Page 12 of Third Time Lucky

Aaron’s not only my brother, but also my business partner. He’s almost as brilliant in the kitchen as I am. Unless you ask him, then he’s the best there ever was, and he’s just waiting for a moment to knock my ass out of place – and yeah, never happening.

‘Aaron,’ I say, feigning annoyance.

‘Bro. How was the side gig?’

I let out a laugh as I stretch out and prop up my feet on the soft ottoman, crossing one over the other.

It’s good to be back home, relaxing in an outfit almost identical to the one Lucy wore this evening – comfortable gray sweatpants and a cozy black hoodie.

But I admit, my head’s on her. I think I officially have my first-ever crush, and it’s got some baggage – not her, but us, our history. How in the hell do I navigate that?

Despite not wanting to leave tonight, I did, and I’m back at what I now see as a dingy dude’s apartment compared to Mitzi’s mansion.

I don’t live as luxuriously as Lucy does.

My place is a single bedroom. Literally, you walk into a big living room/kitchen/dining combo and look left at the small hall with three doors all facing one another.

One goes to the bathroom big enough for one.

Another is my only closet. The third is my bedroom, which I am pleased to say was big enough for my king-sized bed, so I’m not complaining.

But the place is quaint. And filled with thrifted crap that a grown man needs to live.

A couch – black leather, purchased nearly new.

The matching ottoman turns it all into one big La-Z-Boy.

A giant TV because I’m a dude, and that matters.

There may be a gaming console or three (millennial who didn’t get this shit as a kid here – don’t judge).

I am somewhat sentimental, though. I didn’t buy everything via Facebook marketplace.

I’ve got a vintage Bentwood rattan rocking chair (and know what that is) straight from my grandmother’s estate.

It was the one item she left for me. I don’t have a lot of great childhood memories.

My parents were a mess and worked a lot to pay the bills and just barely kept food on the table, so my favorite memories are of my nana rocking me as a child in this chair.

Looking at it brings me a sense of comfort and realization that I don’t need to relive the mess I was raised in. I can be anything I want to be.

In the makeshift dining room, there is absolutely nothing on the walls.

But there is a robin’s egg blue sixties dining table set.

On top of that, I’ve decorated with a stack of cookbooks, an out-of-control pile of unopened mail (again, dude) and a spot for me to eat like I’m not a caveman if I prefer.

But, usually, I don’t, because the ottoman makes a great table while binge-watching whatever I’m in the mood for.

Overall, think small, clean (c’mon, I’m a chef), sparse yet cluttered rental apartment on the second floor, overlooking the sidewalk and a parking garage that’s always got some kind of shenanigans going on across the street. I hear a lot of sirens, if you get my drift.

‘Remember the wedding we imploded in Vegas?’ I ask.

‘Like I could ever forget. That might be the proudest I’ve ever been of you – standing up for some woman you barely know – doing the right thing even when it felt really, really wrong. I still can’t believe you went through with it.’

It was easily the second scariest thing I’ve ever had to do.

I was forced to listen to Kris – the ghost that connects us – and I had to save her.

In honor of him, but also because she deserves so much better.

It was sort of like an itch you have to scratch – you’ll excuse yourself from a crowded room to take care of it – and that’s what I did.

I scratched the itch. And yeah, I felt better, at first – then I let my mind take over on the flight home and have pretty much worried about her ever since.

Never have I felt like that, besides the night I took her to her prom. She couldn’t sit at home, and no way was I letting her cry over Kris when she could be out making a memory that started her life over when grief made her feel like she had nothing left.

‘My gig is with the jolted bride, Lucy, and her wealthy grandmother.’

I can hear the phone shuffling as he probably drops it or stands up, giving his full attention to our conversation. Aaron is ADHD-positive. And he hates when I say it like that, which is why I do it. We’re brother’s, we razz one another, it’s fun. I can picture his hands in his hair right now.

‘Say what?’ he asks, his voice low and wary.

‘You heard me right.’

‘How do you feel about that?’ he asks as if I’m paying for his opinion.

‘I’m not disappointed.’

‘Interesting – why?’

‘No clue,’ I say honestly. ‘But I’m looking forward to it – and not entirely for the paycheck. It could be fun to catch up after all these years.’

‘In that case, holy shit! What’d she say when she saw you?’

‘At first, absolutely zero. It was terrifying. She just stood there, staring at me. I thought she’d died standing up.’

It was like she’d seen a ghost as she stared through me – glued to the floor at the sight of me – and for all I know, maybe she did. I know I do at times.

‘But then she started talking. At first awkwardly, then her grandmother got out the champagne and that helped. Though, I have a feeling she’s not handling this breakup as well as she pretends.’

I’ll never tell Aaron this, but I want to know why.

Partly because I feel somewhat responsible for having thrown a live grenade into her wedding ceremony.

But also because Lucy has had two serious relationships that I know of, and I’ve been there to witness the heartbreaking losses of both of them. Again, why?

‘Even I wish I had less details.’ He audibly shivers. ‘I hope you deleted that video.’

‘Was on my old phone.’

‘But is probably saved in the cloud,’ he says.

‘Then it’s safe, because I have no idea how to get to the cloud, so one day, my loved ones will find it and wonder.’

Aaron laughs. ‘That’s beautiful. You fuckin’ perv. Where you at?’

‘Home, and I’m not leaving. Where are you?’

‘Bar a block from my apartment.’

He goes there at least three times a week. If he eats one more of their loaded cheeseburgers, he’s going to need to get his cholesterol checked, and he’s barely twenty-six.

‘Bartenders know you by name in there yet?’

‘They have my drink ready by the time I reach the counter.’

‘Classy.’

‘Very.’