13
We get back to the car and my brothers are waiting for us.
Tenny has a dipshit smile like he’s in on some secret because he thinks he knows I’m into Sam, but Oliver’s face looks a little dark. Brows low, mouth stiff.
“You sit in front,” Oliver tells me, and a flicker of disappointment breezes through my bones.
I try to sidestep it. Tenny probably said something assholey to Oliver inside the funeral home and now Oliver just wants to be away from him.
“You gonna play nice?” Tenny asks as I climb in.
“Yes, Dad.” I roll my eyes.
“Georgia, stop.” He looks at the road as he peels out. He shakes his head a tiny bit. “It’s too soon.”
And then I feel bad. Out of all of us kids, Dad dying would hit Tennyson the hardest. Maryanne might milk it the most, but Ten’s the one who’ll feel it most. They were inseparable. Tens was his mini and his pride and joy. Tenny worked for Dad straight out of college, and nepotism was certainly a part of that, but the business is half run these days by Tennyson, or so I’m told. Wholly run now, I guess. They sell civilian aircrafts. And for all the shit I was giving him before, besides me, he is the second smartest kid in our family.
Oliver just never applied himself. He could have done anything in the world if he wanted to, anything at all—still could—but he sort of fell into event planning. He partied real hard, that was his job for a while, and then somewhere within the midst of that, he began to plan parties for people, which turned into planning events for people.
Maryanne fell into her MRS.
But Tennyson works hard. He didn’t always, which is why he only got into UGA, but he applied himself once he was there, I suppose.
I poke Tenny in the leg and give him a long look that’s an apology with my eyes, which I hope he’ll accept because I’m not going to say one with my mouth.
He holds my gaze, doesn’t say anything, and his face doesn’t give me any clues as to whether I’m forgiven or not.
“Where are we going now?” I ask.
“I’m meeting Violet at Stomp, so you’re dropping me there,” Oliver says from the back.
“Oli,” I whine. “Why?”
“Because she and I are picking out the floral arrangements for the funeral, and I need caffeine to think.”
“No!” I pout.
“So you fucked an inappropriate man, Gige.” Oliver shrugs. “Who hasn’t?”
“I haven’t,” Tennyson says at the same time as Sam says, “Me.”
I spin around to face Sam. “What about Catherine?”
He grins and shrugs. “Not a man.”
“Who’s Catherine?” Oliver asks with a frown.
“No one.” Sam rolls his eyes.
“The girl whose name he got tattooed on his arm after sleeping with her once,” I tell Oli.
Tennyson chuckles. “How good was she in bed for that to happen?”
“Yeah!” I turn back to look at Sam. “One-to-ten it for us—”
“I don’t know.” Sam laughs, shaking his head. “I was drunk!”
“Alternative adjective: clingy,” I offer.
Tenny laughs more.
“Oh, you guys have in-jokes now?” Oliver asks, eyeing me and Sam as though he’s playfully mad, but behind the playfulness I’m sensing the smallest bit of genuine contempt because his mouth tightens a little bit. And Sam’s mouth—that perfect mouth—is a dead giveaway when he chews on his bottom lip and looks out the window.
“Oh, I bet those two have a lot of secrets,” Tennyson says, and I thwack him in the chest with a shut up glare.
“You want to play the secret game?” I give my oldest brother a look and do my best to divert all our focus away from his comment. “How about how Mom believes that you don’t live with Savannah?”
Tennyson presses his lips together. “I don’t live with Savannah.”
I point to his mouth. “Yes, you do.”
I hear Sam sniff a laugh from the backseat.
“No”—his fists briefly clench the steering wheel a bit tighter—“I don’t.”
“Yes”—I point to the hand of his that’s closest to me on the steering wheel—“you do.”
Tennyson makes a noise from the back of his throat.
“Georgia,” Oliver groans. “Leave him alone.”
“Tennyson.” I blink over at him playfully. “Do you want me to leave you alone?”
He blinks back a lot, emulating my tone. “Yes please.”
I roll my eyes at him, and he snorts a laugh and eyes me like we’re pals, and I’m confused by the warmth I think I’m feeling from him, so I look out the window.
“So,” I say. “Oli, what are you thinking for flowers?”
“Lots of green,” Oliver says, looking out his window. “Ivy, leatherleaf fern, lemon leaf. Maybe some honey bracelet? And then something like…bells of Ireland. Delphinium, probably?”
“Are you just making up words?” Tenny interrupts him as we pull up in front of Stomp.
Oli glares at him, then gets out of the car, slamming the door loud on purpose.
I breathe out my nose, a bit annoyed at Tennyson for not just letting Oliver prattle on about flowers and making him feel stupid for knowing the names of them.
Sam glances at me uncomfortably, then begins to get out of the car too, and as I reach for the door handle, Tennyson says, “Wait, I want to talk to you.”
Sam looks back at me, pausing halfway out of the car.
“She’ll be all right, man.” Tennyson eyes him like he’s being ridiculous. “Go on inside, we’ll see you in a minute.”
Hesitation is ripe on Sam’s face as he glances from me to my brother and back to me again. My eyes are round and big as I try to give Sam a look to tell him I’ll be okay. He climbs out of the car.
“Never pegged you for the strong and silent type.” Tennyson watches after him, then looks back to me.
I roll my eyes.
“You’re really going to try and tell me nothing’s going on?” He raises his eyebrows.
And I feel confused. We’ve never had a relationship like this. He’s never asked me these questions before. Normally it’s Oliver pulling me into corners and asking me questions and telling me secrets. And when I say normally, I mean like a decade ago.
I squint up at my biggest brother, a tiny bit happy to have someone to talk to but not prepared to give him an actual smile. So I shrug dismissively. “He just thinks I’m attractive.”
“Yeah, Gige.” My big brother snorts. “You didn’t have to go to Cambridge to figure that one out.”
“It’s nothing.” I shake my head. “Nothing’s happened, nothing’s going to happen—”
He gives me a look. “Yeah, if you say so…”
Then Tennyson’s eyes pinch together and he bites the tip of his tongue, which is the same thinking face he’s made since we were tiny. He doesn’t believe me. I wouldn’t believe me either, but he drops it anyway. “So, I want to talk about the will…”
I drag my eyes over to him. “What about it?”
“I don’t know.” He sighs. “What if it’s the same?”
I frown a little. “Well, have you seen it?”
“No.” He shrugs, helpless. “But I mean, you know Dad. He was so weird about Oliver…”
“You really think he’d cut him out of his will?”
My big brother shrugs again, helpless. “Grandpa did.”
I give him a look. “Yeah, I mean, Grandpa had a framed Confederate flag over his fireplace and was a terrible misogynist, and I’m not Dad’s greatest defender, but even I know he wasn’t like that—”
He sighs. “I guess you’re right.”
Then he rubs his mouth, tired. Or at least, that’s what he thinks he does. I tilt my head to get a better look at his face. Elevated breathing, brows low in consternation, mouth set. Thumb pressed into his mouth absentmindedly.
“What?” I ask him, watching his face.
“What what ?” He blinks, looking sprung. “Nothing,” he says with a mouth shrug. Then he scratches the back of his neck.
“What aren’t you saying?” I ask.
“Nothing—that’s all. I’m just worried Oliver’ll be left out of the will again—” Another sliver of a mouth shrug.
I raise my finger to point to his face, but my brother smacks my hand away. “Don’t do that shit with me.”
“Then don’t lie to me!”
“I’m not lying to you!”
“That was another lie!” I yell.
He sighs out a big breath and presses the tip of his tongue into his top lip, nostrils the slightest bit flared—he’s annoyed with me but he’s cracking—I love it when they crack—his hand is balled into a loose fist and he unconsciously taps his mouth.
“That”—I point to his hand—“is called a self-hushing emblem. It means you have something to say but you’re not sure you should say it.”
My big brother looks at me with ragged eyes. “You’re fucking annoying.”
“Yeah, so everyone keeps saying.” I roll my eyes. “But spill it anyway.”
He licks his lips as he rolls his head back. “A couple years back, I was looking over some numbers and noticed these regular payments were being withdrawn from some rental company in New Orleans.” I frown a little. “Nothing massive. Just couple thousand dollars a month, but when I looked at it—it went back years. So I asked him about it, and he went real weird. Clammed right up. Said it was for an office space and that he’d been thinking about expanding the business.”
“In New Orleans?” I clarify with a frown.
Tennyson gives me a weighted look. “Then the payments stopped, but I’d written down the details, so I did some digging. It wasn’t an office space. It was some girl’s apartment.” He raises his eyebrows.
I blink a few times. “You think dad had a mistress?”
Tenny shrugs, but his whole face pulls. Yes. Because, I guess, what else could that mean?
“And then,” he keeps going, “a few months later, the same amount of money started being deposited into an offshore account.”
I frown. “Well, maybe he was doing it as a tax write-off?”
“Sure.” Tennyson nods, and he looks like he’s trying to believe that himself. But then his face tugs and I know he’s concerned. “Either way, I don’t know what’s going to be in the will on Monday.”
My car door swings open and Oliver sticks his head inside the car.
“You girls done gabbing in here?”
I jump out of the car and Oliver links his arm with mine, pulling me over to the entrance of the café where Sam’s standing, watching us.
“Gige, I need your help,” Oliver says solemnly.
“What’s up?” Tenny says, squaring up. “I can help.”
I roll my eyes without looking at him.
Oliver pauses dramatically, glancing between the three of us. “I need you to tell me whether the guy at the register is gay.”
“I can’t help,” Tenny says with a headshake, taking an unconscious step back.
I roll my eyes again, but this time it’s at both of my brothers. “I can’t tell whether someone’s gay or not—”
“Of course you can.” Oliver frowns.
I point at Sam. “I thought he was gay.”
Sam bats a smile away and then gives me a subtle wink, and my heart is a drum inside my chest right now.
“But what about your magic?” Oliver pouts.
“Can we just—stop calling it magic? I’ve studied people’s faces for like eight years. It’s not magic. I had to learn this.”
“What, you think magicians are just born with magic?” Oliver pulls a face. “They have to train too.”
“That’s what Hogwarts is for,” Tenny interjects.
“They were wizards?” I look at him like he’s an idiot.
“It’s the same thing!”
“Oh my God!” I yell. “Tennyson, if you think Harry Potter is the same thing as a magici—”
“Harry Potter was a magician!” Tennyson interrupts.
“He was not!” Me.
“Guys.” Oliver.
“Mate, have you seen the movies?” Sam.
“Guys.” Oliver.
“Did he, or did he not do magic?” Tens.
“Not a magician!” Me.
“Ah.” Sam considers. “I sort of see his point—”
“Guys!” Oliver stomps his foot, but I ignore him.
“The most famous line from the book is ‘Harry—yer a wizard,’” I interject.
Oliver gives me a silencing look. “Georgia, can you or can you not tell me whether this cashier is gay?”
I take a long-suffering breath, but then give Oliver a gentle sort-of smile. “I can tell you whether he’s attracted to you.”
Tennyson ducks his head, peering into the store. “Are you talking about that cashier?”
“Yeah.” Oli nods.
Tenny shakes his head. “That’s Avery Cleanth. He’s not gay.”
I frown. “How do you know?”
Tennyson shrugs. “He was in my class at school.”
“Oh, right.” I nod sarcastically. “Your heterosexual-only class.”
“No.” He rolls his eyes. (But probably “kind of, yes” is the truth.)
“So does he have a girlfriend?” I press.
“No,” Tennyson says.
Oliver stands up a little straighter, eyebrows raised in expectation. Sam folds his arms over his chest.
I crane my neck. “Then how do you know?”
“He doesn’t look gay!” Tenny shrugs, helplessly.
Sam’s face scrunches up. Microexpression: contempt.
“What does gay look like in 2024?” Sam Penny asks.
Tennyson presses his tongue into his top lip. He does this semi-shrug and nods somewhat subtly but not subtly enough in Oliver’s direction.
Oliver sniffs out an offended laugh and walks inside briskly.
“Nice.” I glare at Tennyson before I follow Oliver in.
I don’t know why we do that, because the four of us immediately gather again in the same circle just inside of the café.
“For the record”—I look at my oldest brother—“Oliver’s in regular black jeans, amazing loafers, and a short-sleeved button up shirt, so—”
“It’s pink!” Tenny blinks.
“Fuck you!” Oliver spits. “It’s a dusty quartz—”
“Okay! That’s—” I interrupt him, shaking my head because that’s not going to help. “I’ve got it from here, thank you. Ol, why don’t you go into the line so I can watch for a second, okay?”
Oliver gives Tennyson one last death stare before he saunters away.
“He’s not gay,” Tennyson tells me decidedly as we watch our brother walk toward Avery Cleanth.
And I hate to say it, but I think Tens is right. Nothing about Avery’s body language makes me think he’s attracted to Oliver, and Oliver is catnip for men who like men. If you’re gay in Oliver’s vicinity, you’re hitting on him—it’s like he’s a homing beacon, and so he should be, because he’s beautiful and funny and witty, but this guy is giving him nothing, and I don’t even know why Oliver wondered whether he was gay in the first place? He’s normally sharper than this himself…
Only one way to be sure, though.
I adjust my dress a little—tug it the top part of it down, catch my hand on purpose in the hem of the skirt so I can hike it up a little shorter—and then I go sidle up next to my brother as he’s squinting with a perfectly pouted face at the baked goods.
“Hi.” I grin at Avery.
“Hi.” He smiles back and his eyes drop south of mine. Boobs. Straight men love boobs. I glance back over my shoulder at Sam—his jaw’s clenched—and I get a jolt of happy.
“Have you ordered the coffees yet?” I ask Oli.
“Just me and Sam’s.”
“And three cold brews, please.”
Avery Cleanth subconsciously licks his bottom lip before he gives me a cool nod and little smile. “Sure thing.”
My older brother walks over to us.
“Told you,” he whispers to me before he hugs Beckett Lane, who’s appeared at my side. “Becks.” He grins. “How’s things?”
“Good, good—they’re good.” Becks taps me on the arm. “Hey, Gigi.”
I look up at him, my face emotionless, and flash him an empty smile. “Hello.”
“What’s good?” He subtly thrusts his chin at me, which is interesting because it’s a sign of repressed anger.
“I met your girlfriend last night,” I tell him.
He sighs and plasters on a practiced smile. “Isn’t she something special?”
“Oh,” I nod. “She’s something…”
Tennyson pinches me and I wriggle out of it.
“Bring our coffees out,” I tell my brother and walk back to Sam, who’s now sitting at a table outside in the sun—it’s worth noting: in an extremely noncovert way—leaning forward to watch us.
I sit across from him.
He scratches the back of his head, then looks at me for a couple of seconds. “You okay?”
I pinch my eyes, heart beating faster, feeling annoyed that he knew to ask that. “Why wouldn’t I be okay?”
Sam gives an unconvincing shrug. “You tell me.”
I roll my eyes and look away.
“Do you like your brother?” he asks, glancing over at him.
“Who, Tennyson?”
He nods.
I shrug. It’s not a nonanswer, it’s just that I’ve never really thought of it before. “I guess—I don’t know. Sometimes?”
He nods a few times, thinking. “What’d you do?”
My face flickers, confused. “When?”
“With your inheritance?”
“I, um—” I breathe in and out and give him a tight smile. “Gave half of it to Oliver, kind of cut out my family for not batting for him, and haven’t been back here till now.”
He sits back, blinking a few times. “You gave Oliver one-point-eight million dollars?”
I give him another tight smile.
“What’s that mean?” Sam presses his index finger into my fake smile and for a second, my brain goes gooey. He’s touching me. It’s playful and frivolous and it could mean nothing, but also, it could mean something. Frivolous touching coupled with his dilated pupils and how often he clocks my mouth implies it means something, and just at the thought of what it could objectively imply, oxytocin is released into my system, and if we weren’t on a main road in the middle of Beaufort, I’d grab him by the collar of his white T-shirt and kiss his perfect face right off.
“Well, well, if it isn’t my favorite girl in the world and the handsome boy I keep seeing her with,” Violet says, appearing at our table, a big, dumb grin on her face.
I look up at her. “Your top’s on inside-out.”
She glances down at herself. “Oh—that’s embarrassing.” She shrugs. “Had sex as I was leaving the house. Nothing puts the fear of God in you like—”
“Sex?” I interject.
“No!” she scolds me. “Death! And sex is the antithesis of death.” She leans down close. “Y’all should have it. It’s so good when you’re hyperaware of the impermanent nature of everything.”
I squint at her. “Are you drunk?”
She makes a tiny space between her finger and her thumb. “Little bit.”
Sam sniffs a laugh.
Oliver comes out carrying our coffees. “Verdict?” His eyebrows are arched up in a wasted hopefulness.
I shake my head ruefully. “Sorry…”
Oliver’s face falls. “How do you know?”
I open my mouth and close it again, confused. “Are you asking for the exact science of it?”
Oliver nods.
I purse my lips. “He clocked my chest within two seconds of me standing there, and then his gaze shifted from my eyes to my mouth constantly until I walked away. He likes girls.”
“Maybe he’s bi?” offers Violet. Then she claps both her hands on Oliver’s face. “The boy’s a damn fool if he doesn’t like you, honey—now let’s go.”