“Of course! Enjoy your nut milk, hun.” I cringe. “Talk to you tomorrow.”
“Love you.”
“Love you more.”
I toss the phone on the couch and point my finger at Meredith who puts her hands in the air as I step forward.
She looks at me with the serious face I imagine she uses to give bad news to patients. “Let’s get this party started and milk some nuts.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Devon
Lesson 24: When you can’t cope, run.
I love the sound poker chips make when you let them spill from your fingers into a pile. Almost as much as I love the fact that my pile is bigger than that of the two men surrounding me. Meredith is the only one with a bigger pile, but I think she secretly flies to Vegas twice a year to play in tournaments. I cast a glance at Jeff beside me. He smiles wide and I lay down my cards face-up and sit back slowly, enjoying the way his smile slides downward into a frustrated frown of begrudging acceptance.
“D.J. Stephanie. Michelle. Uncle Jesse and Joey. Full house. Again, lady and gents,” I purr, not waiting to see if anyone can match it as I pull the chips from the center of the bird-covered tablecloth into my area, stacking them neatly but loudly. The tablecloth looks like it was plucked straight from an estate salein Savannah, just like the embroidered throw pillows and the birdcages in the built-in bookshelves. It’s embarrassing to admit that I’ve imagined Jeff’s apartment several times and I couldn’t have been more off. No bachelor’s leather couch or iron bar cart stocked with whiskey and man drinks. Jeff is living amongst antique lace and floral patterns and every time I catch sight of him against the backdrop of daisy-spotted wallpaper I giggle at the juxtaposition.
Two groans and a murmur of approval reach me over the satisfying clicking of my chips and I look up to find Kevin grabbing his pager off his waist.
“Hospital again?” I ask.
He nods, looking vaguely apologetic. “I’ll see you guys tomorrow. At Devon’s?” he asks, looking down at me with tired eyes. I nod.
“Mom’s making chicken parm,” I tell him.
“Did one of the chunky chickens die?” Meredith murmurs.
“You’re sick,” I tell her.
She smiles.
“Good luck in there, Kev,” Jeff says.
“Thanks, man. Good luck losing to the women,” Kev says, grabbing his messenger bag.
When Kev disappears down the steps, Jeff stands to get another round of beers and I idly check my phone, clicking on my sister’s Instagram account to peruse the beautiful people and their beautiful things. Just because I don’t have my own social media following doesn’t mean I can’t use it to stalk. Tara has perfected the art of selfie—her hair impeccably coifed—her makeup rivaling the paintings I’ve seen in the galleries dotting South street. Her pictures of her new beau, Marcello, are just as gorgeous. He’s dark where she’s light, his thick black hair swept to one side while his brown eyes stare into my American soul,convincing me to buy Italian. No wonder she’s moving to Milan. The man is fine. And no filter could make an ass that tight.
I scroll up further and marvel at the masterpiece that is my kin. She’s even got the lighting down, the way the moonlight streams through the window behind her and falls over her face, reflecting off the gorgeous cushion cut diamond lifted elegantly off her ring finger. Wait. What?
I click on the picture from today and count again. Thumb. Pointer. Middle. Ring. I’m not great with directions, but that’s her left effing hand. My sister is rocking a two-carat rock on the finger of betrothal.
My phone rings and her duckface appear on my screen.
“Ummm. T. Why are you taking pictures with J. Lo’s third engagement ring on?”
“Isn’t it gorgeous? Devon! I’m getting married.” She lets out a little squeal.
“Whattttt?” I’m pacing around the poker table and I don’t even remember standing up from my chair. Jeff pushes in all the seats around the table so I don’t trip, and watches me with wide, questioning eyes from against the wall, my beer dangling toward me from his outstretched hand. I’m gonna drink that beer real good.
“Yup. Marcello, flew over and surprised me today.” She’s breathless and I’m trying to match her enthusiasm. But I don’t even know this man. He’s sweeping my sister away to a foreign country and now he’s going to steal the name Gallagher and make her a something that ends with an o. I don’t even know his goddamned last name!
“We’re going to make dinner at my apartment next Friday for you and the crew—to celebrate,” she tells me. She’s so happy. So excited. Her tone a pitch higher than I’ve ever heard. “Mom can’t—won’t come, obviously. So I hope you can?—"
“Of course. Of course, I’ll be there,” I assure her. And I mean it. I might not know this Italian hottie, might even resent him a bit for his audacity and tight tush, but there’s no way in hell I’d miss my little sister’s engagement dinner. “Congratulations, T. I’m really happy that your happy.”
“I know it’s fast. I know you hate fast,” she says.
