No Weddings (No Weddings #1)(3)
I had asserted my independence from the cutesy “K” names at the age of three and a half. A defiant toddler learning to spell his name, I only wrote the last four letters in black crayon. To a chorus of awww’s and sighs, the girls took to the nickname, and Mom pinned up my artistic masterpiece under a Hello Kitty magnet on the refrigerator with pride.
In a household dominated by pink, I came along and colored their lives in bold black lines. Their world has never been the same.
Dad hardly noticed. Busy in investment banking at one of the world’s largest firms, he was gone seventy hours Monday through Friday. And that was a good week. But he had a large family to support in the style Mom had grown accustomed to. I got decent father–son time on sporadic occasions: a tossed baseball in a glove for a couple of stolen hours; a Mets game once for my birthday. So rare were our “guy times,” I remember every one with clarity.
Was it any wonder that these rowdy girls had become my world? My life’s mission was to have as much fun as possible while simultaneously disrupting theirs. Over a couple of decades, I turned the technique into an art form.
I sprawled out, hogging as much space as possible. I practically owned this couch. I actually would, if squatter’s rights applied to furniture.
Kendall scraped the bottom of a tub of Ben & Jerry’s that she’d defeated; Kiki plucked silver sugar balls off a chocolate frosted cupcake, popping them into her mouth one at a time; and Kristen reclined her head on the back cushion at the other end of the couch, fingertips massaging the pressure points above her brows.
Bored with the heavy melancholy hanging in the room, I took a long draft from my beer and stretched my right foot out, pushing the toe of my boot onto Kristen’s jean-clad thigh. She grunted, but I was disappointed with the dismal reaction.
“What a disaster,” Kendall proclaimed, giving voice to the apparent thickening consensus. She tossed the demolished ice-cream carton onto the cocktail table. The container toppled, the spoon clattering onto the glass surface.
“I don’t know.” Kiki shifted forward, bracing her forearms on black pants. “At times, everything went smoothly. We could break down the problems and streamline things.”
I watched Kristen as I finished my first beer and twisted the top off the second. As I relaxed further into the couch, everyone grew quiet. The two girls who’d spoken now focused their attention on our silent older sister, who remained with her head tilted back on the cushions, her body slouched down.
Kristen’s eldest status wasn’t the only reason the group deferred to her—this country estate was her property. And throwing a party in the refurbished barn out back had been her idea, even if none of the three remembered their excited conversation over breakfast a month ago.
In a calm voice, Kristen finally broke her catatonic state. “Cade, what do you think?”
And there it was.
For all the years of experience and wisdom these girls had, when they wanted an impartial opinion, they asked me.
Because I didn’t give a rat’s ass.
And they all knew it.
Before filtering through my memories of the night, I paid proper respect to my most recent one. I revisited the sex that began against the wall, moved to the stainless steel counter—yeah, that needed disinfecting—and finished with Amber’s screaming orgasm that she muffled into my shoulder as I pulled her straight up against me. I snorted; I could’ve pulled a back muscle, but it was worth it.
As my thoughts drifted from my party high note, I reflected on the rest of the night. “Barbara Willingham said she was glad she stiffed the Taylors’ annual gala to attend our party. And that was before her third vodka tonic.
“I also overheard someone commenting they’d kill to have a party like ours. I think it was Phoebe Trent. Yep.” I nodded, remembering. “She went on to say, ‘That country club overcharges for its pretentious toothpick affairs. I’d pay double for something new and wild.’”
Kendall chimed in behind the opened refrigerator door as bottles clinked. “Kristen, didn’t Missy Thompson ask if she could have our help with a Valentine’s Day party?”
Kristen nodded, as if suddenly recalling. “You know, she did.”
Upending my second beer, I took the new bottle Kendall offered and pointed it at the three of them in silent accusation until I finished swallowing. “See. You all were so busy worrying about the details of the party, you had no time to enjoy it. Tragedy, really. Everyone else did. We pulled together an incredible event.”
Silence filled the room. I wisely kept my mouth shut, predicting the flow, knowing the conclusion before they ever uttered a word. I knew them well. Knowledge was the only way a Y chromosome would survive unscathed in a nest of all these X’s.
I took several more long pulls of my beer; I needed to be less sober for this.
Soft words came from Kiki. “I say we form a business.”
I wasn’t surprised Kiki was the one to speak up. She’d graduated from art school, but although a few of her pieces were displayed in some high-end galleries, none had sold yet. Starving artists grew bolder when hot on the trail of easy money.
I waited.
“I second that.” Kendall held her beer in the air.
Kiki followed suit.
Kristen straightened from her former lump on the other end of the couch. She grabbed an uncapped bottle from the refreshers Kendall had brought and lifted it up. “I third it.”