“We need to do that. We didn’t do anything for the holidays, or our birthdays.” Matt drew a triangle between himself, Shannon, and me. “We should. We deserve something good.”
Shannon and I were born the same year, me in January, and her in December. Matt came along the following December. We usually picked one day as a communal celebration, but that ritual fell away this year. Taking Angus off life support and burying him the week before Christmas didn’t leave much room for anything special or festive.
“You’re right,” I murmured, sipping my whiskey. Crawling would be an accomplishment tomorrow; running would be out of the question. “This all feels like a kick in the ass, but we’ll own the Derne Street office outright. All the Bunker Hill properties will be off the books by the end of February. We get to do what we love and hang out with each other every day. We need to celebrate that shit.”
“Good,” Matt shouted as he stumbled into the kitchen. “But don’t think I’m forgetting that you’re thirty-three, and Black Widow is thirty-two now.” He pressed Lauren up against the refrigerator and kissed her. I looked away when he hooked her leg over his hip and his hand slipped under her shirt.
“They’re fucking exhibitionists.” Riley jutted his chin toward Shannon. “I’ve seen this show before. Want to a hit a frat party?”
“Why do you know about these things? It’s not in Rhode Island, is it?”
“You’re lucky I don’t hit women,” he replied. “No, it’s not in Rhody, but you’d be in for something special at an Ocean State frat party. And don’t ask questions you don’t want answered.”
“Won’t I be the oldest person there by…ten years?” she asked.
“Yeah. Some guys are into that.”
Shannon shrugged. “Good enough for me.” She gathered her things before touching my forearm. “Will you check on him?” I nodded, and she bit her lip. “He drank a lot and barely ate. His insulin pump won’t work as well.”
“I know, I got it. Go.”
She smiled and headed out with Riley while Matt articulated his unquestionably filthy intentions for the night with Lauren. Wasthatwhat love looked like?
“I’m takin’ you to bed, sweetness,” Matt said when he released her from the refrigerator, his hands deep in her back pockets.
“You’re welcome to stay,” Lauren offered as Matt marched her toward their bedroom.
“Thanks, Lauren. Let him sleep wherever he falls. A night on the floor never hurt him.”
“If you only knew, Patrick,” she laughed.
I stared at the ocean before turning off the lights and locating Sam’s messenger bag. I grabbed his medical kit and headed toward the spare bedroom. Unsurprisingly, he was fully dressed and snoring. I rolled him over, expecting him to wake up and launch into a long-winded argument, but he went on snoring.
Opening the kit, I retrieved the supplies and knelt beside the bed, conjuring the last shreds of sobriety. He didn’t flinch when the lancet punctured his skin, but after all these years with type 1 diabetes, I suspected he was immune to it. His levels were low, but not dangerous. I inserted a new canister in his insulin pump and waited for the screen to register it.
Sam grunted and turned to his side, and I pulled the blankets over him before flopping beside him. I set the alarm on my phone to wake me when he needed his levels checked again, and scrolled through my texts and emails.
The sight of Andy’s name attached to six emails with updated designs brought a smile to my face. She worked hard and didn’t call it a day until the work was done, and done well. I admired that and I wanted her to know.
The wine and whiskey left my brain muddy, not to mention Angus’s shitshow will and unsolicited reminders of her soft skin against mine, but I fought it all off and typed a text message to Andy.
Exhaustion hit my body like an avalanche, and the phone slipped from my fingers when I tried to place it on the table. I reached out as it skittered away, only to grasp at air. Sighing, I rolled back and wondered what she was doing.
My eyes heavy, I thought about the shock of the will. Nothing would have changed the blunt force trauma of it all, but my arms wrapped around Andy and her head on my shoulder wouldn’t have hurt.
Chapter Eight
ANDY
“Who’s that?” Marleypeered over my shoulder. Sugary lemon drop martini spilled from her glass and splashed down my shirt, a puddle dammed against the underwire of my bra. Sticking with my original plan of staying home and criticizing all the design shows on HGTV sounded heavenly right then.
“Girl, you need to watch yourself,” Jess yelled. “That drink is everywhere but your mouth.”
“Nice.” I shook the droplets from my arms and wiped my phone on my leg. “I need to clean up.”
“Sorry,” Marley squealed, and I replied with a halfhearted smile.
My tolerance for Marley was still a work in progress, and her ability to find the douchiest bars in Boston was worthy of an Urbanspoon entry. An extensive conversation over dinner about a ‘welpy’ guy that she met on OkCupid—who she was considering seeing again primarily due to the fact he drove a 2004 Lexus—convinced me I needed to put more effort into finding friends in Boston.
