Page 72 of Mr. Brightside
There’s something sickeningly familiar about the disgust he doesn’t bother to hide—it’s in the tone of his voice, the glower he casts my way. Standing before him now makes me feel inexplicably small, even though we’re about the same height. It’s his menacing aura, the way he carries himself. It’s the way he reminds me so much of our dad. I shudder involuntarily under his scrutiny.
The girls, thankfully, are oblivious to the tension coiling between us. That is until he pulls them right into the middle of it.
“Fiona,” he snaps. “When’s the last time you saw this man before today?”
Fiona looks at me in amusement, probably because of the way he didn’t use my name. I offer her a quick smile meant to reassure her before taking a few steps forward and setting my sights on my brother.
“Don’t do this,” I murmur. Loud enough for him to hear. Soft enough for them not to worry.
“Answer me, Fiona,” he demands, ignoring me completely.
His dismissal hits like a punch to the gut. I fist my hands by my sides in anguish.
“Well…” Fiona sticks one hand on her hip and screws her face up in concentration. “I think it was the day after I lost my tooth.”
Julian side-eyes me before turning back to his oldest daughter. “And when did you lose your tooth?”
Stupid fucker. She lost it last Wednesday, during art class. The school nurse gave her this tiny little tooth box to keep it in, which made Mimi extremely jealous. Fiona FaceTimed Cory and me last week to tell us the news. Then I went ahead and ordered a twenty-four-pack of those tiny tooth boxes on Amazon and had them overnighted. We took the girls out for ice cream after school the next day while Ashleigh got her nails done.
But Julian doesn’t know any of that. He’s not around. He’s not interested. It doesn’t directly benefit him and Whitely Enterprises, so he’s fucking clueless.
“She lost it the day before we went to get ice cream with Uncle Jakey and Coco!” Amelia chimes in.
My heart bleeds out as Julian shoots her a glare. She’s five years old, for crying out loud. She’s trying to be helpful.
“Who’s Coco?”
Fiona is starting to pick up on the tension. She looks at her dad, then back to me. Her expression is a blend of confusion and concern. Meanwhile, Amelia is blissfully unaware of everything that’s happening around her.
“Oh, father,” Amelia sing-songs as she plops down on the grass and plucks out the tiny little budded weeds she thinks are flowers. “Coco is Uncle Jakey’s boyfriend.”
“Nuh-uh!” Fiona interjects, momentarily abandoning her concern when the temptation to correct her sister hits. “Coco is hishusband.” She puts that second hand on her hip and gives me a proud smile.
I smile right back at her, desperate to make sure she knows she didn’t do or say anything wrong. She’s a kid, and she has no context for why my relationship with Cory would be cause for concern. I’ll be damned if anyone—Julian included—inserts some heteronormative bullshit narrative in her mind.
“This is wild,” Julian guffaws, breaking away from his typical brooding and shaking his head. “Get your things, girls. I’m taking you home.”
Both girls snap their heads to look at me, seeking permission. I’m grateful Julian’s too focused on stalking toward me at that moment to see their reactions.
“You have a husband?” he sneers, stopping a few feet away and leveling me with a pointed look.
“I do,” I respond coolly, before adding, “I figured the estate lawyer would have notified you by now.”
I knew better. I fucking knew better. But I couldn’t help it.
I watch as disbelief morphs into realization. Now he’s getting it.
Instead of calling me out about my inheritance, he circles back to the topic of my man.
“Has Ashleigh met him?”
“Of course she’s met him. Do you really think Ashleigh would let your kids spend time with someone she doesn’t know?”
“She lets them be around you.”
I don’t bother with a rebuttal. There’s no version of this I want the girls to see. If Julian wants to pick a fight, he knows where I live. I refuse to take the bait and give him a valid reason to keep me from his kids.
Because that’s the heart of what’s at stake here: I don’t give a shit about my brother with his absentee parent vibe and stupid Italian loafers. But I do care about the two little toe heads sprawled out in the grass bickering about whose weed-flower bouquet is better.