Him (Him #1)(72)

But I just ache from the loss of my best friend boyfriend whatever. We never did get around to putting a label on it. And now we never will.

“Fuck!” I curse as the paring knife slices the top of my finger. The knife slips from my hand when I pinch the cut closed.

“James.” My mother’s voice is gentle. “Maybe you need a break.” She doesn’t even complain about the F-bomb I just dropped. So I must be acting like a real head case. “Let me find you a bandage,” she says instead.

Two minutes later she’s covered the wound. “I can sauté one-handed,” I offer.

“How about you tell me what’s bothering you instead?”

Now, I could do that. My parents wouldn’t flinch at the idea of me being involved with a man. They’re both California hippies all the way to the core. And if Wes and I had stayed together, I’d share it in a heartbeat. But there’s no point in telling the story now. I’d just be buying myself a lifetime of teasing from my siblings. (“You need to know which shirt goes with those pants? Ask Jamie. He was gay once for a few weeks.”) You can’t just give five siblings that kind of ammo unless it’s relevant.

And anyway, I’m saved from answering my mother’s questions, because the kitchen door bangs open as the first wave begins to arrive.

“Jamester!” my sister Tammy yells. “Here. Hold this.”

Before I can argue, there’s a toddler in my arms.

“Fresh meat!” my sister cackles. And her husband slips past us both to get himself a beer.

I look down at the baby. “Um, hi,” I say to Ty. I haven’t seen him in two months, and I swear he’s doubled in size.

“Hah,” he answers around the four fingers he’s got jammed in his mouth. Then he removes his drooly little hand and uses it to grab my nose.

The size of Tammy’s smile doubles. “Good to have you back, kid.” Tammy is thirty, but she’s been calling me “kid” since she was twelve and I was four.

Ty and I fetch a beer from the refrigerator and head out to the deck where there’s a sweeping view of the San Rafael bay in the distance. My parents bought this house thirty-four years ago before Joe was born. That’s the only reason they can afford this sweet view in a great neighborhood. The house itself received two half-hearted additions as the family grew. We call it the Hodge Podge Lodge. In its current configuration, there are five bedrooms. As the youngest, I had my own room in this house for exactly one year before leaving for college. My life was a series of bunk beds, fights over the best-flavored cereals, and loud family meals.

I f*cking love it here.

“I think I need to add a third thing to the list,” I tell Ty. When I look down at him, he’s staring back with wide brown eyes that are not unlike my own. “Detroit, Toronto or California?” I ask him.

Ty scrunches up his face and appears to consider the question. He’s thinking about it hard. But then there’s a small gassy sound. His face relaxes just as I begin to smell something foul.

“Did you just take a crap on my watch?” I ask the baby.

He gazes back, all innocence.

“There he is! Jamie!”

I spin around to find my other sister, Jess. And before she can react, I’ve walked over and handed her the baby. Then I give her a big kiss on the cheek. “Good to see you, sis.”

“Did you just hand me a poopy nephew?”

“Is that what that smell is?”

“You!” Jess sputters. She and I are the youngest of the family. She’s twenty-five, and the sibling I feel closest to. Which means we drive each other insane.

“No backsies,” I add.

She rolls her eyes. “Fine. I’ll go find the diaper bag. Get a beer for Raven, would you? Do something useful.” She leaves the deck, walking past a man I’ve never seen before.

“You’re…” Did she say Raven? What the hell kind of name is that?

“Raven,” he says, and he holds out a fist for me to bump.

Seriously? I bump it, so as not to be rude.

“You’re the hockey player,” he says. His voice is kind of smoky, I realize.

“Sure,” I reply noncommittally. Because who the hell knows what I’ll decide to do by the end of the week.

“Cool,” he says, sounding rather stoned. My sister sure can pick ’em. But when Raven puts his hip against the deck railing and crosses his arms, I notice the tats peeking out from the sleeves of his T-shirt and the curve of his bicep. Not bad.

Jesus Christ—now I’m checking out my sister’s boyfriend. Argh! Fuck you, Ryan Wesley. You see what you made me do? But that’s a ridiculous thought, and now I have the sudden urge to laugh like a hyena.

“You,” I choke back a laugh, “want a beer?”

“Sure,” he grunts. He’s a real talker, our Raven. If Wes were here he’d…

Right.

Sigh.



* * *



Dinner is loud and fun, the way it’s always been. Listening to my brothers’ smack talk, I forget about Wes for a couple of hours at least.

“We got one professional athlete in the family,” Scotty whines, “and he wastes it on hockey.”

“It’s not too late,” his twin Brady argues. “Jamie could take up football. The Niners need defense, too.”