Just One of the Guys, Page 3

Page 3

  Author: Kristan Higgins

  “Blah blah bleeping blah,” I mutter, resisting the urge to punch him in the kidney. Such platitudes are as about as helpful as tossing a bowling ball to a drowning man. I hate the fact that I put up with the tepid and freckled Jason, even for a few weeks. Hate it that Mr. New York Times is miles out of my league. Hate the fact that I’ve just been mistaken for a lesbian.

  It’s not fair. Here’s Trevor, the va**na magnet, able to seduce in ninety seconds. My brothers, ranging in age from thirty-eight to thirty-two, have to fight women off with a Taser and a sturdy chair. Yet somehow, at just past thirty, I’ve become a pariah. Mention my age to a man and he looks stricken, as if I’ve just told him exactly how many viable eggs I have sitting in my ovaries and how very much I’d like them to be fertilized. It’s not fair.

  As I sit next to Trevor, the embodiment of everything good in a male, my first love, the first man I slept with, the man who I’m just going to have to get used to seeing with other women, I make a vow.

  Things are going to change. I need to fall in love. Fast.

  CHAPTER TWO

  I ALWAYS KNEW I’d move back to Eaton Falls. It was my destiny. The O’Neills go back six generations here, and I want my future children to emulate my own wholesome childhood—fishing on Lake George, hiking the many mountain trails of the Adirondacks, canoeing, kayaking, skiing, skating; breathing pure, clean air; knowing the people at the post office and the town hall; and of course, being near the family.

  Granted, I’d imagined that the day I moved back, it would be because my adoring husband and I were ready to settle down and raise those four kids. Instead, though, I moved on my own. I’d been working at the Star Ledger, living in glamorous Newark, when fate intervened. The Eaton Falls Gazette, my hometown paper, was looking for an editor—soft news and features. I’d done my time at a big-city paper and was ready for something else. Everything fell into place at once—I took the job, moved back in with Mom, and two weeks later, made an offer on a tiny and adorable house. Because the mortgage was a little steep, I took on my youngest brother as a tenant, slapped on a few coats of paint and moved in.

  That was six weeks ago. It’s all been a little rushed, but it’s really come together.

  Today is a soft, beautiful Saturday morning in April, possibly the most perfect day ever made. The sky is pale blue, fog swirls off the mighty Hudson River, and the trees are topped with only the palest green blur of buds. I don’t see a soul as I run down Bank Street, my sneakers slapping the pavement. At the end of the lane is a large shed made of corrugated metal. I stop, sucking in a breath of the clean, damp air, simply, utterly, deeply happy to be back in my hometown.

  I rent this shed from Old Man McCluskey. It’s a far cry from the boathouses I’ve used in the past, but it will do. I twist the combination on the lock and open the door. There she is, Rosebud, my magnificent wooden King rowing shell. “Good morning, sunshine,” I say, my voice echoing off the metal walls. Grabbing my oars, I take them out to the dock, set them down carefully, then go back in the shed, take Rosebud down from her canvas harness and carry her outside. She may be thirty feet long, but she’s light as a feather—well, a thirty-five-pound feather. I slip her into the water, set the oars and then, holding her steady against the dock, I climb in, tie my laces and off we go.

  I began rowing when my brother Lucky joined the crew in college and needed someone to impress. I was that person…what are little sisters for, after all? Lucky let me try out his scull, and we instantly discovered I was born to row. When I went to Binghamton University, I was on the exclusive four with three other brawny, proud girls. While in New Jersey, I belonged to the Passaic River Rowing Club, but now, back home, I row alone, and I think I’ve discovered the true, Zen-like serenity of the sport. Last week, I saw a V of geese returning, like me, to the Adirondacks from their southern sojourn, flying so low I could see their black feet tucked against their downy bellies. Thursday, it was an otter, and yesterday, I saw a giant blur of brown that may have been a moose. In the fall, our famous glowing foliage will light up the hillsides like yellow and golden flame. Bleeping glorious.

  The narrow shell slices through the river, the only sound the gentle lapping of the water against the hull. I check over my shoulder and pull harder, feather and square, feather and square, gradually increasing the load of the water against my oars, cutting them into the river at precise angles, my body contracting and expanding with each stroke. Little whirlpools mark my progress up the river, and the dripping oars leaving a map of where I’ve been. Feather and square, feather and square.

  It’s a good cure for the hangover I woke up with after my night with the Scorpion Bowls, and a good prevention for the headache I’m sure to get at Mom’s later today. Family dinner, attendance mandatory. That means Mom and Dad, my four brothers, Matthew, Mark, Luke and John, better known as Matt, Mark, Lucky and Jack, and their spouses and progeny.

  Jack is my oldest brother, married to Sarah and the proud father of four kids—Claire, Olivia, Sophie and Graham. Lucky and Tara are in hot pursuit with three—Christopher, Annie and baby Jenny. Sarah and Tara are better known as “the Starahs. ” Mark, the third O’Neill boy, is in the middle of a bitter divorce from my oldest friend, Elaina. They have a son, Dylan. Then comes Matt, single, childless and currently my housemate, and finally me, the baby of the family.

  Trevor may also be there, the unofficial O’Neill, practically adopted by my parents when he was a teenager and a frequent guest at family events. Good old Trevor. I pull harder, faster, streaking up the Hudson in a gliding rhythm. My muscles ache with a satisfying burn, sweat darkens my T-shirt, and all I can hear is the slip of the oars into the water and my own hard breath.

  An hour later, I finish my row feeling substantially less polluted than when I started. I lift Rosebud into her sling, pat her fondly and jog home. Yes, I’m a jock. All that exercise lets me enjoy every junk food on earth, so if for only that reason, it’s worth it. I run up the front porch stairs, open the beautiful oak door and brace myself against the wall. “Mommy’s home!”

  And here she comes, my baby, one hundred and twenty pounds of loose muscle, drooping jowls and pure canine love. Buttercup. “Aaaahhroooorooorooo!” she bays, her giant paws scrabbling for grip on the hardwood floors. I wince as she gathers her sloppy limbs and leaps, crashing against me.

  “Hello, Buttercup! Who’s a pretty girl, huh? Did you miss me? You did? I missed you, too, beautiful girl!” I pet her vigorously, and she collapses in a grateful heap, snuffling with joy.

  Being Buttercup’s owner, I feel that maternal obligation to lie to her about her physical appearance. Buttercup is not a pretty dog. As soon as I had my house secured last month, I went to the pound. One look and I had to have her, because it was clear no one else would. Part bloodhound, part Great Dane and part bull mastiff, her coat is red, her ears are long, her tail like razor wire. Bony head, awkward body, massive paws, drooping jowls, doleful yellow eyes…Well, she won’t be winning any doggy beauty pageants, but I love her, even if her only tricks thus far are sleeping, drooling and eating.

  “Okay, dumpling,” I say after Buttercup has lashed me with her tail and slobbered a cup or so of saliva on my sleeve. She wags once more and falls almost instantly asleep. I step over her large body and head for the kitchen, weak with hunger.

  As I rip open a package of cinnamon/brown sugar Pop-Tarts, I lean my head fondly against the kitchen cabinet. I love my new house, the first that I’ve owned. Sure, it has its problems—capricious furnace, tiny hot water tank, unusable master bathroom, but it’s pretty much my dream house. A Craftsman bungalow (Eaton Falls is full of them, and I’ve always coveted their petite charm), the house has sturdy stone columns on the porch, funky lead-paned windows and patterned hardwood floors. I have the bigger bedroom upstairs, Matt has the smaller one off the kitchen. Once we worked out the “toilet seat goes down” rule, my brother Matt and
I have gotten along quite well.

  “Hey, Chas. ” Said brother emerges from the bathroom in his ratty blue-plaid bathrobe and a cloud of steam.

  “Hey, pal. Want a Pop-Tart?”

  “Sure. Thanks. ”

  “Did you just take a shower?” I ask.

  “Yup. All yours. ”

  “And of course, being the one considerate brother I own, you left me some hot water,” I say with great hope.

  “Oops. I did kind of space out in there. Sorry. ”

  “Selfish, spoiled baby. ” I sigh with martyrish suffering.

  “Don’t talk about yourself that way. ” He grins and pours us each a cup of coffee.

  “Thanks. Hey, when are you guys going to start the upstairs bathroom?” I ask, taking a grateful sip. “No offense, but I’m really looking forward to a tub of my own. ”

  “Right,” Matt answers. “Hm. Not sure. ”

  Like most firefighters, Matt has a side job, since the city fathers don’t see fit to pay its heroes a livable wage. (This is a tirade I was raised on. ) Matt, along with Lucky and a few other guys, do renovations, and so of course I hired them to redo my bathroom. Someday, it will be gorgeous—Jacuzzi tub, new tile floor, a pedestal sink, pretty shelves and all sorts of neat containers to hold my girly stuff. Unfortunately, other jobs from nonrelatives have taken precedence.

  “Maybe you can get started before my death,” I say around a bite of Pop-Tart.

  “Yeah, well, that’s gonna be tight,” Matt deadpans. From the other room, Buttercup, who has been sleeping soundly, scrabbles from her prone position as if she’s just scented a missing child. Matt braces himself against the wall. “Hi, Buttercup. ”

  “Aaaahhroooorooorooo!” she bays, rejoicing at the sound of Matt’s voice as if she’d been parted from him by war and not her own nap. Tail whipping dangerously with love, she lumbers over to him—jowls quivering, hindquarters swaying—crashes into his pelvis, then collapses with a groan at his feet, heaving herself on her back, softball-sized paws waving in the air.

  “My God, you’re a whore,” Matt tells her, obligingly rubbing her expansive tummy with his foot.

  “Takes one to know one,” I comment, bending down to unlace my sneakers.

  “Speaking of whores, how was your night?” Matt asks. “You went to Emo’s, right?”

  I sigh, then look at his face. He’s trying not to laugh. “You already know, you bastard. Who told you? Trevor?”

  “Santo called. Said you have a new girlfriend. ” Matt straightens up, laughing. “So are you batting for the other side now, Chas?”

  “Bite me, Mattie. ” I grab my Pop-Tarts and head for the stairs. “Listen, I’m gonna finish painting my wainscoting. What time is dinner at Mom’s?”

  Matt grimaces. “Two. ”

  “Where do you want to go first?”

  “The Dugout?” he suggests. Yes, Mom is cooking dinner. That’s the point.

  “Sounds great. ”

  A few hours later, Matt and I hop in my car, Buttercup draped over the backseat, snoring loudly. Leaving her in the car, we drop into the Dugout for buffalo wings and fried calamari, amiably watching Sports Center as we eat, then pay our tab and head for the family home.

  “Where have you been?” Mom barks as we come through the door. The roar of the family gathering hits me like a truck.

  “Gutterbup!” Dylan shrieks, running toward my dog, who collapses on the floor, rolling over so the toddler can scratch her stomach. From the other room, Elaina gives me a wave. I distantly hear my brother Mark speaking sharply to someone from the basement. Uh-oh. Elaina and Mark in the same house…not pretty.

  “Hi, Mom,” I say, bending to kiss her cheek. “Nice of you to invite Elaina. ”

  “It’s about time those two got back together,” she announces, yanking the ties of her apron a little tighter.