Page 64 of Breathless

Chapter Twelve

Thoreau

WMama:Something is wrong with your brother. Thinking Fiona trouble? Please confirm. You know I know.

Bronte:Mama, stop laying down that psychic mojo and don’t send any more group texts until Shelley shows you how. *** He can see this. *** Also, I was gone all afternoon and now Wiley is gassy, so if you’re planning an intervention, I have to miss it. You’re welcome.

Hugo:Everyone thanks you, B. And I’m sure he’s fine. You’re fine, right, brother?

Austen:On what planet would he be fine? Haven’t you seen Twilight? True Blood? The Vampire Diaries?

Shelley:Dracula. Buffy. Blade.

Austen:I’m naming shows with love triangles, not vampires. Why would I be talking about vampires? The point is, he’s been living with Fiona and Wyatt for over a month, so he’s not fine. I’d go check on him now, but it has to wait until I get Royal out of his ice bath. His skin might be too sensitive for product trials. We need another family GPP soon.

Hugo:Are you throwing non-family Guinea Pig Parties now? When did that happen? And Seamus told Younger Thoreau’s having Wyatt test his beer, so I think they’re getting along.

Bronte:OMG Austen, you’re going to kill your husband before we make it to your first wedding anniversary.

Robert:At least he’ll die with tight pores.

Austen:We can vote you off the island again, Nora.

Bronte:He’s having Wyatt test his beer? He doesn’t let anyone but Seamus do that. Doesn’t he know about Fiona? Tasha said he did.

Shelley:Stahp. Texting. Me. *eye roll*

Emerson:What she said without the typo. And Shel, if you take the time to tell us you’re rolling your eyes, it makes you seem less apathetic.

Shelley:Good pro-tip. Continue.

Emerson:I can’t. I’m in a parent/teacher meeting for Barry and the phone won’t stop vibrating. Don’t ask, Mama. I’ll fill you in when it’s over.

Hugo:What about Fiona? Hang on…

Hugo:Oh. Never mind. Nothing is wrong. Everything is great. Are you still there, Thoreau?

Bronte:Younger just told you, didn’t he? Gossipy old women, those Finns.

Austen:You’re a Finn.

WMama:Oops. Sorry, baby. I’ll delete the group thing now. But call me.

And that was his family. A well-meaning tornado of bickering, nitpicking and in-your-business that never failed to let him know he was loved.

His mom hadn’t had to use her special ESP this time. She’d probably gotten the hint that something was wrong when Tasha told Bronte, who found a way to tell their mother that somebody might be pregnant and he was not the daddy.

A baby,he thought again as he pulled into the Finn’s pub parking lot and let the car idle.

The last few days replayed in his head like a movie. A graphically erotic, late-night cable production that, with Wyatt’s issues, should have been more awkward than it was. He hadn’t lied about experimenting. But drunken blowjobs and a few make out sessions didn’t hold a candle to what he’d shared last night with the two people who were already inextricably entangled in his life. It had been more intimate than he’d expected. More revealing.

And it was nearly impossible to look at the situation objectively.

This wasyour brilliant plan.

He knew it, and when he’d initially “dropped trou” for Wyatt, he’d been confident his plan was the right course of action. He’d seen the same obstacle his sister mentioned—the romance triangle that was destined to fail—and so he’d found a way to overcome it.

You know what pride goeth before, don’t you, genius?

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