Baewatch - Xavier Neal Page 0,20
backing up towards the door. “Have a good night.”
My mouth and frame move in unison to follow her yet are stopped in their tracks when she successfully shuts the door in my face. A hard, openhand strike is delivered to the object, immediately followed by me spinning on my heels and snapping, “What the fuck is wrong with the two of you?”
April theatrically gasps causing her husband to roll his eyes.
“Do you have any idea the…damage you’ve done?!”
“Stop being overdramatic, Scott,” Harrison fusses on his stroll over to pet Houndrix. “You’re acting like we just scared away your future wife.”
“You fucking may have,” I mutter louder than anticipated. Instead of leaving the conversation open to possibly take that turn, I give my face a quick two-handed scrub and grump, “Why are you here? Unannounced to add annoyance to the injury.”
“You didn’t come for Memorial Day weekend and haven’t been returning Father’s calls…” His eyes toss me a chastising glare. “So, he’s concerned-”
“He’s not.”
“-about your wellbeing.”
“Again, Harrison,” my body launches itself away from the door to grab my t-shirt, “he’s not.”
“He asked if we would stop by on our way to our hotel-”
“Hold the board.” I abruptly stop mid-step. “You two aren’t even staying here?”
“Oh, god no,” April cringes and shudders. “We agreed we wouldn’t do that anymore after the orange juice incident.”
One time of not having a fresh carton in the house is all it took for them as a couple to refuse to be overnight guests?
Had I known that I would’ve done that shit years ago when they came for their first couple’s getaway. That was back when April was more tolerable – an almost enjoyable person if you will – and less of a nose to the sun drunkard all the damn time, a behavior she learned I’m almost certain from our mother since she rarely sees her own. She basically became a completely different person – again something too akin to Mother to be considered healthy – when my brother put a ring on her finger. The first ring. The engagement one. The pricey piece of jewelry that cost more than my restored International Scout. They’re the picture-perfect example of everything that is wrong in a high-profile marriage and a loud reminder how soul sucking the life I don’t want to lead truly is.
“Why do you think Harrison doesn’t even stay here when he comes to town alone?”
My brother shoots me a pleading stare not to sell him out.
Not only does he stay here, which is really why he has his own key to my house, he rarely stays here alone.
That beach trash his wife so bluntly described earlier is how he likes to unwind when he needs significant space from her, their kids, or the office.
Medicinal drug user?
Never.
Medicinal cheater?
Father recommended.
The urge to create waves and ripples in his relationship like he just did mine deepens, yet his increased silent imploring indicates he needs a paddle thrown his way as if he’s already too far out in waters of trouble to be able to survive another shit storm.
Hm.
Wonder what they’re fighting about now.
Her constant drinking again?
His late nights “at the office” since they switched to an older nanny?
Whatever it is, I just hope it’s not over the idea of bringing another child into that broken ship they have the nerve to call their marriage.
I slowly shake my head and resume the collecting of my shirt. Once I’ve shoved it back on, I refocus my irritation and grunt, “Let me get this board straight. You two just surfed in here to cock block and go?”
“Must you use such immature phrasing?” April huffs and plops a hand on her floral print romper-wearing hip. “Can you think of a much more adult way to express your frustrations with us interrupting your nightly tryst with your housekeeper?”
My head falls to the side in increased irritation.
She only chooses this line of speech when she’s been roped into Brunch at Bitchany’s with Mother where they spend the morning drinking spiked tea, eating finger sandwiches, and discussing how much better they are than everyone else. Never mind the fact the younger women all have kids they should be spending time with, cultivating a new curve in which the kids are actually raised by their parents instead of the cooks and nannies and gardeners like we were.
Not that I’m against nannies.
Sometimes you need the extra help.
Other times they’re a better person than you and help give your children a fighting chance to be halfway decent