“My fault?”
“Your fault.”
“I forced you to shove your tongue down Amanda’s throat?”
He ponders that for a second, then shoves a handful of food in his mouth. “Yep,” he mumbles.
He looks so much like Dad right now I’m creeped out.
“How, exactly, did I manage that feat of physics?”
“By being a douchebag to Shannon.”
“When?” I’m man enough to admit that yes, I have been a douchebag to Shannon at various times. Pinpointing exactly which time is an art.
He gives me a hard look. “When you dumped her.”
Clear as a bell, because I only dumped her once. And technically, for the record, I didn’t dump her. I just, well, we had words. We had words because....
Okay. Fine. I own my stupidity.
“You mean after she pretended to be Amanda’s wife and...” I wave my hand. “That.”
“Right.” He mimics me. “That. When you were a douche.”
“We’ve established my douchebaggery. What does that have to do with you kissing Amanda?”
“I need another beer,” he mutters.
“Is this going to be a long story? Because I’m starving,” I add. And I realize I really am, because I shoveled three bites of Pad Thai in me at Shannon’s before I was so rudely uninvited because I talked about Amanda’s tits.
Andrew looks at me like he’s reading my mind. He has a look of anger worse than that time I took his Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle underwear and used them as a hat for the dog.
“Grab me two beers,” he says.
“How about a beer and a tequila chaser?” I offer. A perfectly acceptable dinner substitute. If I get him drunk he’ll spill his guts. Never underestimate the power of liquoring up your future CEO little brother and getting him to tell you all his secrets. It’s like hacking Sony, but you don’t have to deal with North Korea to get the dirt.
“Even better.”
Two beers and two shots later, I’m Andrew’s best friend. In fact, I may be his two best friends. He needs a little depth-perception assistance as I slide him a third shot.
“Her lips taste like vanilla and victory,” he groans.
We’ve slipped into ‘bad poet’ territory here. I surreptitiously take back the third shot.
“Like sugar and spice,” he adds.
“Like snails and puppy dog tails,” I mutter.
“No.” He frowns. “They really don’t.”
“Why didn’t you call her?”
“Why did you ditch Shannon?” He gives me an unfocused eye. “Then again, I wouldn’t date a woman who drove a car with a giant piece of shit on it, either.”
“She doesn’t drive that anymore,” I say, tensing. Andrew made fun of that promotional car every chance he got. “Besides, your woman has a bad case of crabs on her—”
“She’s not my woman,” Andrew argues, fierce and clear suddenly.
I hold up my palms and give him some respect. “Sure. Fine.”
He stands up from the tall stool at the long counter that separates my kitchen from the open-concept living room. The counter is one enormous piece of sliced tree, varnished and polished to a high shine, with evenly-spaced lamps that hang from the ceiling, elongated, hand-blown glass from an artisan out in Shelburne Falls near the Berkshires.
I had nothing to do with any of these choices. That’s what interior designers are for. But as Andrew stands he bangs his head on one of the glass lamp shades and it goes swinging like Jeffrey at a Little League game, up at bat and whiffing out with majestic grandeur.
I catch the globe as Andrew shakes it out of its coupling, saving it from hitting the mature wood and shattering into thousands of tiny slivers that would bedevil me for months and consign me to no bare feet.
“Nice reflexes.”
“That’s what she said.”
Without a word, Andrew staggers to the couch and stretches out. He groans, then says, “That is the most overdone joke. If another guy says that in a business meeting I’m going to zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.”
And he’s out.
If I were the warm, loving, caring kind of brother who nurtured Andrew and really wanted what was best for him, I’d rouse him and make him sleep in the guest bedroom. His neck is bent at an angle and he’s going to wake up dehydrated, with a pounding head and a nasty spasm.
Or two. I’m pretty sure that torch he’s carrying for Amanda is damn heavy.
Instead, I grab a fleece blanket from the closet and toss it over him, turning out the lights. The hanging lamp still rocks back and forth, millimeter by millimeter, the only movement in my apartment.
I finish my beer, the soundtrack of my life right now the heavy breath of Andrew in slumber. If I want to listen to someone almost snore, I’d prefer they be naked, spooned against me, generous ass a half-promise for more nookie in the morning, and protesting that she doesn’t snore as we go for round four as dawn breaks.
Instead, I get my drunk power-broker little brother blathering on about my girlfriend’s best friend and a single kiss from fourteen months ago. How is it that one woman can turn us into idiots when hundreds...er, tens...can flow through our lives without attachment?
I take stock of the night.
First, the Period Errand. Then the Asshole Boyfriend Summit.
And, finally, the Bromigod. As oh, my God, what is going on with my brother? Because what the hell was that? My night started with a group of weepy lovesick women and ended with a weepy lovesick man.
Can this day be over?