Chapter 12 It’s a constant battle to ward off my smoldering appeal.
It’s a constant battle to ward off my smoldering appeal.
Sean
I TUG ON the lambskin lapels of the navy-blue Continental Army coat draped over the mannequin in front of me. Did I get those first few buttons lined up just right? I step back and frown. The third one down on the left doesn’t look quite right. But I measured!
“Mr. O’Sullivan, call for you, sir.”
I glare at my butler as he loiters in the doorway, averting his gaze since I’m in just my bikini briefs. Or maybe he can’t stand to look at the cluttered mess that is my cosplay room. “It’s after hours, Rory. You shouldn’t even be here.”
“It’s Mrs. Connor. She says she’s been trying to reach you on your personal phone, but you’re not answering.”
I tap my phone to bump down the volume on my sewing playlist. “And did you maybe think there was a reason for that?”
“She was quite insistent. I don’t feel good about upsetting a woman that close to her due date.”
“You old softy.”
I squeeze around racks of clothes, including one that holds the original Han Solo vest worn by Mr. Harrison Ford himself, the best Iron Man getup I’ve seen that didn’t weigh a hundred pounds, and an authentic Firefly browncoat.
Then there are my period pieces. I’ve got a restored (by me) Union uniform in the Civil War section along with a sick-as-all-get-out King George III costume.
Not to mention my Wild West and steampunk stuff that includes Val Kilmer’s original Doc Holliday costume from Tombstone.
And did I mention the vampire stuff? Who’s the owner of both Lestat’s frilly blouse and Kiefer Sutherland’s Lost Boys trench coat? Yours truly.
I swipe the phone out of Rory’s hand and put it to my ear. “Emmy! Is it time for me to come deliver that baby?”
“For the last time, Sean, I’ll catch it myself before I let you down there.”
“Can I at least cut the cord?”
“Gross. Besides, you know Jason is looking forward to that part. He didn’t get to cut the cord at Mattie’s birth, and there’s no way he’s missing out this time. Anyway, stop talking about my placenta. I’m calling about Josie. What did you do to her?”
I hit SPEAKER and balance the phone on top of a tackle box full of notions so I can focus back on my George Washington coat. I might have been judging it too harshly. Those buttons are lined up perfectly.
“Are you talking about our closet tryst?” I smile at the memory. “I was just a passenger. She did the driving.”
“She’s giving up her date with you! Our lawyers are having conniptions.”
I thread a needle through the last gold shank button. “I tried to convince her not to.”
“So who should I give the date to?”
“This is your thing, remember? I just agreed to show up.”
She sighs. “Well, there are three others who had you as their first, and I don’t know how to make a fair choice. I think you should do it.”
I loop the needle back and forth through the material. “Fine. Label them Options A, B, and C in your head.”
“Okay,” she says.
“Option C wins.”
She pauses. “All righty, then. Thanks, Sean. You made that easier than it could’ve been.”
“You know I’m easy. Like Sunday morning.
” I bite the thread off. Our business is done, but a tiny, nagging question rumbles in my chest. “So, um, did Josie tell you why she doesn’t want to go out with me?
” I slip the coat off its mannequin and slide into it carefully.
Christopher Jackson’s hat is going to be perfect with it.
It’s currently in transit from New York to a guy I know in Ojai with a reputation for discretion.
“It’s not you, Sean. She doesn’t want the publicity. She’s a private person.”
I check one profile and then the other in the mirrored wall. “You’d think she’d make an exception, especially after she kissed me and all.” I rotate my shoulders in and flex, testing the shoulder and back seams. “I’m feeling a little used, to tell the truth.”
“She said it was a moment of weakness.”
I strike a general’s pose in front of the mirror even though I have no pants on. “So, it’s a constant battle to ward off my smoldering appeal? I’ll take that.”
“Wait a minute. Sean, do you like Josie?”
I flash myself in the mirror and then drop down to the floor and pop off a round of push-ups so I can meet my two-hundred-a-day goal. “I kissed her back, didn’t I? Also, did she say anything about it? The kiss?”
“Sir.” Rory knocks on the open door and gives me a concerned look from the doorway. “Your sister’s here.”
Dammit. I mute the phone. “Stall her! And I thought you were going home!”
But it’s too late. Siobhan glides into the room with a smirk. “Playing dress-up again, I see.”
“I’m not answering that,” Emmy’s voice says from the phone. “Do you want us to set up the date with Option C for you, or do you want to plan something more personal?”
I hit UNMUTE. “You can take care of it.” I mouth I’m busy! to Siobhan and then murmur into the phone, “So, she liked it, huh?”
“Okay, your date with Option C will be Friday at six at the Shirley Brasserie. I’ll email the calendar invite to your assistant.”
“Friday?” I do some quick calendar calculations in my head as my sister peruses my collection like a thrift store.
“Yes, Friday. Is there a problem?”
“Nope.” No problem. No problem at all. That’s the evening I’m meeting my guy to pick up the hat, but there will be plenty of time for dinner beforehand.
I peg a thimble at Siobhan. She retaliates with a poisonous glare, running her oily human hands down the front of Loki’s pristine clover-green vest.
I will kill you, I mouth at her.
“All right. You’re all set. Thanks again for doing this, Sean. And for what it’s worth, it’s probably better that you and Josie don’t take things any further.”
My attention leaps back to the call. “What? Why’s that?”
“She’s my best friend, and when things ended, it’d be awkward.”
When things ended? It’s true my relationship stats aren’t the best, but ouch. “Wow, Emmy, that’s not harsh at all.”
“Which plant on your windowsill grows, Sean?”
“What are you talking abou—”
“The one you water.”
She can’t hear my aggressive eye roll, so I add a scoff. “I… water things.”
“Goodbye, Sean.”
“Wait, wait!” I stop her. “How’s Vera?”
“Still in ICU.”
“Is she going to be okay?”
“I don’t know. But I can keep you posted.”
“Yes, please. I was thinking it might be nice for me to take her out on a date, too. She got a raw deal.”
There’s a long pause. “Wow, there’s hope for you yet, Sean O’Sullivan.”
I put on a cartoon voice. “And maybe one day, I’ll be a real boy!”
We hang up, and Siobhan raises an eyebrow at me. “It’s getting crowded in here. How many of these things do you buy a week?”
“Zero, on average. A half of one maybe,” I lie.
“Da would sprout a second head if he saw this, you know.” She flicks a Polaroid snapshot of me flexing and roaring in a reproduction of that little loincloth thing Sting wore in the original Dune.
The photo is pinned on a corkboard next to about one hundred of its brothers and sisters, all of me cosplaying.
“Right?” I force a chuckle. Da used to get on me when he’d find me in Mam’s sewing room.
He didn’t want either of his boys being a costumer like her.
Said it was women’s work. But I loved watching my mother create and restore wardrobe items—all those rich materials, the sparkle, the bling.
And when she’d regale me with tales of where they’d been used, what films they’d been in, and who’d worn them, it was like finding buried treasure.
Now I have over a thousand costumes and accessories of my own.
If anyone outside of my innerest inner circle—my sister and my butler, that is—saw it, they’d think I had a problem.
And if Siobhan and Rory knew I’d started shopping on black market sites for even more exclusive stuff, they’d start to worry, too.
Not that they have to worry. I’m Sean O’Sullivan. A bit eccentric, yes, but it’s a polished eccentricity. I’m king of my domain.
“Mam would love it, though,” Siobhan goes on, musing. “Although I think sometimes she wonders if she indulged you too much, yeah?”
Siobhan’s accent comes out when she’s nostalgic or emotional.
It happens to all three of us, even though I was so young when Da got his big break and we left Ireland for the States.
And while Da’s booming acting career shaped our lives and my childhood, Mam continued to work in theater.
Maybe that’s why I love this room so much.
It’s a lot like the sprawling, drafty backstages where I’d spend my after-school hours, Mam quizzing me on spelling words around pins pinched between her lips.
I roll onto my chaise and stretch out. “We can speculate on the various flavors of our parents’ disapproval, or you can tell me why you’re really here.”
Siobhan shoves my legs out of the way to make room for herself and blows out a sigh that sends her ginger bangs fluttering. “Da’s calling a family meeting.”
I bury my face in my hands and reply with a muffled “About what?”
“Seamus is coming home.”
I shoot up. “What? Why?”
“He ran Uncle’s dinner theater into the ground. Uncle’s kicked him out. Says he’s been drinking and gambling.”
“Ah, Seamus.” I shake my head. “Was it the casino? Poker night?”
“Bingo.”
“Ach, God.”
“You know it’s going to be a shitshow when the media gets a hold of this.”
“Right.” My brain whirs remembering that whole debacle four years ago that got Seamus sent to Ireland by Da in the first place.
Suddenly, I see my cosplay room through my father’s eyes, and a lump rises in my throat.
I should tidy it up, get rid of some of the stuff I don’t care as much about or at least cut back on the new acquisitions.
But even as I think it, I know that I won’t.
O’Sullivans hold tight to the things they love.
“What’re you drinking?” Siobhan reaches across to the workbench where my tumbler sits. She tastes it, grimacing in disappointment. “God, I hate your trainer.”
“It’s just till my audition.” I split the George Washington coat to reveal my cut abs. “Almost there.”
She rears a hand back and smacks my stomach with a flat palm. It stings like a mofo.
“Ow! What was that for?”
“To humble you.” She snuggles against me, my ginger cat of an older sister, and sighs. “He can’t stay with me. I’ll tell you that right now.”
I swallow hard. “He can stay here.”
“You don’t have to do that. You don’t have to be the hero.”
I shrug off her half-hearted attack. “I have the room.”
“He’s going to need more than a roof over his head. You realize that, don’t you?”
“Yeah, of course.” I don’t know what exactly she’s getting at, but I don’t want to fight with her. “I’ll get him a therapist, too.”
“A therapist?”
“What? Does he need a therapy dog, too? A therapy parrot?”
“This is going to be harder than you think, Sean. I don’t know what you’re telling yourself this is, but I promise you, it’s bigger. Seamus is…”
Something akin to guilt washes over me—Seamus getting fired was what got me my big break. “I know what Seamus is,” I interrupt her. “Who Seamus is. I’ll figure it out.”
Her mouth clamps shut. “Fine. Whatever. Get him a set of towels and a therapist. I’m sure everything will go smashingly.” She grabs her bag and stands up. “I’ll see you at the family meeting.”
I loll my head on the back of the chaise. “Bye, sis! Love you!”
She points the purse at me like a weapon on her way to the door. “Scandals are like quicksand, Seanny Bear. Get too close, and suddenly you’re up to your neck. I know he’s our brother but…” Her final words echo from the hallway. “Don’t get sucked in.”