Chapter 17
FLETCH
My phone buzzes on the nightstand, jolting me awake. I squint at the screen. Mom.
It’s not even six a.m. Worry courses through me, but she knows I’m an early riser. What she doesn’t know is that Bree and I were up late last night talking. It just sort of happened after dinner. We drifted to the couch and didn’t leave as the dog snoozed between us.
We talked about our college days and what we studied—she, an English major, which is no big surprise—concerts we’ve been to, favorite ice cream flavors, and bucket list items.
Our conversation spanned the gamut, reminding me of that saying, “The more you learn, the less you know.” I want to find out everything about her.
“Hello?” I mumble, still half-asleep.
“Fletcher! We’re at the airport!” Mom’s voice is way too cheerful for this hour.
I sit up, suddenly alert. “What airport?”
“Eppley! Surprise! We’re all coming to see your game tomorrow night.
Dad, me, your brothers—everyone! Well, almost. Bradley and Jen are bringing the kids, and even Graham and his fiancée made it!
Sullivan and Paloma are just getting settled into the new place with the baby, so we’re going to their house for Christmas.
Which means we have to see you now, since with your game schedule, it doesn’t look like you’ll be able to join us unless you hitch a ride on Santa’s sleigh. ”
My stomach drops. “Mom, I’m not playing tomorrow. I’m still out with an injury.”
Silence. My mother is the sweetest, most tender woman, which is a wonder, having raised us hooligans and I know she feels terrible.
“Oh, honey, we didn’t realize. Your father checked the schedule weeks ago and we figured that by now ...”
Yeah. Me too.
“It’s fine,” I say, though it isn’t—the game part, not seeing my family. That’ll be really nice—even if last-minute.
“But we can still check out the game, go out to dinner. A little elf told me there’s a great Christmas Market in Cobbiton.
I tell her how much she’ll love it. “It’ll be great to see everyone.”
After hanging up, I sit on the edge of the bed, running a hand through my hair. Almost my entire family is descending—unannounced—right when everything with Bree is developing.
They don’t know about our arrangement or the mail-order marriage. Not a lick of it and that’s my fault. It all happened so fast and with the parameters we made and the deadline to dissolve it, I didn’t want them to love Bree and then learn that it’s all fake.
They’ll assume we’re really married, that it’s serious, and when Mom finds out it isn’t, she’ll be devastated.
And what will Bree think of my loud, boisterous family? What will they think of me, sidelined with an injury, living in a rental with a wife they’ve never heard of?
I’ve made myself a fine mess.
I wash up and get ready for a run, hoping a solution to this gingerbread house-like problem will come to me.
When my brothers and I were kids, every year, we’d get gingerbread house kits and they’d always collapse like a house of cards in a light wind.
We didn’t care because we were all about eating the candy and cookie walls, but this situation feels just as tenuous.
The run doesn’t help. Not even when I go an extra mile, eager to unravel the knots in my mind. When I get home, I shower, hoping that’ll give me clarity. Nope, just shriveled fingers. I get dressed and then make some coffee, hoping it’ll do the trick.
When Bree comes downstairs, still looking sleepy yet sweet, I say, “Coffee?”
“Yes, please.” Then her gaze darts to mine. “Something going on?”
“What do you mean?”
“You seem …”
Out of sorts. I’m pacing the kitchen with the spatula in hand as my protein pancakes cook. “Uh, I have an unexpected house guest situation.”
“Oh, does that mean I should go to Nina’s?”
“I don’t mean they’re staying here. Probably at the inn or in Omaha. But, uh—” I scratch my temple. “They’ll be here in an hour.”
She inclines her head. “Who will be here?”
“My entire family,” I say, taking a swift swig of coffee.
She looks remarkably calm. “How many people are we talking about?”
“Almost everyone, actually. It’ll be my parents, two of my three brothers, one sister-in-law, and a fiancée, plus three nieces and nephews. Nine total.”
“Nine?” Her eyes widen.
I nod. “I should tell you something about my family. They’re ... a lot. Loud, competitive, no personal boundaries. They’ll probably ask invasive questions and tease you mercilessly.”
“Sounds familiar,” she says pointedly to me, but I catch the flicker of anxiety in her eyes.
“Har har. But personal questions about our situation.” I wag my finger between us, catching sight of hers, wrapped around the mug, still ringless … because this isn’t a real marriage born out of love. We have a piece of paper that states we’re a legal couple, but that’s it.
The dog sits patiently, tongue lolling as if he likes the sound of more attention.
Swallowing, I say, “It’s just for a few days. They’ll be going to my other brother’s house in time for Christmas.”
She nods slowly, takes her coffee, and rushes back upstairs, hollering, “I should get ready.”
Then she doubles back, picks up a few stray items on the counter, darts to the dog’s bed and tosses his toys in the basket, adjusts a few ornaments on the tree, and runs a finger across the mantel, studying the dust on her pointer finger. Panic seizes her and she starts back toward the stairs.
I rush over and gently grip her shoulders. “You’re darting around like a housefly who ate an entire coffee bean.”
“There’s so much to do with less than sixty minutes on the clock.”
I shake my head slowly, recalling what she said about her mother keeping up appearances. “Bree, my family isn’t like that.”
“Like what?”
“They don’t notice dust,” I say as carefully as possible.
I don’t want to insult Mrs. Darling, but dust was the least of Mom’s problems. They’re far more concerned about making sure everyone has enough to eat and that the laughter doesn’t stop flowing than about something being out of place.
“Also, Dad drives like a Formula One Racer.”
“Meaning they’re more likely to get here in forty-five minutes?”
I click my tongue. “You got it. So don’t worry about any of this. Just take care of what you need to.”
She scurries upstairs and doesn’t return until the doorbell rings.
I pause, letting her join me when I’d usually just holler for the Turleys to come in.
Swinging the door open, my mother clobbers me with a hug as if she hasn’t seen me in years.
Then she spots Bree. Gripping my arms, she steadies herself, and her mouth parts with knowing before she hugs my wife like they’re long-lost relatives.
Dad slaps me on the back, eyes my healing jaw, and says, “Tough break, son.”
When I originally told them about the injury, while on the phone, in the background, my father suggested duct tape to fix it.
My brothers—Bradley and Graham—immediately swarm Bree, introducing Jen and Stacy. The kids run circles around the dog, who still doesn’t have a name.
“What do you call him?” Rowan, my nephew, scratches the dog’s ears.
“We’re still deciding,” Bree says.
“How about Elfie?” Violet, my niece, suggests.
“Ebenezer?” Bradley says.
“Tiny Tim,” Graham offers with a grin.
Bree laughs easily and fits in perfectly, answering Mom’s questions about how we met (sticking to our story about meeting in college and reconnecting recently), complimenting Dad’s Minnesota Vikings cap, and getting down on the floor to play with my niece and nephews despite her belted cranberry sweater dress.
Something toasty warm spreads through my chest. She’s good at pretending, but maybe she’s embodying one of her characters.
That thought is more unsettling than it should be.
“This is a wonderful and unexpected surprise,” Mom says breathily, like she can’t quite believe it. Then again, it’s me we’re talking about.
I once called her from the airplane before I went skydiving, sent her a postcard during an impromptu trip to Thailand, and had a courier deliver concert tickets to see the reunion tour of their favorite band—it was supposed to be anonymous, but she figured it out.
Mom makes herself at home in the kitchen, preparing more coffee and snacks for everyone—her way of processing the fact that the only remaining single son in the family has a … Bree.
“It’s not technically a surprise since you called this morning.”
She tilts her head toward my wife. “It’s that you met someone.”
This would be the moment that I come clean and explain the situation.
“Why didn’t you tell us?”
Actually, this would be the one to reveal that we’re married.
My mother, looking exuberantly thoughtful, says, “They don’t tell you this when you’re learning how to change diapers, but a mom seeing her children grown up and in happy, healthy relationships is a great joy.
I cannot wait for your wedding day. But we need to make sure it doesn’t conflict with Graham and Stacy’s wedding. ”
No, the time to reveal the truth would be now.
“About that.” I clear my throat. I’ve done many things to land myself with a lump of coal, but lying to my mother isn’t one of them.
“Actually, we are married.”
The room goes so quiet that I’m convinced we could hear an icicle forming on the eaves outside.
“Oh,” Mom says.
My brothers break into laughter. Jen and Stacy don’t.
The kids carry on as if nothing is happening.
But Dad says, “I thought I heard you say you’re married.”
I slide my arm over Bree’s shoulders. She doesn’t shift away.
“We are,” I say.
This might very well be the first time my family has been silent in Turley history.
Then Mom claps her hands together in her typical can-do fashion and says, “Well, that’s exciting.”
“And we’re sorry that we didn’t—”
Dad eyes me sharply. “You know what it would’ve meant to your mother to—”
“It’s complicated.”
My brothers’ eyebrows simultaneously shoot up as if ready to use whatever I say as ammunition against me later.