She gives me a relieved smile. “Thank you for having them.”
I nod, not quite ready to embrace the crazy that has descended upon us. The first thing Celeste said when she entered my home was, “This place is...” She glanced around at the minimalist decor, the soaring ceilings, and gleaming white everything. “...quiet.”
And it hasn’t been since. Her four-year-old—Clive, I believe—threw up on the cream sectional. I teased Selena that she and her nephew had that in common.
“Okay, you have jokes,” Selena said sweetly.
The six-year-old, Cliff, has used the banister as a climbing wall, and the toddler, Clay, randomly bursts into tears for no discernible reason. The family tradition is to use matching names, so with Cliff, Clive, and Clay—all towheaded boys—Ihave no idea who is who. Apparently, they are pregnant with a girl... Claire. What a joy.
I mean that with all the sarcasm I can muster.
“I’m thinking of Clobber if ours is a boy,” Selena says as she balances a pile of towels in her arms, grinning devilishly.
“There’s always Clytemnestra?” I try to play along.
“Chlamydia.”
She can’t help but smile wider.
“The Clap, for short.”
She’s giggling now, and so am I.
I follow Selena up the stairs to the pool. It’s almost four in the afternoon. We figure with a vigorous swim, a hearty meal, and a movie, the kids will pass out, leaving the adults to have a talk. Tomorrow is the Bronx Zoo. Sunday is brunch at Beckett’s, followed by the great pack-up and push-off.
I keep telling myself I can get through this.
Don steps onto the deck wearing loose-fitting knee-length swim trunks and a shirt that saysI keep all my dad jokes in a dad-a-base. I shudder at what I might become.
“Thanks for having us, Grif.” Both Selena and I visibly cringe at him truncating my name. “I was thinking of grilling something. I noticed you have a Blackstone. We love ours, and I thought maybe some burgers and dogs might do us tonight? The boys love ‘em. I can run out to the market if you don’t have any handy.”
“You’re certainly welcome to grill if you’d like. I know the chef has wagyu beef. Not sure about hot dogs, but we probably have several kinds of sausages. Let me text him.”
“Right, a chef. I mean, if he’s got stuff planned... it’s just the kids don’t eat sissy food.”
Sissy food.Well.
“I mean like prissy stuff.”
Not doing better.
Selena is actually cringing at this point.
“Yes, well. I made sure we have plenty of chicken nuggets, chips, and apple slices for your growing boys. Selena gave me a brief overview of what they like. If you prefer cooking yourself, I can give the chef a shopping list. No point in going to the store.”
I am very proud of myself for holding my shit together, but I believe my eye is twitching.
“I’ll grill, man. I got this. We don’t need any high-brow chef.” He’s joking. I know he’s joking, and I try to laugh, but it comes out more like a choke.
The thought crosses my mind:I might kill him.
“Well, great. Let me set these floaties down, and I’ll speak to the chef. We’ll sort out the beef situation.”
“You’re a prince,” he says.
I’m about to punch him in the throat. I’m a member of a secret society teeming with killers, and I manage one of the biggest East Coast law firms, and he calls me a prince? Three days have never seemed so long.
Chef and his assistant bring trays of meat and veggies up to the grill. Don begins to scrutinize the spread, and I begin to fume.
