Page 92 of Him
“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.”
“I’ve got it all figured out,” my dad announces. “Jamie’s team plays Anaheim in November...”
My stomach drops, because there’s almost no chance he would see me play in that game.
“Which means we could all go to a Niners game together!” my father finishes.
Typical. At least if I do give up on the NHL, nobody will be too upset.
We tease Tammy about her round belly. And we tease Joe about his thinning hair. And when it’s my turn to be teased, I hardly even hear it.
The day flies by in a whirl of gossip and taunts. Now the dishes are done and the peach pie is eaten up. Most of the clan has gone home, and it’s down to me, my parents, Brady, and Scotty, who is staying here right now.
We’re on the deck again, feet up on the railing, watching the sun go down as Scotty tells me his tale of woe. “She said, ‘I don’t want to be married to a cop.’ And—
honest to God—I tried to figure out how not to be one. I have a degree in criminal justice and seven years of work experience. And I seriously thought of chucking it.”
My brother’s voice is rough, and I feel a hell of a lot more than a simple pang of sympathy.
