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CHAPTER EIGHT

JAKE

Today’s apology tour concludes at my mother’s brownstone in the West Village.

My sisters and I each have bedrooms here, though none of us have ever lived in this house. Never seems as if Mom’s the only occupant—some sibling or another is always coming or going whenever I visit. I can only hope the current lineup doesn’t include Beatrice or the twins.

I jog up the stoop but halt in front of the door, keys in hand. Enter, or change my name and move across the planet?

I debate the merits of a spontaneous trip to Thailand versus facing the family tribunal. Just as I’m mentally checking into a Bangkok beach, the door swings open.

“What are you still outside for? You a vampire? Waiting to be invited in or something?” Of course, Helena’d be here. She’s the in-house lawyer. Our very own She-Hulk, defender of the peace until you piss her off. Her presence also means her trouble-causing clone’s inside.

One step into the foyer and I’m enveloped in the smell of pumpkin spice. It’s like a Starbucks threw up in here.

After giving my sister a quick hug, I glance at the passage to the living space and drop my voice. “How bad is it? What exactly does she know?”

Helena snorts. “Everything. She’s got a Google Alert set up for you, remember? Her watch pings every time you’re mentioned.”

I groan and rake my fingers through my hair. “Fuck.”

She smirks, sadistically entertained by my pain and suffering. “Can you blame her? I mean, her youngest child is all grown up and into BDSM.”

Before I’m able to protest, my mother’s voice floats through from inside. “Jake? Honey, is that you?”

“Hey, Mom,” I call out. I sigh, gird my loins, and trail Helena into the belly of the beast, passing the life-sized skeleton all decked out on my way to the living room. By the time Mom’s done with me, I’ll be a perfect stand-in for it. Most of the coven is present, surprise, surprise. Beatrice, Heidi, and Carla all wear varying degrees of nosy on their faces.

Best not to meet their eyes lest I turn to stone, so I inspect the horror extravaganza surrounding me.

It’s barely October, but Halloween decorating is in full swing. A life-sized vampire stands by the kitchen door, and the dining table sports a werewolf torso—a furry reminder of the twins’ embarrassing Twilight obsession.

The house is a never-ending holiday mash-up: pumpkins morph into turkeys, and the Christmas tree is up so early, Santa could just move in. Right until Cupid kicks him out in February.

Mom’s turned the fireplace into a graveyard again, complete with headstones for all of us; there’s even a tiny tombstone to mark the arrival of Lillian, my latest niece, bringing the total count of rug rats to seven. At this rate, we’re going to need a separate cemetery plot for next year’s inevitable additions. Baby fever spreads faster than gossip around here, and with the way Carla’s been eyeing B’s new daughter, it’s only a matter of time before she decides her preschooler needs a sidekick.

“How are you?” Mom approaches.

Her expression is benign, but looks can be deceiving. She raised six children. Most of her shoulder-length hair is the same color we all share, though she attributes the few silvers (she refuses to call them grays) to us. A whole patch is dedicated to me.

“I’m fine.” I hedge, backing up a step. And then another. My eyes dart to the escape routes—door, windows—but every exit is blocked. Doomed. I exhale a slow breath of resignation and let Mom close in, stooping so she can hug me without tiptoeing.

“So,” she starts, shifting back and crossing her arms over her chest, the universal sign of mom-quiry.

Here we go. I maneuver around her and head for the kitchen. Every interrogation requires sustenance.

“Jake.” My mother and her spawn follow.

Next to the fridge, Lurch from the Addams Family presents his customary fruit platter. Today, however, he’s sporting a Nurture NYC cap. Fuck.

I stifle a groan. The hat is a glaring, embroidered billboard of the very topic I’m desperate to avoid. I grab an apple and bite into it. “You saw the photo?” Might as well nibble around the edges of conversation before biting into the core issue.

“The one where I saw more of my baby bear -ing it all than I have in years?”

“Don’t exaggerate, Mom. You’ve seen me in swim trunks.”

A snort. “Whatever. You’ve scarred me for life.” She tilts her head, bringing the back of her hand to her forehead in a fake swoon. Ladies and gentlemen, my mother, the joker.

I smirk and take another bite. “At least you know you made a good-looking child.”

She straightens. “I’ve made many good-looking children.” Har.

I point at myself. “Yep, and you finally achieved perfection.”

Mom laughs.

“Well?” Beatrice prompts.

With a heavy sigh, I provide the cliff notes version. “There’s not much to say. I met a woman at a bar. She brought me to her apartment, chained me up, took the photo. Then another woman came along. Let me go. The end.”

A shocked silence follows.

“Jacob Brandon Cunningham, did you participate in a threesome?” Mom’s voice is stern.

It’s a wonder I don’t asphyxiate on the apple chunk in my mouth. I choke it out, then whip around to face her. “No. I did not have a threesome.” This time. I’m not shy about my sexual exploits, but fuck no—my mother shouldn’t be imagining me having sex. With any number of partners. “The first woman, the one who cuffed me…” I avert my gaze and mumble, “Ran off.”

Any other day, I’d get a kick out of the gawking. That it’s come at my expense sucks away some of the joy.

“Jake! I thought I taught you about stranger danger.” Mom’s hands settle on her hips.

I ignore her, instead finishing up the rest of the apple before shooting the core into the compost bin without hitting the edges. Yep, I’m a boss. Should’ve considered a spot with the NBA in a state far, far away. Alas, my exit strategy only gets me as far as the living room, pesky shadows hot on my heels.

“This type of thing wouldn’t happen if you were in an actual relationship.” My mother’s attention drifts to the other side of the room. The wall of wedding, with a photo of her and Dad all decked up, front and center. It’s surrounded by pictures of Beatrice, Carla, and Helena, each one posing in their white gowns with their respective grooms.

A conspicuous gap persists in the collection—exactly the dimensions for three more frames of the same size. The holdouts—Heidi, Yvonne, and me. Every time we visit, there’s a pointed look at our designated spot.

“I don’t want a relationship.” It’s a familiar refrain.

“And what’s wrong with having one?” Helena wrinkles her nose. No, this is not news to her.

Beatrice jumps in on the pick-on-Jake parade. “She’s right, Jake. When are you going to find someone to bear your soul to?”

Without missing a beat, I retort, “I’ll work on it as soon as you stop posting play-by-play updates of PTA meetings like they’re reality TV episodes.”

Truth is, I will settle down at some point. Totally want the works—dogs, wife, kids—but the drama it’ll take to get there? That, and dad bod, I can do without.

“So, what, you’ll turn into a dirty old man? Kind of pathetic to be running around chasing skirts while your friends couple up,” Helena says, taking up the charge now that I’ve shut Beatrice up for the moment.

“For fuck’s sake, I’m only twenty-eight,” I protest.

Mom glares at my language. “At twenty-eight, I had three kids.”

“And then you had three more after that. It’s not like I have a biological clock ticking down. My sperm are mighty swimmers.”

“Only until they are geriatric sinkers,” Carla mutters with her usual Black Widow wit.

My balls shrivel at the thought.

Mom claps, drawing the discussion away from the inevitable waning of my virility. “Okay, who’s staying for dinner?”

“I am.” Carla’s hand shoots up. “But only if we’re making your lasagna. Annie’s on a food strike, won’t touch anything else. I’m one skipped meal from a bad parenting hotline, plus she swears I can’t make it like Grandma does.”

“I’m sticking around too,” Helena calls. “I’ve put Jerry on homework duty with Marcus, and the girls are at a movie.”

Mom turns to me.

I shrug. “Might as well.”

“Excited, aren’t you?” Her tone is dry.

A grin pulls at my lips. “Mother, dearest, I would love to partake of your excellent cooking.” Piling on the charm seems like a good idea before I have to reveal the gala may not happen this year.

Will full stomachs soften the news? Or kill everyone’s appetite? Fuck, Should I try to get in front of this, control the narrative, Jessica-style, or hold off until there’s no salvaging the situation?

“That’s more like it. B?”

Beatrice shakes her head. “I have to go pick up Brady from hockey.”

“I have a date,” Heidi announces.

“With who?” I immediately ask.

“Some guy I met on Tinder. And don’t you start with the big-little-brother routine, I already stalked him online earlier. Ivy League, no known felonies, a chef at Morandi.”

The big-little-brother routine is my job, and one I undertake faithfully. When I was nine and Dad got sick, that’s what he told me to do. Take care of the girls. There was that time Heidi’s boyfriend promised to take her to prom, but ended up kissing her best friend instead, leaving my sister crying. I may have been a kid, but I still made the lying fucker pay. I stuck Icy Hot in his pants, making him jump around like a kangaroo on fire. Heidi wasn’t even mad when I eventually confessed. She laughed until she cried again—happy tears, all thanks to yours truly.

“A true prize. Got a picture?”

“Already in the group chat.”

“He’s cute,” Mom pipes up. “I checked out his Facebook profile.”

I roll my eyes. Her matchmaking has hit peak desperation.

“And thing five is…?” I scan the room. It’s possible that she’ll also join the Bash-Jake Brigade, but equally likely she could side with me—after all, not every family has one black sheep, sometimes there are just two brown ones.

“Still working, I think.” Carla shrugs.

“Okay, go wash up. Dinner will be ready soon,” Mom says.

Helena wanders away with her phone pressed to her ear while Mom and Carla return to the kitchen. I see Beatrice and Heidi off then head to the powder room by the foyer.

As I’m drying my hands, the front door slams, followed by the chorus of desperate barking.

Expecting the prodigal sister, I step out, only to freeze at the sight of an all-too-familiar head of dark hair bent over a pair of sneakers. Amelia Stevens.

Excitement wars with uncertainty and suspicion. A surge of thrill clashes with doubt. Did she seek me out? Know who I am? Is she a fan? The thought’s a tad disappointing.

Something must alert her to my presence because her gaze snaps to mine, fast enough to risk whiplash. She looks at me and blinks. And blinks again.

“You.”

Well, that’s not the most flattering acknowledgement.

“Me,” I reply cautiously. Part of me wants to demand immediate answers, but I hold back—she seems harmless enough. And even if she isn’t, I’m not incapable of handling extremists. They come in all shapes and sizes: fans, jersey chasers, sisters.

She slowly rises to her feet, eyeing me as if I’m the one who’s crashed the party, before exhaling loudly, as if being in my presence is a real trial. Ooo-kay, so she’s not a fan.

I tilt my head to the side. Not the usual type, anyway. The packaging is off—women don’t usually show up in gray Duran Duran T-shirts and ripped jeans, clutching sneakers to their chests like shields. I sniff. And what is that smell? Amelia’s frown deepens.

Yvonne waltzes in. “Oh good, you’ve met my brother.” In a blur, she snatches the shoes from Amelia and vanishes, leaving us in stunned silence.