It’s my last night in Illinois before my dad, Connor and I drive the small U-haul to New Jersey tomorrow. Drew and Reagan invited us out for a double-date to celebrate and, lucky for them, we walked right into aPitch Perfectthemed trivia night at the bar.
“You guys are freaking me out,” my brother says as he jots our response on the team answer sheet.
“For a man who’s seen the movie, it’s shocking how little you know about it,” I counter.
“Next question,” the announcer says from the stage. “Finish this line: ‘I’m gonna kill him. I’m gonna finish him…’”
Connor and I simultaneously cover the corners of our mouths, lean toward Drew and whisper, “Like a cheesecake.”
He guffaws, but writes the answer down.You’re welcome. “Goddamn, you guys are made for each other.”
“I know,” Reagan croons. “It’s nauseatingly cute.”
“Or just nauseating,” my brother says, a smile tucked behind that amused scowl.
Connor grabs me by the face and kisses me, all show and no real action. But if the goal is to nauseate his best friend, mission accomplished.
He’s tried very hard to keep public displays of affection around my brother to a minimum—out of respect, he says. Maybe it was Drew witnessing firsthand how genuine our feelings are, or maybe it’s the time and space Connor’s given him to accept and process everything, but things between them are on the mend.
When we told my brother of our plans to move in together, for a moment, we thought he stopped breathing. The next day he called me to talk about it and I braced myself for an argument. Instead, he said, “I just want you to be happy, Gretch.” Then, he spiraled into a diatribe about how it’s better that I won’t be living alone.
I couldn’t take the big brother out of that man if I tried.
Case in point: “Get your fucking tongue out of my sister’s throat, Vining.”
I tear my lips from Connor’s, clutching my pearls as I whirl toward Drew. “Andrew Augustus Fisher! Language, young sir.”
If a time-stopping record scratch happened in real life, this is the moment.
Drew swivels his head, eyes wide and homicidal. Reagan presses a closed fist against her lips as her gaze bounces back and forth between me and her husband. Connor opens his mouth in the most frat-boyoh shitlook I’ve ever seen.
“Did you just middle name me?” Drew asks, words low and slow.
“Dude,” Connor laughs. “Your middle name is Augustus? Fifteen years of friendship, how did I not know this?”
“Maybe,” Drew says, glowering at me, “it’s because I don’t like it.”
“Sorry, man. That’s rough.”
Drew turns his prickly attitude on Connor, who is not the least bit sorry. Reagan is Switzerland on my right: give the woman somepopcorn and a free pass to bow out of the conflict and she’ll sit back and enjoy the show.
“It’s a family name,” my brother defends, like that makes it any cooler.
Connor tips his beer bottle. “It’s also the name of the chubby mouse in Cinderella.”
“Awww, Gus Gus,” I coo.
Drew blinks.
Connor takes a long swig, another insult locked and loaded behind those eyes. “And the kid who falls in the chocolate river at Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory.”
I slap a hand over my mouth.
“Don’t worry, bro.” Connor claps Drew on the shoulder. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
Reagan finally cuts in. “We’re gonna need another round.”
We win trivia night thanks to Connor’s and my clutch efforts in the tie-breaking lightning round.
