I’ll never see Jay again.
Chapter Five
Jude
“Here you go, honey,” Mom says, offering me a glass of wine.
I sigh, hiding my grimace behind a smile. What I wouldn’t give for one of those Budweisers my stepfather, Dan, hides in the refrigerator’s vegetable drawer. Well, the ones he believes he’s hiding. It’s the worst-kept secret in this house. Mom is fine with his “low-brow taste in beer,” as long as he only indulges when company outside of family isn’t in the house. I hate to say it, but Mom’s bougie. It’s one of her quirks, and we all go along with it because no one feels like getting their asses handed to them by one Katherine Gordon Keller. She might be short in stature, but she’s a freaking giant in temper.
“Thanks, Mom.” I accept the glass and place a kiss on her cheek. The familiar scent of lilac and lavender that has been a staple since childhood greets me.
“You’re welcome, honey.” She smiles, patting my cheek as if I’m seven instead of twenty-seven, the blue eyes that she shared with only one of her children warm with affection.
It’s a good day for her. The grief that has weighed her down like a shroud the last two years isn’t as heavy today. The dark blond hair my brother Simon and I inherited from her is swept back into her signature twist, and not one strand is out of place. They wouldn’t dare. The lines that life has etched into her skin at the corners of her eyes and around her mouth can’t be erased, but today, they’re not as deep.
I release a breath I hadn’t been aware of holding, and the band surrounding my chest slightly loosens. Relief sprinkles through me like a late April mist. Nothing to worry about. Not today.
Sipping the sweet Riesling, I study her as she makes the rounds of the living room, passing out wine and kisses. It’s a little more crowded than our usual Sunday dinners. Mom or Dan invited their next-door neighbors and parish priest. Fine with me. That means the odds of Mom asking me about Analise, my ex, have just gone down by 63.7 percent. Still a chance, but she hates scenes in front of company. And if she questions meagainabout the woman I dated for a year before ending it four months ago, there will be one. Not that I can tell her about the latest stunt Ana just pulled. No,suicide attemptover pork roast would be too crass.
Not to mention it would resurrect too many painful memories.
Unearth secrets best left buried.
“Your mother really should be ashamed of herself.” I turn at Dan’s grumble. The affection heavy in his voice ruins the disgruntled tone he was going for, though. He loves my mother to the ends of the earth, and in his eyes, she really can do no wrong. Yet the frown he wears as he glowers down into his glass is all too genuine. I’m no mind reader, but it doesn’t take an 800 number to figure out he’s wishing the wine was a Budweiser. With a sigh, he sips from the glass. And doesn’t manage to cover his wince. “She invited Beth and Robert over because their niece is visiting with them.” He nods in the direction of the older couple and the young woman standing next to them. “Subtlety and matchmaking are not your mother’s strong points.”
At that moment, Simon, who has been talking with the trio for the last twenty minutes, glances at me over his shoulder, a slightly maniacal gleam in his eye, his smile strained and frozen on his mouth. Like The Joker—if Batman’s archnemesis was an Armani model, that is.
I get why Mom chose her youngest son to introduce to the neighbor’s niece. Unlike her two oldest sons, Simon is a senior at S.A.I.C., the School of the Art Institute of Chicago, has a respectable job, is tattoo-free, and hasn’t disappointed her—like with me being a tattoo artist—or crushed her—like Knox falling in love with Eden.
Or hasn’t died on her.
It’s stupid as hell that a sliver of hurt slides under my ribs, sitting there like an icy shard. Stupid, because I don’t want to be hooked up with a woman. Any woman. Even if I wasn’t leaving the country in two months for a guest artist position in a London tattoo shop, I still would be avoiding relationships like they wereWalking DeadWalkers and I had one arrow left in my crossbow. Not after the clusterfuck of my last one. The latest in a line of clusterfucks.
Still… That Mom didn’t even consider me suitable…good enough. I stop myself before I shake my head in an attempt to dislodge the traitorous, self-pitying thought. Like I said, stupid.
Help me, Simon mouths.
I smother a snort.Nope, I mouth back.
His glare could laser the ink off my skin. This time, I don’t bother to choke back my chuckle.
Dan, catching the byplay between us, coughs. But it does a piss-pot poor job of covering his laughter. “Poor kid. He’ll be lucky to leave the house without your mother arranging their first date…and engagement.” He snickers, but a moment later, sobers, turning fully toward me. Once more, a frown drags down his eyebrows, and he silently studies the pale liquid in his glass before lifting his head. “I meant to tell you something when you first got here.” Clearing his throat, he downs a healthy gulp, and my heart careens toward my gut.
“What?” I ask, worry and a stab of fear sharpening my tone. “Is it Mom? Knox? Eden?” I just saw my brother and my ex-sister-in-law-now-my-brother’s-girl at the shop last night. Had something happened in those few hours?
“No.” He waves off my words. “Your mom is fine. And…” He trails off, shaking his head. He can’t even say Knox and Eden’s names, or it will send Mom spiraling. Even as she still lives in the house that Knox bought for her and Dan with his first big earnings from his MMA days. The irony—and tragedy—of it isn’t lost on me. “No, nothing like that. My—” He pauses, clears his throat again. Starts again. “Cypress is coming to dinner. She’s back in Chicago.”
Cypress. His daughter. My stepsister.
Damn, now there’s someone I haven’t thought of in a long time. How long has it been since we last saw her? Nine, ten years ago? An image of a sullen, chubby teenager with a mass of dark hair and dark blue eyes framed by unfortunately thick glasses wavers in my head. As if nature had decided to take pity on her, Dan’s daughter had been blessed with clear, smooth skin. Almost as if God decided acne would’ve been overkill with the geek thing she’d been rocking.
But even that one concession couldn’t make up for that attitude. She’d been a snide, brooding, well…bitch. At least, that’s what my fifteen-year-old self thought. Cypress had been thirteen when Mom and Dan married. And when she’d been forced to visit our house every other weekend, she’d had no problem letting her hate for the situation be known. She ignored Mom, was rude as hell to my brothers and me, and when she did speak to Dan, she flayed him alive with that razor-sharp tongue.
At sixteen, she’d refused to come over anymore, cutting off the visits to her father altogether. I’m not gonna lie; I was relieved. That meant I stopped finding reasons to be out of the house every other weekend of the month. Three years of that melodramatic teenager crap had been a pain in the ass.
She was back home, though. Interesting. Last I heard, Dan had mentioned she’d gone to California for school. Ten years and thousands of miles can change a person, but for some reason, my mind is conjuring up a taller version of the brat that lived with us on alternating weekends.
“Yeah?” I say, ’cause…’cause, hell, I can’t think of anything else. For some reason, I’m sureI hope your daughter had an attitude adjustment and personality transplant in the last decade, isn’t what he needs to hear right now.
