Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty-Three
Devon
I love the sound poker chips make when you let them spill from your fingers into a pile.
Almost as much as I love the fact that my pile is bigger than that of the two men surrounding me.
Meredith is the only one with a bigger pile, but I think she secretly flies to Vegas twice a year to play in tournaments.
I cast a glance at Jeff beside me. He smiles wide and I lay down my cards face-up and sit back slowly, enjoying the way his smile slides downward into a frustrated frown of begrudging acceptance.
“D.J. Stephanie. Michelle. Uncle Jesse and Joey. Full house. Again, lady and gents,” I purr, not waiting to see if anyone can match it as I pull the chips from the center of the bird-covered tablecloth into my area, stacking them neatly but loudly.
The tablecloth looks like it was plucked straight from an estate sale in Savannah, just like the embroidered throw pillows and the birdcages in the built-in bookshelves.
It’s embarrassing to admit that I’ve imagined Jeff’s apartment several times and I couldn’t have been more off.
No bachelor’s leather couch or iron bar cart stocked with whiskey and man drinks.
Jeff is living amongst antique lace and floral patterns and every time I catch sight of him against the backdrop of daisy-spotted wallpaper I giggle at the juxtaposition.
Two groans and a murmur of approval reach me over the satisfying clicking of my chips and I look up to find Kevin grabbing his pager off his waist.
“Hospital again?” I ask.
He nods, looking vaguely apologetic. “I’ll see you guys tomorrow. At Devon’s?” he asks, looking down at me with tired eyes. I nod.
“Mom’s making chicken parm,” I tell him.
“Did one of the chunky chickens die?” Meredith murmurs.
“You’re sick,” I tell her.
She smiles.
“Good luck in there, Kev,” Jeff says.
“Thanks, man. Good luck losing to the women,” Kev says, grabbing his messenger bag.
When Kev disappears down the steps, Jeff stands to get another round of beers and I idly check my phone, clicking on my sister’s Instagram account to peruse the beautiful people and their beautiful things.
Just because I don’t have my own social media following doesn’t mean I can’t use it to stalk.
Tara has perfected the art of selfie—her hair impeccably coifed—her makeup rivaling the paintings I’ve seen in the galleries dotting South street.
Her pictures of her new beau, Marcello, are just as gorgeous.
He’s dark where she’s light, his thick black hair swept to one side while his brown eyes stare into my American soul, convincing me to buy Italian.
No wonder she’s moving to Milan. The man is fine.
And no filter could make an ass that tight.
I scroll up further and marvel at the masterpiece that is my kin. She’s even got the lighting down, the way the moonlight streams through the window behind her and falls over her face, reflecting off the gorgeous cushion cut diamond lifted elegantly off her ring finger. Wait. What?
I click on the picture from today and count again. Thumb. Pointer. Middle. Ring. I’m not great with directions, but that’s her left effing hand. My sister is rocking a two-carat rock on the finger of betrothal.
My phone rings and her duckface appear on my screen.
“Ummm. T. Why are you taking pictures with J. Lo’s third engagement ring on?”
“Isn’t it gorgeous? Devon! I’m getting married.” She lets out a little squeal.
“Whattttt?” I’m pacing around the poker table and I don’t even remember standing up from my chair.
Jeff pushes in all the seats around the table so I don’t trip, and watches me with wide, questioning eyes from against the wall, my beer dangling toward me from his outstretched hand. I’m gonna drink that beer real good.
“Yup. Marcello, flew over and surprised me today.” She’s breathless and I’m trying to match her enthusiasm.
But I don’t even know this man. He’s sweeping my sister away to a foreign country and now he’s going to steal the name Gallagher and make her a something that ends with an o.
I don’t even know his goddamned last name!
“We’re going to make dinner at my apartment next Friday for you and the crew—to celebrate,” she tells me. She’s so happy. So excited. Her tone a pitch higher than I’ve ever heard. “Mom can’t—won’t come, obviously. So I hope you can—"
“Of course. Of course, I’ll be there,” I assure her. And I mean it. I might not know this Italian hottie, might even resent him a bit for his audacity and tight tush, but there’s no way in hell I’d miss my little sister’s engagement dinner. “Congratulations, T. I’m really happy that your happy.”
“I know it’s fast. I know you hate fast,” she says.
I do hate fast. Fast is scary. Fast is stupid.
“When you know, you know, right?” Ugh. I hate clichés more than I hate fast, I take a long swig of the beer and let the cold bubbles fill my throat and stop me from saying anymore sappy, overused phrases.
“Exactly! I’ve gotta go though, Dev. They’re about to pop the Champ—” There’s a loud pop and a cheer. “Facetime in the morning ok? Love you, Devon.”
“Love you more.”
The call is ended and I’m staring at Jeff who’s got his hands sunk deeply in his jean pockets, the full weight of his concern bearing down on me and making me feel guilty for the fact that the announcement of my only sister’s engagement requires concern.
I try to smile, but I can tell he doesn’t buy it because his lips press together and the muscles in his neck tenses.
Who has muscles like that in their neck?
“What are you congratulating Tara for?” he asks while I take another long sip of my beer.
“Her engagement,” I reply, and he actually winces.
Meredith lets out a low whistle. “Shit. Should I get the tequila? We’ve got an hour ‘til midnight.”
“I’m gonna get some air,” I say and pull open the sliding door that leads out onto Jeff’s tiny balcony.
“That was fast,” Jeff says to himself as I pass.
Thank goodness someone gets it. I step out onto the iron grates that hang precariously from the back-brick facade of Jeff’s apartment building. The building, much like the knickknacks filling up his interior, is colonial and historic. Jeff steps out behind me and the metal creaks under our weight.
If he’s scared that we’ll topple the twenty feet onto the green dumpsters below, he doesn’t show it.
His hand lands on my shoulder and the warmth of it makes me want to lean back against him.
I rationalize that desire with the heaviness I’m feeling from the idea of missing my sister. I’m just starved for comfort.
“It was one thing when she was moving there—I mean Tara has moved before—Tara likes adventure. And change—”
“The exact opposite of you,” he murmurs, and I feel a small pang of defensiveness.
But it fades with recognition. He’s right.
I hate change. The mere thought of moving sends me into fetal position.
Teaching and tenure have tethered me here in South Jersey, like a safety line holding down a hot air balloon.
Made my world safe. And there’s my mom, of course.
“Yes. But an engagement? I mean, come on. After what we—my mother went through—how could she even consider taking that step so soon? She doesn’t know him.
He could crush her.” My voice cracks. I’m talking to the sky.
But Jeff’s hand is still on my shoulder, his fingers squeezing me in a way that reminds me I’m not out here alone.
I turn myself a little, lift my eyes to his and my breath gets stuck in my throat from the way he’s watching me, the way his eyes are soft and serious in the light that finds us from the apartment windows across the back alley.
His gaze falls to my mouth and I have to steady myself on the iron railing beside us.
“I get it,” he says, his voice low and soft.
And I know he does. That he gets me—feels for me.
I rock onto the balls of my feet, closing a little of the space between us and I’ve forgotten what it was we were talking about.
My fingers itch to touch his chest—to trace the tight line of his neck and the dark stubble on his chin and—
“Boooooty calll!” Meredith yells from inside and I jump back, knocking one of the potted mums off of its perch.
It seems to fall too fast—like whatever forces at work on the balcony are working in tandem with gravity. I watch it crash onto the dumpster below, pieces of terra cotta clattering over the black lid and onto the cement.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper. But I’m not sure if I’m apologizing for the flowers or for whatever the hell just happened.
I still can’t seem to move. Every nerve in my body is standing at alert—live wires severed and set loose in a storm.
I look back up at Jeff and shake my head—answering a question that he hasn’t even asked.
His eyes are still liquid—like the absinthe I tried in high school.
He runs a hand through his hair and opens his mouth to speak, but I turn away.
I step back into his apartment, out of the rippling magnetic field.
I focus all of my energy on Meredith doing her booty call dance while she holds up her ringing phone for me to see the picture of the hot guy calling her.
“Is that butt-chin?” I ask, hoping she doesn’t see how flushed I am. Meredith sees all. The Eye of Sauron. She lifts a brow at me.
“Yup. You ok? You look a bit piqued.”
“I’m fine,” I lie. Between Tara’s news and Jeff’s Jeffness I’m anything but fine. “Looks like we can share an Uber,” I tell her and head straight for the stairs.
Jeff’s voice finds me just before I hit the steps.
“Devon, your money—”
I wave him away without meeting his gaze. “It was just for fun. Thanks for having us.”
And I’m down the steps and out into Washington Square faster than I moved before my surgery.