Chapter 22 Sean O’Sullivan, Good Time Guy.
Sean O’Sullivan, Good Time Guy.
Sean
I’M EXCITED DESPITE myself as Milo pulls up the car. Seamus is slow to come out of the back seat. He looks terrible: puffy eyes, sunken cheeks, bad skin. His hair has grown into greasy, dark spikes. His dress pants, shirt, and vest hang off of him.
I step forward with wide arms. “Brother.”
His hug is stiff. Short, too. I don’t know what I expected. I lead the way into the house. “I put you in the west wing. You’ve got the whole thing to yourself.”
“I could use a drink first.” He leaves his bag in the middle of the foyer and wastes no time locating the bar. His hands shake as he grabs a tumbler and the lone bottle of Viski Irish Cut. “Want one?” he asks.
“Nah, I’m good. How was the flight?”
“It was a flight.”
After watching him put down two fingers in less than a minute, I trail him to the patio with his refilled glass. He scouts out the remote for the wall-mounted TV, settles on a news channel, and plops down to watch, although he’s more glaring at the TV than watching it.
I give up the slow roll and lower myself to one of the chaises. “I found a therapist for you. Best in the Valley.”
He lifts his glass as if it’s the one meant to reply. “Not interested.” Well, that’s a promising start. His red-rimmed eyes cut to me. “Where’re Mam and Da? They coming later?”
I shift on my seat. “Maybe tomorrow.” It’s a lie. My parents have no intention of coming to see Seamus tomorrow. They have the intention of staying in Vegas for three days.
“And Siobhan?”
I can’t lie about Siobhan. He’d never believe me. “Probably not.”
“Right.” Seamus pounds the rest of his whiskey and clucks his tongue. “Nice place you got here.” He scans the wide patio, where I host most of my parties. The pool deck. The outdoor grand piano. I have an indoor grand piano, too.
“Look, I know you’re gonna need a little time to acclimate, and that’s fine. I’m here for you, brother. But there are some rules.” I sound so stupid. So precarious. This must be what substitute teachers feel like.
He chuckles. “Go on, then, Seanny Boy. Tell me your rules.” He does air quotes around the word.
I reach for my Captain Footwork persona, the fearless leader, the one everyone respects and counts on. “No gambling. You clean up after yourself, treat the staff well, and go to therapy.”
He tries to get more out of his glass but it’s empty. “That all?”
“Don’t talk to the press. Don’t do anything stupid when you’re out and about.”
“Aye, aye, cap’n.” He gives me a loose salute from the eyebrow. “You gonna give me something to drive?”
No way I’m giving Seamus a car. “Milo will drive you.”
He snorts. “Is that geebag supposed to be my babysitter?”
“Milo’s my driver. He drives me places, and he’ll drive you places, too. Or you can use a rideshare.”
“My phone doesn’t work here.”
“We’ll get you a new one.”
Seamus rubs his forehead. “Listen, can I just watch TV? I just want to sit and watch TV. Is that allowed?” His eyes are glassy from all the whiskey.
“Sure,” I say. “Watch all the TV you want. I have to go anyway.”
I leave Seamus engrossed in the show and meet up with Rory in the kitchen.
“He stays in his rooms and the common areas,” I say under my breath. “I don’t want him in my rooms or in my costume collection. Keep those locked.”
“Yes, sir. Shall I stay the night?”
I’d feel terrible keeping Rory away from his family overnight. “No need. He’ll probably pass out early anyway.” I clap him on the shoulder. “If anything bad happens, call me. Don’t hesitate. You hear me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And see if you can get him to eat a vegetable or something. He looks like garbage.”
“Yes, sir.”
It feels like I’ve left something important out, but I don’t know what. I just know I feel jittery and untethered. Like I’ve invited a serial killer into the house.
What is wrong with me? Seamus isn’t dangerous. He’s just… angry.
Up in my rooms, I peruse my closet. I was going to wear my rhinestone and brocade suit tonight, but I reach for my black tux instead.
I don’t need the extra attention. Luckily, I’ll get to blow off some steam at Hamilton on the Roof next Thursday.
I’ll go as the Big GW, of course, with a wig and powdered face and all so I’m not recognized.
I’ll wear the hat, too, just this once. Belt out the songs at the top of my lungs.
Let loose without anyone knowing who I am.
No expectations. No role to play, except the one I choose.
But tonight, I’ll be Sean O’Sullivan, Good Time Guy, at my da’s party. Smiles and charm and elegance galore. How’s your brother? Don’t ask me. I just work here.
I reread the last flurry of texts between Josie and me.
Sean: So, what did you decide about Vegas?
Josie: It’s a no-go. For some reason, people are still interested in me.
Sean: The gala’s a private event, mostly friends of my parents. I doubt you’ll get accosted by your new fandom.
Josie: Maybe next time.
I sigh. It’d be nice not to have to go to this thing alone. I mean, I don’t have to go alone. There are a number of women who’d be happy to be my plus-one, but I don’t want to go with any of them. I want my manic pixie dream girl by my side. Josie.
I drop another text. Cheerful. Not pushy.
Sean: Last chance! I’m headed for the airport. Private jet leaves in an hour.
Josie: Have fun.
She follows the two words with a string of emojis: confetti and devils and balloons and heart-eyed faces. Is there a secret code in there? Maybe I could call her and ask. Then I see my brother in my mind’s eye, slamming back whiskeys.
No.
I’m not going to chase her. That’s what Seamus O’Sullivan would do, not Sean.
I toss my phone onto the bed and start to get dressed.