way. Her eyes were shimmering with unshed tears and her expression was one of pleading. Pleading with him to go along with the farce. As if she thought he’d embarrass her uncle to needle her.
And that had made him feel like a bloody wanker. Did she really think he was that vindictive—to use her family as a weapon? Then he thought back to all the pranks he’d pulled on her over the past few months and wondered if her assessment was correct. Maybe what he thought of as healthy competition between rival businesses was hitting her on a personal level.
He’d simply nodded, and then at the next pause in conversation he’d asked Giuseppe a question to keep the story going. The gracious smile she’d sent his way cracked something in his chest that had been hardened over for most of his life.
“But I forget how we untie those sailor knots you secure the boats up with. Could you remind an old man?” Frank said.
Pride lit Giuseppe’s expression and the two men headed toward the shoreline.
Wes would have offered a hand, except he felt as though it was a brother-bonding moment between the two. And he’d never been all that graceful at navigating conversations that went deeper than F.O.R.M.—a skill he’d learned from one of the many business conferences he’d attended.
When meeting a prospective client, you had to ask about Family, Occupation, Recreation, and then bring home the Message. But there was no message here, there was just love. And that left him dumbfounded.
“You’re wrong,” someone said, aghast.
Wes looked toward the edge of the dock, where Aunt Cecilia and Summer’s mom were standing. Hands dug into hips, shoulders squared, they were in a heated battle. Now, this was what he was used to. Maybe they weren’t so perfect after all.
“Yes. A pad of butter makes it smoother,” Aunt Cecilia explained.
Cecilia reminded Wes of one of those psychics at the farmers’ market who sold incense, dreamcatchers, and spiritual guided voyages into your past lives. Her neck was draped with crystals and she had turquoise bracelets going from wrist to forearm that clanked as she waved her hand dramatically, as if trying to cast a spell. She’d tried to read Wes’s hand last night after dinner but, after Randy’s mojo prognosis, he’d offered to help with dishes instead—placing his hands firmly under the water and away from her spying eyes.
“It’s a pinch of sugar that’s the secret ingredient, not butter,” Blanche argued. Juxtaposed with Cecilia, Blanche was dressed like a starlet from a 1960s movie. Mrs. Robinson to be exact. Slim, regal in stature, in all white linen, with a silk scarf tying her long silver hair back.
“You’re not making ketchup. This is marinara. The heart and soul of Italian culture.”
“I’m not suggesting that we douse it with simple syrup. Just a pinch to cut through the acidity of the tomatoes.”
Wes chuckled, because in this family nuclear war was over whose sauce was better.
“You heard that you can’t have two chefs in the kitchen?” Summer said, coming up beside him. He smelled her before he saw her. Like crisp citrus and a warm summer breeze that wrapped around him and made his dick tighten. “Well, that’s where that phrase originated from.”
A dual ping of AI Cupid’s arrows sounded, but they both ignored it this time.
He looked down at her and his breath nearly caught. She was dressed in a simple pink tank top that hugged her curves, and denim shorts—emphasis on short —that looked like they’d been jeans in another lifetime. They landed just below her ass cheeks and were frayed at the bottom. Then there were those sexy little cat-eye glasses she always wore, as if contacts were too much of a hassle.
Since the holiday, he’d begun to wonder if her glasses were a barrier between her and the world—like a shield that held people at a distance. Like his expensive suits and ties.
“Is it always like this?” he asked.
She kept her gaze out on the ocean. “I know it can be a lot. But we love as fiercely as we fight.” She looked up at him and pow— those glasses weren’t hiding a thing. Her expression was soft and welcoming and grateful. “I never got to properly thank you for last night and how you handled Uncle Giuseppe. Most people would have let their own uncomfortableness bleed into the conversation.”
“Most people are assholes,” he said, and a bark of laughter burst from her mouth. “Okay, after crashing your holiday and trying to steal your bunk, I guess I deserve that.”
“I didn’t handle it much better.” Her admission felt like a win in another war that was being waged between them. A war he hadn’t known existed until now. “Randy told me that it’s just the two of you. That must be hard.”
“I wasn’t all that close to my dad.”
“And your mom?” she asked, her eyes imploring, and even though he knew she was unconsciously using F.O.R.M., it didn’t feel like an interview. It felt . . . real.
“She passed a few years ago.”
“That must have been hard.”
Normally he’d give the standard line about how she was great, his childhood had been great, everything was great, but for some reason he couldn’t find the usual lies he clung to. “That was harder. Don’t get me wrong, she was intrusive and unreliable and at times difficult. But . . .”
“She’s your mom and you loved her.” It was said with quiet reverence. There was no way she could relate to his childhood, not with how she was raised, but somehow he felt as if she understood what he was saying. Understood like she’d been burned too.
“Well, this family practically shares the same air. Nothing is off-limits, and no secret will be left unturned,” she said.
“Team Swift for the win,” Autumn sang, and both Wes and Summer turned at the exact moment. Summer’s mouth fell open. Wes couldn’t help but snort, which earned him a glare.
Their siblings were dressed in matching white shorts, dock shoes, and pink shirts with a giant photo of the pop artist across the chest. Autumn did a little booty shake and spun around to show off the back, which read TEAM SWIFT: LIVING OUR WILDEST DREAMS .
“Team Swift?” Summer asked. “What the hell is Team Swift?”
“You know, like swift as the river, and of course the goddess who brought me and Randy together. Isn’t it perfect?”
“It’s perfect, baby,” Randy said, swinging his arm around Autumn’s shoulders and giving her a long, over-the-top display of PDA. “Isn’t she perfect, Summs?”
Every eye went to Summer as if waiting for her answer. As if everyone knew the change of plans except the person who it had affected the most—Summer. To his surprise and disappointment, she retracted those quills normally aimed at him and flashed a too-bright smile. “You’ve always looked good in pink.”
That’s when Wes did a double take of Summer’s shirt. It too was pink and it too had a team name across the back: TEAM TWINNING: TWINS FOR THE WINS .
Her smile was so big it hurt his heart, but everyone else seemed to be oblivious to the fact that this beautiful spitfire was deflating before his eyes. Except Frank, who gave Autumn a stern glare which she ignored.
Autumn bounced over and took Summer’s hands. “Is this okay or is it too much change? I know how you hate change. If it’s not okay, then you just need to say so.”
Summer looked around for someone to help—anyone—but no one came to her rescue. Wes didn’t consider himself to be a knight of any kind, but in that moment he wanted to pull out his shield and protect Summer.
“I thought it was bros to the end?” he said to Randy with a knowing raise of the brow. Like, get on board, wanker. Only the wanker shrugged and mouthed, Family business .
Before Wes could say any more, Autumn’s smile faded and her lower lips puffed out in a practiced pout. “It’s okay, right?”
“Of course she’s okay with it,” Blanche said.
“This is how the guides want it,” Cecilia interjected.
They all looked expectantly at Summer, whose smile became impossibly brighter. “Of course it’s okay.”
“You sure?” Autumn said, as if there were any other acceptable answers.
“I’m sure.”
Frank shook his head, like he got what had just transpired and understood the impossible situation they’d all put Summer in. But then why didn’t he say anything?
“She’s okay with it,” Randy said.
“Of course she is,” Cecilia said.
“I mean,” Summer added. “It’s a game for crying out loud.”
Wes leaned down and whispered in her ear, “If you say it one more time maybe I’ll believe you.”
She blinked slowly up at him as if she were shocked that someone had noticed just how hurt she was by her sister’s actions and family’s reaction. Then her eyes narrowed. “I don’t care if you believe me.”
Wes held up his hands as if to say I come in peace. “Never implied I did.” Then he slung his arm around her shoulders and began to lead them toward the boats. “Do we get matching shirts?”
She elbowed him in the ribs—hard enough that he stumbled. “Over my dead body. Have you kayaked before?”
“I was on the rowing crew at university,” he said, puffing out his chest.
“You were probably a beater,” she said.
“I prefer company when beating. Are you offering to pick up some of the slack?”
She ignored that. “You’d better be good, or I’m going to partner with Uncle G.” They looked at Giuseppe, who was leaning on his wife to make it down the beach.
“Face it, you need me to win. And I know how much you hate to lose.”
“Fine. But I’m the captain and you’re my skipper. And you know what rhymes with skipper? Zipper.” She made a zipper-over-the-mouth gesture. “Capisce?”