Just One of the Guys. Kristan Higgins

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СКАЧАТЬ see fit to pay its heroes a livable wage. (This is a tirade I was raised on.) Matt, along with Lucky and a few other guys, do renovations, and so of course I hired them to redo my bathroom. Someday, it will be gorgeous—Jacuzzi tub, new tile floor, a pedestal sink, pretty shelves and all sorts of neat containers to hold my girly stuff. Unfortunately, other jobs from nonrelatives have taken precedence.

      “Maybe you can get started before my death,” I say around a bite of Pop-Tart.

      “Yeah, well, that’s gonna be tight,” Matt deadpans. From the other room, Buttercup, who has been sleeping soundly, scrabbles from her prone position as if she’s just scented a missing child. Matt braces himself against the wall. “Hi, Buttercup.”

      “Aaaahhroooorooorooo!” she bays, rejoicing at the sound of Matt’s voice as if she’d been parted from him by war and not her own nap. Tail whipping dangerously with love, she lumbers over to him—jowls quivering, hindquarters swaying—crashes into his pelvis, then collapses with a groan at his feet, heaving herself on her back, softball-sized paws waving in the air.

      “My God, you’re a whore,” Matt tells her, obligingly rubbing her expansive tummy with his foot.

      “Takes one to know one,” I comment, bending down to unlace my sneakers.

      “Speaking of whores, how was your night?” Matt asks. “You went to Emo’s, right?”

      I sigh, then look at his face. He’s trying not to laugh. “You already know, you bastard. Who told you? Trevor?”

      “Santo called. Said you have a new girlfriend.” Matt straightens up, laughing. “So are you batting for the other side now, Chas?”

      “Bite me, Mattie.” I grab my Pop-Tarts and head for the stairs. “Listen, I’m gonna finish painting my wainscoting. What time is dinner at Mom’s?”

      Matt grimaces. “Two.”

      “Where do you want to go first?”

      “The Dugout?” he suggests. Yes, Mom is cooking dinner. That’s the point.

      “Sounds great.”

      A few hours later, Matt and I hop in my car, Buttercup draped over the backseat, snoring loudly. Leaving her in the car, we drop into the Dugout for buffalo wings and fried calamari, amiably watching Sports Center as we eat, then pay our tab and head for the family home.

      “Where have you been?” Mom barks as we come through the door. The roar of the family gathering hits me like a truck.

      “Gutterbup!” Dylan shrieks, running toward my dog, who collapses on the floor, rolling over so the toddler can scratch her stomach. From the other room, Elaina gives me a wave. I distantly hear my brother Mark speaking sharply to someone from the basement. Uh-oh. Elaina and Mark in the same house…not pretty.

      “Hi, Mom,” I say, bending to kiss her cheek. “Nice of you to invite Elaina.”

      “It’s about time those two got back together,” she announces, yanking the ties of her apron a little tighter.

      “And are they falling over each other in love?” I ask.

      “Not exactly,” she acknowledges. “She hasn’t forgiven him yet.”

      “He did cheat on her, Mom.”

      “Do we have to discuss this now?”

      “No, we do not. Is everyone else here?” I ask.

      “Yes, we’ve been waiting for you two, the roast is almost ready, now shoo! Get out of the kitchen! Take that carcass you call a dog with you. Go!”

      “Auntie! Auntie! Play Bucking Bronco with me! Please? Please? Pleasepleaseplease?” my nine-year-old niece Claire begs.

      “No! Wild Wild Wolves! You promised, Auntie!” Annie, seven, yanks my hand.

      “Okay, okay, wolves and Broncos, coming up. Let me move Buttercup, okay?” Buttercup does not agree to get up, just blinks at me reproachfully. I slide my arms around her belly and heave her to her feet, but, jellylike, she refuses to stand. I’m forced to grab her collar and drag her into the living room, where she lies next to the door, happily allowing Dylan to look in her massive ears.

      Dad’s sitting in his chair, pretending to be asleep. Sophie and Olivia giggle wildly as he snores. “Wake up, Grampa!” Sophie orders. “It’s dinnertime!” Dad snuffles and snores some more, then lurches upright.

      “I’m starving!” he bellows. “But not for dinner. For…for…” He looks at his granddaughters, who wait with breathless joy. “For children!” He growls and lunges at them, pretending to devour limbs and heads and bellies as the girls scream and pull away, then fling themselves back for more.

      “Hey, everyone,” I say.

      “Wolves, Auntie!”

      “Yup, in a minute, kids. Hi, Lucky,” I say. “Hi, Tara.” I kiss my sister-in-law’s cheek. “How’s it going? Where’s Jack?”

      “He and Trevor are in the cellar with Chris. Playing Nintendo, I think. Mark’s down there, too, avoiding his wife,” Lucky says.

      “Ex-wife,” Tara murmurs.

      “Not yet,” Lucky corrects.

      “I’m right here, so if you’re gonna talk about me, could you at least keep it quiet?” Elaina says, doing her inimitable Latina head wiggle. “Hey, Chas, what’s new?” Before I can answer, she picks up Dylan and sniffs his bottom. “Hold that thought,” she says, hastening off down the hall, her black curls bouncing.

      “Are you ready to play Broncos, Auntie?” Claire begs.

      “Chastity,” Tara says. “Listen, before it gets crazy in here, I wanted to ask you a favor. It’s our anniversary at the end of the month, and we were wondering…we hoped, actually…”

      “We prayed, Chas,” says Lucky, putting an arm around his wife. “We prayed on our knees that you would find it in your heart to watch the kids for us. Friday till Sunday, last weekend of April.”

      I pause, bending down to pick up Graham, Jack’s youngest, who is one and a half and gnawing on my bootlace. “Are you out of your minds?” I ask Lucky and Tara. “Come on! You want me—me!—to babysit your little monsters? For an entire weekend?” They have the grace to look ashamed. “Do you remember what happened last time? The rope burns on my ankles?” Tara grimaces. “Christopher eating raw pumpkin and throwing up behind the couch? Annie peeing on my bed?”

      “I remember that!” Annie exclaims joyfully. “I peed on Auntie!”

      Lucky hangs his head. “Forget it,” he mumbles. “Sorry.”

      “Oh, lighten up.” I grin. “Of course I’ll do it.”

      “Told you,” Lucky murmurs to his wife. I nuzzle Graham’s soft, chubby cheek, then imitate a bird to make him smile.

      “You’re a saint.” Tara sighs happily. “Name your price.”

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