“Okay, coming!” Maybe some time with my family is exactly what I need to rid myself of these brothers. A reminder that they don’t own me.
I guess except for the fact that I have one of their signatures engraved into my back…
I lumber up from the mattress, my muscles aching from the tension and the game. I roll my shoulders to hear a fewpopsandcracks.As I make my way down the staircase, my nostrils catch the whiff of some rich French press coffee and greasy bacon, causing my stomach to rumble at the thought of eating some fatty meat.
Circling the stairwell, everyone is sitting at the table. Alicia and Kay are sipping their orange juice chattering something giggly only their ears can interpret. Jackson is blowing over his coffee cup and my dad is mid-way through a slice of pork.
The table spread resembles a breakfast buffet for a church fundraiser: blood oranges, powdered French toast, scrambled eggs with sweet bell peppers, and of course that toothsome bacon still sizzling, its maple aroma flooding the dining room—practically begging me to snatch a piece.
A part of me does feel bad for the pig that had to suffer for this, but I don't have the bandwidth to dive into that right now. What Ido need is some black liquid fuel, maybe it'll bump up my battery a couple points this morning.
As I’m grabbing a mug for a cup of my Arabica lifeblood, my father glances up from his plate. His eyes holding a rare appearance of contentment, one that I hardly ever see. “It’s nice to have you here Austin. You know, you are welcome to stay here as long as you want to.”
I manage a small smile, pouring the coffee. “Thanks dad. I might take you up on that offer.”
His face brightens in an instant, a grin flashing from corner to corner. “Oh great! We could actually use your help with the wedding happening next Saturday.”
Of course—the wedding. They conveniently planned on it on the Lumberjacks' Bye weekend. I swallow a sip of the steaming coffee, humbly accepting my fate. No chance to escape their day of holy matrimony. Personally, I’d prefer if they would elope to Vegas, sign their names in front of someone vested with power, dressed as Elvis, and call it a day.
But I’d much rather be here cringing internally, than be ripped in half by two feuding maniacs. So, I suppose this is a win.
Do I invite either of them? Do I pretend everything’s fine and let them both show up and slit each other’s throats in front of the frosted white wedding cake? That would definitely be top tier entertainment for the guests. A bloody red wedding never to be forgotten.
I feed a piece of bacon through my lips, enjoying the grease clogging my arteries. For a brief second it’s blissfully easy to imaginewalking away from both of them: leave the pro’s, new city, fresh start. No jockeying between identical twins. Maybe switch my legal name.
Do I look like a Connor? Or could I pass as a Brett? Or I could choose something pretentious like Stamford…Stamford Rivers.I could land a job in finance underwriting portfolios, getting railed in the exec office, and shorting hedge funds.
I snort at the thought and the girls throw me some side-eye. That wouldn’t work. Drew would follow me, no matter how hard I try to cover my tracks. He would follow my trail like a bloodhound, swim across oceans, sprint across state lines, nothing would stop his psycho drive.
That’s a part of his charm. His determination to do anything for me, without wasting a moment to think about it. He saved me. But he demands every part of me in return. Every ounce of my flesh, every wandering thought is Drew's. There’s no room for negotiation.
Loving Drew is like signing a blood contract. You get his divine protection, but you give him the deed to your soul. The right to shape you how he wants you, whether it’s with his teeth or his rumbling growls.
Would a restraining order work?
I picture the judge reading the decree—By the order of this court, you sir,Drew Evans are prohibited from any contact from Austin Schmidt.You are prohibited from loitering within five-hundred feet of him at anygiven time.
Yeah right… the judge would probably snicker in front of the court the moment he brings up the tattoo and sentence me to an eternity with him.
So what’s left? Direct confrontation—sit him down, have a dreadful adult conversation where you set boundaries and then attempt to enforce them? That’s not really my cup of tea…
My father snaps me out of my head. “Hey Austin, Jackson and I are going to go pick out the flowers for next weekend. Can you let the wedding planner in when she gets here?”
“Uhhh yeah, I can do that.”
“Thanks son. I really appreciate it. And I really appreciate you.”
His words leave me speechless. Definitely off-script for Brad Schmidt. Did his fiancé force him to say that? Has he been going to therapy? Because that sounded like some fluffball shit he would never say. His head is always too focused on getting the next recruit or memorizing next week’s defense—preparing for the blitz, not stunning his son with newly found emotional intelligence.
Maybe Jackson isn’t so terrible for my dad. Maybe he’s coaching the coach from behind the scenes. Teaching him the fundamentals of human emotions.
I nod, trying to embrace his warm words, even though they feel like a foreign language to my ears. “Yeah. Appreciate you too Dad.”
They head out the door, bickering about which color of roses to line the aisle with, while the girls spread themselves out on the couch, yelling at their switches when my phone buzzes.
King:Hey Lover Boy… can’t stop thinking about you. You better be on your best behavior. I’ll know if you aren’t…
My stomach curls as the grease and heartburn of the bacon starts to set in. Drew of course. Can’t leave me in peace for one damn day. And what does he think I’m doing at my father’s? Throwing down with the daddies of Lake Minnetonka?
