Chapter 25
Trystan removes his Burbury scarf and coat, watching with keen interest as they hang on a wall-mounted coat rack next to the Broe boulevard of family photographs that is the hallway.
I hang them next to the Walmart jackets and assorted hand-me-down items, some offering warmth and comfort, others telling a story about the current owner and who wore it over decades past. I try to shove the mountain of a man beyond the pictures of me in goalie gear, or with braces, until a throaty honk and an entire room exclamation has our feet moving double time.
We enter the cramped dining room in time to see my second cousin, Eamon, throw up his last feed all over Mason Mercer, CE fucking O.
I’ve never wanted the ground to open up and consume me more than now.
More than the bullying, or the wet bathing suit clinging to extra pounds on the pool deck as a teen.
Now is the single worst moment of my life because the man has vomit on his Versace.
I scramble around the chairs full of family to scoop up a still gurgling Eamon and fling him toward Deidra who still has a burp cloth over her shoulder.
When Mason stands, the extent of the expulsion, exorcist-style, is worse than I first imagined.
In all the years I remain on this earth, I will never forget the face of a man whose impeccable designer clothes are now ruined as rivulets of baby vomit cascade down his chest and pool in the creases of his pants.
“Mason, I’m so sorry.” The words are far from adequate. As he stands there like some slime-drenched scarecrow, I nudge my brothers into action. “Kynan, go get him some clothes to wear. Liam, get some cloths. And I don’t know what the fuck the rest of you are all staring at. Show’s over.”
Liam and Geoffrey both jump into action with napkins and tea towels, while Dad just chuckles into his glass.
Typical. Useless as fucking tits on a fish, Mom says.
I steer a bewildered Mason past Trystan, who backs away, palms up in surrender.
Kynan returns seconds later with an armful of clothes that I accept before locking both Mason and I into the bathroom.
“I’m sorry,” I say again, trying to remove his sweater and not allow any of the remaining liquid to slosh into his hair.
Wearing borrowed clothes is bad enough. If the man requires a shower in our tiny brown cubicle with a geometric shower curtain and body wash from Costco, there’s no coming back from this.
The boys use a four in one shampoo, for fuck’s sake.
“It's not your fault. Not the baby’s either. I understand that is kind of spontaneous, right?”
“Yeah, it can be. For such tiny humans, they sure have disproportionate stomachs, hey. Who would think so much milk fits in there?”
“Bri, I think the math is wrong. If it could fit, it wouldn’t have been projected like a water cannon. Does it normally stink like this?” he adds, pulling a face.
I don’t know! He moves to undo his button and zipper, only to realize they are still coated in vomit. “Here, let me.”
“I love it when you undress me, Bri. Or should it be Bubble?”
The button pops free, and the zipper follows with little biohazard transfer.
He steps out of his pants, standing in my childhood bathroom in just his socks and boxer shorts.
If only teenage me could manifest this man while I’d been deep conditioning my hair the mustard-brown bathroom wouldn’t have been so…
mustard-brown? I hated this room, and now I never want to leave.
I wet a washcloth under warm water and wipe down his chest and thighs before repeating the process.
I want to repeat the process with my tongue.
Reacquaint myself with every ridge, dip, and plain.
“If you keep looking at me like that, I’m going to want to take the last of these clothes off, not put more on.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing, Mr. Mercer.”
“It’s a way better idea than being covered in baby barf.”
I fight to hide my smile, separating the sweatpants and shirt so he can, in fact, put clothes on.
Even with the thermostat hovering around seventy-nine, this bathroom can be an old, draughty bitch.
I’m gathering up the ruined clothing when I catch sight of him in the faded Megadeath concert T-shirt.
This isn’t Kynan’s, he’s way too young. It must be a relic of Connor’s time here, or God forbid, Dad’s.
“This day keeps surprising me,” he says in a curt tone. His eyes, his beautiful eyes bound by the most adorable fine lines, tell a different story. He’s enjoying himself here.
To their absolute credit, no one says a word about the respectable business executive sitting in a death metal concert shirt with a tiny hole above the left nipple.
Not one word. It could well be an everyday occurrence, like pass the salt, please, or would you care for some more bread?
Even Trystan has pursed lips, tamping down any remark that might dance on the tip of his tongue.
I bet he’s dying to take a stealthy picture but doesn't want to run the gamut of Molly Eileen.
“You can start with some introductions, Bubble,” Mom chides when I wedge myself back in between Trystan and Mason now that Deidra is rocking Eamon to sleep again in the living room.
“Sure thing. Everybody, these are my bosses. Trystan, and the big boss, Mason.”
“For that fancy new job that’s paying you all that money. I hope she’s worth it, boys,” Dad jokes.
“She absolutely is”, Trystan adds with a wink, his grin clear.
“Alright then. To your right, Mason, is my uncle Dion; he’s Aunt Maeve’s husband, the one in the green dress who you kind of met when we arrived.
Mom’s sister, well, one of them anyway. Next to him are my cousins Donny and Elliott, Elliott’s girlfriend Isla, another aunt, Frieda, and her husband, Mathis.
Their children aren’t here today, but they have four.
Around the end of the table are my eldest brother, Connor, his wife, Shae, and baby Niamh.
Tommy is also theirs; he’s over there in the Bluey sweatshirt, next to Aunty Caitlin, my favorite and only sister.
” I make a heart shape with my hands and narrowly avoid a piece of bread thrown by Liam. Child!
“Fuck you too, Bubble,” he says, before Geoffrey smacks him on the shoulder. “Sorry, then we have Liam and Geoffrey, Aunty Phyl, Uncle Ray, Kynan with the terrible taste in music. Megadeath, really, Ky?”
“You said get something. I got something. Jesus fucking Christ.”
“Dad’s brother Charlie and sister Imogen, Aunt Maeve who is Dion’s wife, but they don’t sit together.”
“That’s because I can’t stand listening to that man chew,” she fires back.
“My mom, Molly, Dad, Glyndon, his mom, Uta. Gail, other Liam, Ronan, and Sean are in the living room with Deidra and Eamon, and I think Sara is in the bathroom, maybe?”
“She must be taking a shit because she’s been gone a good ten minutes.” Liam adds, and is again smacked on the shoulder by an exasperated Geoffrey.
“I think that’s it. Everyone present and accounted for.”
Mason frowns. “I thought that guy’s name was Chippy?” he says, pointing to Kynan. “Or is that a nickname like Bubble?”
The room erupts into riotous laughter, a cacophony of wheezy inhales and shrill amused titters, and wiped tears.
“Oh, son, that’s fucking gold,” says my dad, wiping his own eye after trying, and failing, to take another sip from his whiskey before he dissolves into fits of shaking shoulders. “Chip… Sorry, lad. Chippy is the fucking dog.”