23. Liam
“You’re making that face,” says Bridget.
I sigh. “What face?”
“The face you make when you’re pissed but you won’t admit it.”
I nod toward the door and she opens it so I can carry the nightstand out. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, that’s what you always say when you’re pissed and you won’t admit it.”
I love my sister, but she has a way of needling me like no one else. You’d think on a day when I’ve driven all the way out here to help her, she’d give this shit a rest. “Maybe I’m pissed because you’re accusing me of feeling something I don’t feel and refusing to take no for an answer?”
She shakes her head. “Nah. You looked like that before I said anything.”
Yeah, I was thinking about Emerson, but I wasn’t pissed. I was just…vaguely frustrated. I mean, why the fuck is she actually going out with this guy? Sandra’s a shrew who, as far as I can tell, has never been decent to her daughter, so why does Emerson give two shits about her opinion? And Emerson is so busy insisting that Elliott Springs is terrible and she hates marriage, and suddenly she’s talking about marrying this guy and settling down here?
I guess she was joking, but it frustrates me anyway.
Or maybe I’m just frustrated by the fact that I don’t think she was joking about sleeping with him.
“It’s a girl,” Bridget says. “Oh my God. Is it Holly? Did you go out with her? Are you fighting? Why are you already fighting? Is it her kids? I know. I should have warned you. The younger one is cute, but the second grader’s a little bitch.”
“Bridget, you realize that you just described a seven-year-old as a little bitch, right?”
She shrugs. “I just wanted you to know that I got it. I don’t like that kid either. But it’s a phase. She’ll grow out of it.”
“It’s not Holly and I haven’t met her kids, nor will I meet her kids. She was nice, but we had nothing in common.”
“Why do you need to have anything in common with her?” Bridget demands. “Scott and I don’t share a single interest.”
I raise a brow, my way of pointing out that she’s hardly the poster child for marital bliss—I haven’t seen her husband in this house since the holidays.
“Fine,” Bridget says. “I’ve got one more girl for you to meet. Mel. She surfs. And her dad’s a builder so she’ll get what you do.”
I sigh, running a hand over my face. Mel does sound like a better fit than Holly, and she’d sure as hell be a better fit than Emerson.
I just wish…I don’t even know what I’m wishing for anymore. I just know that I’m not gonna get it.
I finish helping Bridget move the furniture and return to my place, collapsing heavily on the couch. The same couch upon which I was supposed to have manipulated an earnest conversation into sex with Emerson, apparently.
I pull out my phone, though I know I should not.
So apparently, the way to your heart is either by dating your mother or taking advantage of you during a flood.
The Princess
I have no heart. But those are the best ways into my pants. Not that you would care, as you’ve eschewed all premarital pants-entering.
I didn’t say I’d ESCHEWED premarital sex. And a guy named Harold Sossaman wouldn’t know what to do with your pants, much less what’s inside them.
He’s a doctor.
An orthopedist.
I’m sure there were female cadavers in med school.
What are you implying he did to the cadavers?
I just meant he was familiar with the parts. But your eagerness to discuss necrophilia with a relative stranger is a red flag. Maybe I’m glad you refused to fuck me in the bathroom at Beck’s.
1. You’re not a stranger. 2. You’re the one who brought up necrophilia, so that’s not on me. 3. I don’t recall you OFFERING to let me fuck you in the bathroom.
Well, I was but now I’m saving myself for Harold Sossaman. I appreciated what you said about meals versus snacks, however. I might even wait until we’ve gone through the whole stupid art exhibit before I let him have his way with me.
I’m even more frustrated than I was when I started texting her.
No, actually, Bridget was right…
I’m not frustrated. I’m pissed.