Page 126 of Tangled Like Us
Shirtless and slumped against the far wall, near a bookcase—red wine bleeds into his white pants.
“I thought it was blood at first,” Jane admits. “Thankfully it’s just wine. He’s not hurt.”
Farrow approaches to check on him. Eliot’s groggy eyes fight to stay open.
Charlie comes out from a bedroom. He runs a hand through his hair. The strands stick up in a thousand different directions. Lean build beneath an opened button-down, spots of wine stain the white fabric. He glances at me. “He doesn’t do this often, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
“I wasn’t.” Honestly, it didn’t even cross my mind. I just want to help where I can, and right now, I see sharp, broken glass on the floor. Jane is wearing thin ballet flats. The faster we can get this cleaned up, the faster we can avoid a deeper clusterfuck.
Jane looks to Charlie. “I already told Thatcher about Eliot’s new play.”
She did.
In the car on the way here, she explained how Eliot joined a new theatre company when he moved to New York. Jane said all her brothers were concerned when he was cast as an alcoholic in the upcoming play. Eliot throws himself head-first into his craft. Method acting, she told me.
Jane steeples her fingers to her mouth and watches as Farrow bends down to Eliot. Checking his pulse.
“He’s going to hate himself in the morning,” Jane says. “He promised he wouldn’t get pass-out, sloppy wasted.”
“You actually believed him?” Charlie looks at her like she’s lost her mind.
“I wanted to,” Jane breathes into a sigh.
Eliot squints like he’s trying to open his eyes. They land on me first. “Is that my…fake brother-in-law?” He barely gets those words out before he heaves onto the floor, missing a bowl at his side. Farrow grabs it and puts it under his mouth.
Brother-in-law.This is Eliot’s normal humor, and I know it’s not just a drunken joke.
Jane edges nearer to me like she’s called to be closer. “Eliot, I’m not fake married,” she corrects him. “Thatcher is my fakeboyfriend. He is of no fake relation to you.”
Eliot wipes his mouth with the back of his wrist. “I’m losing track of your deception, dear sister.”
“I’m losing track of my patience,” Charlie says as he crosses the room to right a tilted painting on the wall. “I leave you for one extra second and you’re smashing wine bottles now?”
“It was…an…” Eliot’s eyes slowly close. “Accident.” The word comes out breathy and soft. He leans over like he’s going to slump down on a pillow.
There’s no pillow. Just hard floor.
Farrow catches him by the shoulders before he thumps his head hard into the ground.
“Charlie, watch your feet,” I call out as the other Cobalt brother almost steps onto a large broken shard. He’s wearing a pair of fucking flip-flops.
He glares at the floor. “This is—”
“Fixable,” Jane cuts in. “We’re going to help.” She motions from me to her. “We’ll do the glass and stains. You do all the little things that we’d miss but Beckett would notice.”
Charlie nods in agreement and then sets his gaze on me. “Fake boyfriend or not, you don’t have to be here. But you are. So thanks.” It’s a curtthanks. To the point. But sincere. Before I can reply, he zeroes in on the mantle and crosses the room to collect an empty wine bottle on it.
At that, we split up. I take one last glance back at Farrow before Jane and I head to the kitchen. Farrow is rolling Eliot onto his side and asking Charlie for a washcloth. These are the days I’m glad he’s on the medandsecurity team. I have no reservations or concerns when I leave the living room.
Warm light from above the stove bathes the kitchen, and now alone with Jane again the air seems to still and thicken. There’s a lot I haven’t said. That I want to say, still. Especially the stuff that I almost told her at the costume shop. But I’m not sure if there’s a right time. If there ever really will be.
Jane bends down to gather cleaning supplies. She’s been tense since she got Charlie’s phone call, but being here has eased her worry. She breathes easier. Less stressed.
Still, I ask, “Jane, you okay?”
“Oui,” she says. “It’s a situation than can be solved.” She hands me a brush and dustpan set and then rises to her feet with a clear container. Bottles of cleaner, trash bags, scrubbers, and more all meticulously stashed away inside.
“It is,” I agree.
