The Lucky Ones(59)

“Someone tell me why we’re having a family meeting,” Roland said.

“Because I’m pretty sure we’ve all had a very hard week. And because it’s been twenty years since the four of us got to play together, and...as our Allison has been living in Kentucky for way too long, I thought we should give her a very special Oregon welcome. As opposed to an organ welcome, which is what my brother gave her last night.”

“God help me,” Roland said, his head falling back.

“An Oregon welcome?” Allison asked.

Deacon held out a wooden box and opened the lid. Allison leaned forward to look in, then narrowed her eyes at him.

“Deacon...is that what I think it is?” Allison asked.

Deacon waggled his eyebrows.

“You on the Left Coast now, baby girl.”

Allison stared at Deacon. Deacon stared at Allison.

“Please tell me one thing,” she said. “That’s not your dad’s medical marijuana you stole, is it?”

“That hurts, sis,” Deacon said. “Right here.” He tapped the right side of his chest where his heart wasn’t. “I’ll have you know this is my own stash.”

“So it’s illegal?”

“Nope. It’s legal here,” he said. “Ready to pack up and move yet?”

“You don’t have to do this,” Roland said. Deacon put Brien down and walked the attic, opening all the windows.

“Yes, she does,” Deacon said. “We’re bonding. Aren’t we, my twin?” Deacon chucked Thora under her chin.

“We’re voting?” Allison asked.

“Gotta be unanimous,” Deacon said. “Capello rules. What’s your vote, Thor?”

“We’re twins,” she said with a wink at Deacon. “I vote how you vote.”

“Well, we all know how I vote,” Deacon said. “Brien?” Deacon said, holding out the box. Brien lifted his head to sniff and Deacon shut the lid. “None for you, cat. You’re stoned enough as it is.”

“Why is Brien stoned?” Allison asked.

“Ragdoll cat.” Deacon put his box down and picked up Brien, then flipped him over, and the cat went limp as a noodle. “They have all the aggression bred out of them. They are, in other words, born stoned. Lucky bastards.” He flipped Brien back over and put him on the chair again. Much like someone stoned, he didn’t seem the least perturbed by what had just happened to him.

“I’m having what he’s having,” Thora said.

“Now you, brother...” Deacon said to Roland. “Yea or nay?” Roland started to protest and Deacon made a slashing gesture with his hand. “Shut it. Monks have been drunks since Jesus still walked the earth. Ever heard of anyone dying of a pot overdose? Ever heard of pot poisoning? Ever heard of a mean stoner? No, you have not. You’re not allowed to get holier than thou less than twenty-four hours after jumping Allison’s pretty little bones, so put that in your pipe and smoke it. Or skip the pipe because my rolling skills are second to none.”

“I’m in,” Roland said. “If it’ll shut you up.”

“No guarantees of that,” Deacon said.

“And,” Roland said, “we have to check on Dad every fifteen minutes.”

“Now you, little sister.” Deacon went onto his knees in front of her, his hands holding hers. “Would you do me the honors of riding with me and Mary Jane all the way to the top floor? Don’t be afraid. We’ll walk you through it. There’s a first time for—”

Allison took a joint from the box, picked up the lighter and lit up.

Deacon’s eyes widened. He blinked at her. He blinked at Roland.

“Marry her,” Deacon said.

Thus the family meeting commenced.

“I’m really not much of a smoker,” Allison said as she leaned back against Roland’s legs.

“You sure about that?” Deacon took the joint from her.

“Like a few times in college,” she said, feeling quite a bit less stressed out than she had in days. “I’m only doing it now because you’re making me.”

“Oh, yes,” Deacon said. “We forced it on you.”

“So rude,” Allison said.

“She gets a free pass,” Roland said. “She’s recovering from a breakup.”

“Ah, so this is medical marijuana for you, then,” Thora said, blowing out an elegant smoke ring.

“Does it cure a broken heart?” Allison asked.

“No,” Deacon said. “But that’s what he’s for.” He pointed at Roland.

“I’ll do my best,” Roland said.

“I’m so proud of you for getting laid.” Deacon wiped a fake tear from his eye. “It makes all my suffering worth it.”

“Your suffering?” Roland demanded. “How did you suffer?”

“You broke my heart when you joined that monastery,” Deacon said. “Speaking as one pretty man to another, you could have at least waited until you were old and ugly for that bullshit. A man is at peak pretty between twenty-four and twenty-nine. You wasted your pretty years. Now you’re vaguely ruggedly handsome. It’s a step down.”

“I’d still fuck him,” Allison said.