Chapter 8
JASON
Marek's fiancée is, in a word, yikes.
Don’t get me wrong, she’s hot. Medium height, skinny enough, nice rack, good ass, and kinda blonde just like her eyes are kinda green. Too bad you can’t see most of that over the sound of her screaming every fucking hour of the day.
And what does she even do for a living? I tuned her out after she started saying “semi-professional amateur street activism slash entrepreneurialism.”
So, in short, good body, horrible personality. On the bright side, I’ve never seen someone give an impassioned ten-minute speech about how shitty their soda was before.
“Just two cubes. If you add too many, it’s too cold and my throat hurts.” She clears her throat, pouting her mouth and lowering her gaze.
I try to catch Marek’s gaze. I just want a confirmation that this woman is for real and not an actor on some shitty Punk’d reboot. But judging by the way he kisses her temple, maybe he’s just fucked.
The saying is true though, you don’t choose who you fall in love with. R.I.P. Marek’s sanity.
I’d give it a year. Maybe he’ll learn his lesson and just pay child support. Or maybe they’ll figure out they don’t live in the fucking 1950s and they don’t have to get married to raise a kid.
Who am I kidding? The poor spawn is fucked either way.
“We’ll need a house,” she says apropos of nothing. “Your studio is too tiny, and you need a place for your art.”
“He can’t afford a house,” I inform her, in case she hasn’t realized that my cousin is broke.
Woman, get a clue!
She makes some sort of whining sound, like a wounded animal. “I thought his family would be helping him.”
Listen, there’s a huge difference between helping and supporting his lifestyle for the rest of his natural life. I open my mouth to give her a lecture, but what’s the point?
“Who said anything about paying for a house?” I glare at Marek.
Seriously, dude, what the fuck did you tell her? I think, but I save it for when we are alone.
“Mar, you said we’d buy a new house for our baby,” she squeaks. “We have to give her the very best, remember?”
She’s either the dumbest person or the smartest con artist I’ve ever met. Regardless, this is hell. How do we even know she’s pregnant? Or that the baby is Marek’s?
“Yeah, I’m not buying anyone a house,” I announce.
“No worries, dude. I have a few job interviews lined up,” Marek informs with his chill voice. “We just need the initial push.”
That’s a relief to me, but Charlie gets a really weird, tight smile, so tight that I’m afraid she might pummel me.
“I won’t be moving to an apartment,” Charlie says firmly. “If it all comes to the worst, we can use Eileen’s bedroom for the baby. She doesn’t need it anymore. You can use Sam’s bedroom as your shop, or we can convince Dad to keep the cars outside and convert the garage into your studio.”
I run a hand through my hair. Marek’s studio apartment is quaint at best. At least the peeling wooden panel walls look intentional, or “stylish.” On second thought, there’s probably some health hazards around here considering how “thoughtful” these jokers are.
“What is it that you do again?” I ask her.
“I’m an assistant manager at Neiman Marcus,” she says flattening her clothes. “But I don’t think I’ll be able to continue working there.”
“She could work for Em,” I suggest. “Be a virtual assistant.”
Marek smiles and says, “That’s a great idea.”
Of course Charlie fucking pouts. “I thought we agreed I wouldn’t work for the first few years, Mar. Someone has to look after the baby.”
Gotta say, she’s fucking persistent. I sigh, kicking back the rest of the water Marek offered me like it’s beer. Where is the alcohol? Actually, I gotta get out of here before I open my big mouth.
“Well, this has been fun,” I tell Marek with a pat on the back. “Maybe start with something small like budgeting or childproofing this place a little. I’ll see what I can find in terms of cheap home rentals, but I’m not doing any heavy lifting for you.”
Charlie goes beet red. Great, she has even more emotions. What now?
“Do you think we’re not responsible enough to take care of our own kid?” she questions angrily.
I choose to ignore her tone as I head out the front door. “Glad we’re on the same page. I’ll make sure Emmeline gets in touch with you. The sooner you switch jobs, the better.”
“Cuz,” Marek calls out as I reach the door. “Don’t forget we’re having dinner at her parents’ on Sunday. They want to meet the fam.”
Fuck, these two are running down my patience and asking way too much of me. “Sure, just send me the address.”
I grew up in a loud, close-knit, crazy family. There’s no other way to describe the Spearman clan. Three boys, twin girls, and lots of cousins from the Spearman side. Family reunions are fun and yet chaotic.
Being the middle child has its benefits, mostly. It means I’ve seen my fair share of stupendously loud arguments and ruckus events. It also means that when Jack, fairly, escapes from bullshit situations, I’m next in line to be “the responsible one.”
I never thought there’d be a family louder than mine. Cue the McBeans, proving me wrong with every passing second. There are about twenty conversations going on at once, so I gave up early on trying to understand anything going on around me.
If I have to guess, there are easily five generations of family crammed into this four-bedroom home.
I keep getting knocked into by my future in-laws, asking me “which one” am I and “why’s your plate so empty?
” I’m half convinced these people are trying to fatten me up to serve me as the main course.
Around eight, people start filtering out. I take that as my cue to finally duck out, so I look for Marek to say goodbye.
“Wait, we have to talk about the wedding and the b-a-b-y,” he says. Because nothing is ever one and done with him.
“Why are you spelling that?”
“Some of them don’t know about it yet,” he says.
I roll my eyes. Some days I’m amazed that he can get out of bed by himself. “Dude, they know how to spell.”
He shrugs. “Still, I need you to stay, please.”
I nod in resignation, getting comfortable on the couch again. What’s another hour dealing with this crowd? Seriously, what’s the worst that can happen? At least it’s gotten quieter around here.
“No, Mom,” Charlie shrieks. “Why would I want fuchsia as a color for my wedding?”
“She’s at it already. Impressive,” a woman says behind me.
When I look over my shoulder, I spot a short, curvy chick standing by the entryway. She stares at Charlie. She’s cute, her dark, curly hair tucked underneath a green beanie that matches her eyes and jacket. She glances at me, giving me a once over. She scrunches her nose.
Why haven’t I seen her before? Huh, maybe she’s a new guest.
I wave at her awkwardly and walk toward her. She quirks her lips. Pretty sure she’s laughing at me under her breath. It’s fine, I probably have a stupid look on my face.
“Come here often?” I ask. “Seems like you’re a pro.”
“Hardly,” she says while taking her things off. “I’m just the unfortunate spawn they had after that one.”
“I take it you’re the understudy?” I ask as we sit down on the couch.
She laughs. “God no. More like the shortstop.”
I chuckle. She feels so familiar, like a song I forgot I love. Then I remember my conversation over the phone a few nights ago. “Eileen, right?”
“Yep, and you must be Jason,” she states dryly. “Nice to meet you... again.”
“Ditto,” I say, and then, as I glance over to a half-full house, point out, “You missed the family reunion.”
“That was intentional,” she confesses. “The key is to always have an excuse. Show up late and with a full stomach. It’s the only way to survive around here.”
Wish I had known that five hours ago. Still, “Noted,” I say, patting my stomach.
“Do they know about the baby?” she mumbles.
I raise my eyebrow confused. “Your parents?”
“No, the rest of the family.” She looks around as if taking inventory of the place. “I guess not, or they’d still be hovering around her.”
She wasn’t kidding on the phone when she said it’s always rough. I’ve known the McBeans for a few hours, and I’m tapped out. But an entire lifetime?
Eileen’s a trooper, and a funny one to boot.
“So, what’s next?” I ask curiously.
She shushes me and redirects my head toward where her mother is pacing in the kitchen.
“It has to happen fast, Murphy,” her mom says to her dad. “You don’t want her to show. Everyone will know.”
“The horror,” Eileen whispers, clutching her jacket.
I swallow a laugh.
“I wish I had brought popcorn to watch this,” she says, crossing her arms. “Next, my sister will fake like she’s offended. Then Mom will say something to upset her even more.”
“We don’t have money for a big party, Lorena,” Mr. McBean clarifies.
“There are always ways,” Mrs. McBean insists.
This is like a tennis match. I don’t know who is keeping score, but my bet is on Mrs. McBean. My father has one rule, never contradict your mother. Also, he always lets her win. I guess those are two big rules.
“How do you think we raised three children? Charlie will use my dress.”
“Oh no, ‘used’ dress. That’s strike two,” Eileen mumbles.
She was right about one thing. We need popcorn.
“What do you mean?” Charlie shrieks. “You’re shorter than me, and I can’t be wearing your dress. It’s for your wedding. I need something for me. Why can’t you be a little nice to me!? Don’t you see I’m hurting?”
“She’s a great actress,” I say for the first time out loud. “Didn’t buy it at first but hey, what a performance.”
“One of the best, such a pity she didn’t go to Hollywood.” Then, Eileen exhales. “You should leave before this becomes a circus.”
I look around waiting for the clowns and the lion tamer. “Why?”
“She’s about to search for her next target or someone to fix her life. I bet it’ll be me. Mom will do the same, and by the end of the night, everything for this fucking wedding will officially be my responsibility.”
“Do you have money for it?” I ask.
“I’m a physical therapist who works for the government,” she answers. “You tell me.”
“We’re going to have to bail them out,” I conclude.
“Nope, not tonight,” she clarifies.
“Wanna get out of here before they catch you?” I offer. “We can ask them to brunch tomorrow. Talk shit out with less people.”
She looks like I just told her she won the lottery, nodding as she grabs her jacket and pulls me quietly toward the door. We don’t say anything until we’re inside the front seats of a beat-up Subaru, backing out of the driveway.
It smells like lavender and regret (or maybe just really old vomit stains). She puts on some Eddie Money track and laughs like an escaped convict. I feel laughter bubbling up in me and realize fuck, I must be too.
It’s the first time since Marek dropped this fucking baby bomb on me that I’ve felt like I had any choice in the matter.
“We made it,” she says excitedly. “Mom’s going to freak later about me skipping dinner.”
“What’re you gonna tell her?”
“Work,” she says with a shrug. “I have to write down a plan for the people who’ll be taking over for me while I’m on vacation.”
“Nice,” I offer conversationally. “Where are you going?”
She cocks an eyebrow. “You’re kidding, right? Didn’t you see that madness? I need time off to deal with it.”
I nod, letting her drive us into the fucking sunset.
“So, now that we’re co-conspirators in a getaway with no discernible place to go... Do you wanna grab a drink?”
She laughs like a songbird. “Sure.”