Chapter 2 Andrew
“You sure you don’t wanna stay and hang out with us tonight?” Charlie asks. “There’s plenty of room.”
Plenty of room is debatable. Despite the generous size, Charlie’s currently sprawled across three-quarters of his hideous lime green couch, with his head in Eden’s lap while his elderly cat Agnes sleeps on his chest. Birdie, his senior rescue dog, is curled up between his legs, taking up the rest of the couch.
On the other side, one of Charlie’s cats who rarely tolerates people is crouched on the arm of the sofa near Eden, eying them all like she’s waiting for one wrong move to bolt.
She seems to like Eden, but barely tolerates Andrew or Charlie.
“I can shove Charlie to the floor,” Eden offers, as if the lack of space on the couch might be the only reason he’s leaving.
He could tell them he’s going to dinner at Denise and Amanda’s, he does it sometimes for no reason other than they’re his friends.
This is different though. This isn’t one of their catch up dinners where Andrew knows he’s going to enjoy a relaxing evening with two of his favorite women.
Tonight is different, and that has Andrew on edge.
Enough that he isn’t comfortable sharing the truth of where he’s heading with Charlie, despite them never keeping things from each other.
Well, except for Andrew’s increasing meltdowns or his loneliness.
Aside from that, he and Charlie tell each other everything.
Keeping this from Charlie feels like lying, and Andrew hates lying. But what he hates more than dishonesty is feeling exposed, and his need for self-preservation overrules any misgivings he has about directly hiding things from his twin.
“I’m just gonna go home and rest,” Andrew lies.
“Are you sure?” Eden asks, tapping his fingers on Charlie’s head. “I really wanted to push him off the couch.”
“You can shove me on the floor any time you want, baby.”
“Right,” Andrew says. “That’s my cue to leave.”
Charlie and Eden devolve into bickering—Andrew knows from experience will turn into something else soon—so he hurries to leave, wanting them to be free to enjoy their relationship bliss without dulling it for his benefit. It’s not their fault he doesn’t want to hear, or see, them being intimate.
Ignoring the tightness in his chest, Andrew makes his way to his car and starts the engine, sitting in the driveway for a solid fifteen minutes with the air conditioner blasting in his face and classical music playing on low through the stereo before he has the fortitude to start driving.
The drive across town isn’t long, but it’s long enough for Andrew to pull himself together by the time he’s parking along the curb of Denise and Amanda’s small bungalow.
It’s been awhile since he made it to their house, and though the front with its well-maintained yard looks much the same, Andrew immediately notices a new hideous garden gnome sitting by the door.
What had started as a gag gift from Amanda when Denise turned fifty has become more of a personality trait at this point.
The entire front yard is dotted with an array of the creepy little men.
The newest one—a lumberjack pride gnome—sits near the front door as if taunting Andrew with its odd muscled stomach and aggressive little flag.
“Hey, doll,” Denise says when the front door swings open. Her gaze follows Andrew’s, and she cackles. “Isn’t he great?”
“He’s interesting,” Andrew replies automatically.
“Interesting,” Denise snorts. “Tactful way of saying you hate it.”
“It just feels like it’s looking at me,” Andrew answers, eying the gnome warily as he steps into the house.
Though he’s still anxious, some of that fades as the door shuts behind him, and he’s met with the familiar, welcoming vibes of Denise and Amanda’s home.
The house is small but tidy, a pink couch with floral pillows and a pastel green coffee table take up much of the living room.
The rest of the house Andrew knows from past experience is equally feminine and cozy, the perfect mix of both Denise and Amanda.
They have classical music playing softly in the background—Andrew’s preferred music not theirs.
Denise likes jazz and Amanda likes female-driven folk, which means they’re playing it to relax him, but he doesn’t know why yet.
“Denise,” Andrew starts but she taps his back.
“Let’s head into the dining room. Amanda made lasagna. Are you hungry?”
“No,” Andrew answers, his nerves shot to shit as he steps into the dining room and sees the table set for four not three.
“What’s going on?” Andrew questions, digging his nails into the palm of his hand.
“Nothing bad,” Amanda says, waltzing into the room with bare feet, a messy bun and a loose floral sundress. She kisses Denise on her way past her, stopping in front of Andrew to offer him a glass of red wine.
“Why is the table set for four?” Andrew asks, setting the wine on the table. He doesn’t want a drink, he wants answers.
“Let’s just sit and have a drink,” Amanda tries. “I just pulled the lasagna out of the oven, so it needs to sit for ten or fifteen minutes before I can cut it. I made caesar salad too, without croutons because I know you hate them.”
“I don’t hate croutons, I just—”
“Hate the mix of textures,” Denise and Amanda finish for him.
“Yeah,” Andrew exhales, unsure why that makes him feel so wrong-footed.
They’re his friends. He’s known Denise forever, and when she started dating Amanda, he liked her immediately, a rarity for him since he often takes a while to warm to people.
It wasn’t long after that Amanda became Charlie’s agent, and their little friend group became even more intertwined.
His friendship with Amanda has grown as close as the one he shares with Denise, but he feels none of his normal ease with his friends tonight.
“You look like you’re going to throw up, sweetie.” Denise rests a hand at his lower back. “Just sit down and have a drink.”
“I don’t want a drink, I want to know what’s going on.”
Amanda and Denise share a look that does nothing to make Andrew feel any less confused or calmer.
“If this is a blind date, I’m never speaking to either one of you again,” Andrew says, feeling like he might be sick. He let Charlie talk him into one of those last year, and it’d been one of the most soul-sucking, confidence crashing experiences of his life.
“We would never do that to you,” Denise tries, but something in her expression sets off alarm bells.
“You’re doing something.”
“Well….yes,” Denise admits, turning towards Amanda. “Is he coming?”
“He was supposed to be here already,” Amanda replies, looking at her watch. “The selfish asshole.”
“Who is supposed to be here?” Andrew asks, eyes darting between them both as if he might be able to figure out their motives through mindreading.
“My cousin,” Amanda answers. “He’s uh, not actually an asshole. At least, not all the time.”
“You have a cousin?” Andrew frowns. “I thought you didn’t have any family.”
“It’s complicated.”
“It’s really not,” Andrew protests, thinking back to what he knows about Amanda’s family—namely that they passed. “Someone is either dead or alive.”
“He’s definitely alive,” Amanda replies, settling herself on the edge of the table. “Though he won’t be for long if he doesn’t show up.”
“Why is your cousin, who is apparently not dead, might I add, coming to dinner?” Andrew questions.
“That’s exactly what we hoped to discuss over dinner.”
“I’d prefer if we could discuss it now.” Andrew wishes he had one of his discreet fidgets in his pocket. As it is he plays with the seam, running his fingers back and forth over it, counting to three and then doing it backward.
Right now he’s confused, triggering his anxiety. Normally, he maintains control by understanding the social dynamics and situations around him at all times to anticipate what someone needs, either from him or the situation at large. He can’t do that when he has no idea what the hell is going on.
“You know,” Denise starts, “her cousin is a great guy once you get to know him. Deep, deep, deep down.”
“This feels an awful lot like a set up,” Andrew grumbles.
“It’s not a set up,” Denise protests. “At least not exactly.”
“Then what exactly is it?” Andrew demands.
“So my cousin and I—we’re not actually related.
My mom married his dad’s brother when I was little—step-kid and all, you know how it is.
” Amanda’s expression tightens, and she reaches for her wine glass, downing half of it before dropping into one of the seats at the table.
Andrew copies her, trying to mimic her behavior to put her at ease.
“My step-dad’s family is old money, the kind that fucks you up.
My mom could never fit into that and neither could I.
They got divorced when I was fourteen, and he was only nine, so it’s not like we kept in touch after. ”
“I’m sorry,” Andrew says.
“It is what it is. My step-dad, well he loved my mom, but he loved the money more. My mom chose me, and we were happy until she passed. Anyway, I hadn’t seen or talked to my cousin in twenty years until he moved here for work last year.”
“What does he do?” Andrew asks.
Amanda and Denise share a look. “He does well for himself.”
Doing his best not to point out how little that tells him, Andrew reaches for his wine and takes a small sip. It’s aromatic and sweet, his favorite. Something is definitely up.
“Not to be rude,” Andrew starts.
“But you want to know what any of this has to do with you?” Amanda asks.
“Well, since you said it first—yes.”
“My cousin is a self-centered, spoiled shithead of a man, who is also deep down—way, way deep down buried under layers of emotional unavailability, trauma and bad decisions—a decent guy.”
“Right.” Andrew takes another drink of wine.
“Did I mention he makes bad decisions? Ones that are going to cost him dearly.”
“You did,” Andrew confirms.