Chapter 30 Scarlett
SCARLETT
The house that Joe and Bonnie Lyn Brodie bought and moved into a few years ago is magnificent. It’s over three thousand square feet on a half-acre in a suburb of Houston called Sugar Land. This property would cost approximately three quarters of a zillion dollars in Los Angeles.
There are already Christmas lights hanging outside, and every square inch of the inside is covered with a mashup of Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year’s Eve décor.
This is because, as Mama Brodie put it—in a way that was only mildly guilt-inducing: “Seein’ as how y’all won’t be able to spend my first and third favorite holidays with us this year, I just didn’t want y’all to miss out on the fun decorations.
In case you had forgotten about them since you did not join us for Christmas or New Year’s last year either.
” There are five Christmas trees—in the foyer, the living room, the family room, on the patio, and there’s a small one in the kitchen.
I noticed a shed out back that’s the size of an airplane hangar.
That must be where they store that stuff for most of the year.
I might owe my mom an apology because this is… a lot of stuff.
My senses have been assaulted ever since the driver dropped Dylan and me off in the circular driveway.
There’s the lights and decorations. There are the many throw pillows and throw blankets and rugs of different textures, all very cozy.
There’s the almost comical handsomeness of all four Brodie men.
They each wear different brands of cologne and yet, as Owen’s comedian girlfriend Frankie whispered to me not long ago, “they all smell like evergreens you’d want to hump. ”
Charlie Brown specials have been playing on the big screen in the family room on mute, and Christmas songs have been playing from the built-in speakers in every room.
And of course, there are all the mouthwatering aromas emanating from the kitchen.
Somehow Mama Brodie is cool as a cucumber, despite not having or allowing anyone to help her prepare the enormous meal.
She is also drunkity-drunk. Which would make her a fermented cucumber.
Also known as a pickle. We are all pickled.
But Bonnie Lyn is still able to keep track of four different timers for the four things she’s roasting in her two Viking ovens.
We’ve had dessert first—chocolate pecan pie, pumpkin pie, and apple pie—because over the years they’ve learned they’re too full after eating the main meal and nobody wants to miss out on pie.
They’ve also learned that they have to play games before dinner since they are always too drunk and full to do anything besides watch TV afterward.
So we’re all set up for Family Feud in the family room.
Frankie’s parents, Donna and Peter Hogan, are joining us from Florida on a laptop via Skype.
We all drew straws to see who would be the team leaders.
Miles is team leader for our side, and Owen is team leader for the other.
We’re just waiting for Dylan to return from checking on Mr. Noodles in the study.
All of this is happening within hours of Dylan and me exchanging our first I love yous after our first angry make-up sex.
And even after that, before we left the hotel to come here, I FaceTimed with Noah on Adam’s phone, and he seemed a little nervous about me being in a different city.
So I did what I always do to cheer him up—I did the Monica dance from Friends.
I didn’t even care that Dylan was in the next room.
When Dylan poked his head in and saw me doing The Routine, he made me stop, played “Trouble with Boys” on his phone, and did the Ross part with me.
From the top. The entire routine. Starting with him signaling to me to stare into his eyes and us counting “five, six, seven, eight” while snapping our fingers.
We must have looked like total idiots, but I hadn’t seen Noah look that happy since I told him about flammable space farts.
My heart is so full of love for the youngest Brodie brother right now that it actually feels like my left boob has grown.
Or maybe I’m just drunk on brandy-spiked Christmas coffee and Brodie pheromones.
I also love every single mammal in this house.
Even Miles. He’s a bit too hard on my boyfriend, but I’m getting a tough love vibe from him.
He might just be a little rough around the edges.
And also maybe he’s jealous because he’s the only brown-eyed brother.
But the rest of the family and Frankie—love ’em.
Dylan comes back to the family room and shows me a picture he just took of the kitten on his phone.
He joins me and Miles and Mama Brodie on a long sofa on one side of the room.
Owen and Frankie and the laptop with Donna and Peter Hogan’s confused, smiling faces are on the other side.
Pops Brodie is standing between us, and there are two bar stools set in front of him, on either side, with buzzers set on top of them.
Behind him is a dry-erase board on a stand.
He has his phone on top of his own bar stool and a bunch of four-by-five cards in his hand.
“Are we finally ready?” he asks.
“Yes, we have less than half an hour before I have to return to the kitchen and do the final prep for dinner.” Mama Brodie yells at the laptop on the sofa next to Frankie. “Can you hear us okay over there, Donna and Peter?!”
“Loud and clear,” Peter Hogan tells her. Frankie’s dad is from Kentucky, and although he has apparently lived in Tampa for a while, he looks and sounds like he just got in from drinking bourbon while riding a horse back from a basketball game over yonder.
“Defo!” his wife says. Donna is from Australia, and although she has lived in the US for most of her life, I don’t understand half of the words that come out of her mouth. But I love both of them too!
Joe Brodie taps on his phone, and suddenly the Christmas music stops and the Family Feud theme plays over the built-in ceiling speakers.
Over our clapping and hooting and hollering, he says in a perfect announcer voice, “It’s time for Brodie and Friends Family Feud!
To my right, we’ve got Mama’s Boys and the Pretty One’s Girlfriend.
They’re taking on the Hoganators and Owen.
And I’m your host and the star of the show—Jooooooooe Brodiiiieee.
Welcome to Family Feud, ladies and gentlemen!
Both teams will be playing for points and out of sheer competitiveness because we’re all a bunch of assholes.
Screw the introductions. Let’s get it on.
Gimme Miles and gimme Owen. Come on up here! ”
We all cheer obnoxiously for Miles and Owen, who dance on up to the bar stools to place their hands on the buzzers and face off with each other.
Joe gives us an alarmingly good Matthew McConaughey impression: “All right, all right, all right.” He holds up the four-by-five cards.
“These questions were formulated by yours truly—some answers were Googled, and some were listed based on my own knowledge and expertise on the subjects. Points have been assigned at my discretion, and there will be no complaints! Question one… Name a word or phrase that Mama Brodie has used in a text message when she’s drunk. ”
Owen buzzes first and calls out, “Tits!”
“Awww, come on!” Miles shouts.
“Snooze ya lose, brother.”
“Tits!” Joe says while pretending to check his card. “Number one.” And then he writes 25 under Hoganators and Owen on the dry erase board.
Miles holds his buzzer up at his dad, frowning. “My buzzer didn’t work!” He keeps pressing it, and it keeps buzzing.
“Sounds like it works now, son.” Turning his attention to Owen: “Pass or play, Owen?”
“Play!” He claps. “We’re gonna play!”
Miles has a John McEnroe-calibre temper tantrum before sitting back down on the sofa.
I’ve never texted with Mama Brodie, so it’s a stroke of luck that he didn’t win that round.
“Miss Frankie Hogan,” Joe says. “You have had the pleasure of participating in a number of text conversations with Owen’s mother. Name a word or phrase that she has used when she’s drunk.”
“Shit on a bucket,” Frankie states confidently.
“Shit on a bucket,” Joe repeats as he looks at his card and then writes on the board. “Twenty points for shit on a bucket.”
“This is too easy,” Miles grumbles while Bonnie Lyn tries to console him.
Dylan pats him on his knee, and Miles swats his hand away.
Mr. Brodie addresses the laptop. “Over to you, Donna Hogan, all the way over there in Tampa, Florida, and my, your hair looks lovely tonight.”
“Aw thanks heaps, Joe. I’ve also had the pleasure of texting with Missus Bonnie Lyn when she’s pissed, and she’s used the term shit on a bus. I’ve no idea what it means, but I like it.”
“Good answer, good answer!” Owen applauds.
“Shit on a bus,” Joe says while looking at his card and then gives her team fifteen points.
“This is bullshit,” Miles whispers.
“To you, Mister Peter Hogan. Word or phrase used by my drunk wife in a text message.”
“Evenin’, Joe. Well I s’pose I’ll have to go with shit on a big cunt.” He shrugs.
“Well, I never,” Mama Brodie declares.
“Survey says…shit on a bus cunt or shit on a big cunt. Ten more points to the Hoganators. Question two! Let me have my lovely drunk wife and Frankie Hogan up here please.”
Bonnie Lyn and Frankie dance up to the bar stools and place their hands on the buzzers.
“Welcome, ladies. If you would be so kind, please give me the name of a band that is made up of brothers.”
Bonnie Lyn smacks that buzzer almost before he’s finished the sentence.
“The Beatles!” she exclaims.
Joe taps his phone, and we hear a very negative buzzing sound.
Dylan and I suppress our laughter, but Miles is quietly cursing.
“Wait—what’d I say?! I meant The Bee Gees! The Bee Gees!”