Underneath It All (The Walsh Series #1) (29 page)

This wasn’t how I expected things to happen for me, but I kept reminding myself to embrace the controlled chaos. It wasn’t the polite series of dates leading to precise relationship milestones, and that left my rule-following good girl rather twitchy.

My holiday enthusiasm didn’t transfer to drinks with Elsie and Kent. Her cheerful email last week reminded me that I promised an appearance at her champagne luncheon, and Steph and Amanda insisted via group text that a pop-in wouldn’t kill me.

It took them two days to respond to my original text (“would it be wrong for me to tell her I have malaria and skip?”), and in those two days, I devised several ways to break the news of my malaria to Elsie. They didn’t respond to my follow-up (“would it be wrong to send fancy champagne and skip? seems like a win for all…?”), and I found that more unpleasant the prospect of brunch with Elsie.

Rather than waiting for approval from my friends, I sent champagne and a quick note omitting all mention of malaria. With my karmic luck, she’d organize a mosquito net benefit event in my honor, and then I’d be screwed. Yeah, it would be a win for malaria prevention, but I couldn’t handle that much time in Elsie’s company.

I expected geography would alter my relationships with Steph and Amanda, but I was stunned how quickly our old patterns faded. Where we once maintained a religious adherence to group texts on Monday mornings, we rarely shared inspiring memes, amusing weekend stories, or photos of heinously-expensive-yet-necessary-for-survival shoes anymore. Most weeks, it was like talking to an empty room, usually waiting hours and sometimes days for a standard “omg we have to talk soon! heart you” response.

Steph was pregnant, and surprised didn’t begin to capture my reaction. I couldn’t imagine her going through that again—the bed rest, the c-section, the post-partum anxiety—and I had only watched from the sidelines when she was pregnant with Madison. But she and Dan wanted a big family, and they wanted their kids close in age, and this time around she didn’t even mention they had been trying until after she missed her period.

Amanda had been promoted to managing partner at her finance firm, and was busy interviewing candidates for the squadron of nannies and housekeepers she would need when the baby arrived this spring. She wanted my opinions on gender neutral toys and intentionally diverse storybooks, and when she realized I knew plenty about schoolchildren but nothing about babies, she announced she needed a nursery consultant, and advised me to start planning the birth of my yet-to-be-conceived child while I had the time.

Their lives were different now, I understood that, but things with Matthew were too intricate to manage alone. And after nearly ten years of sharing most major decisions in my life with Steph and Amanda, they weren’t available when I needed them. Realizing the relationships that served us through college and our twenties were dwindling away hurt. I knew we’d always have memories of Williams College and The Dungeon, but it was another form of chaos I wasn’t prepared to navigate.

None of my other friends knew enough about my inner workings—my hot mess, my control freak, my crazy Commodore Halsted stories, my good girl, my rebel with good causes—to serve as proper sounding boards, and I didn’t want to start from scratch with them.

My mother offered some well-intentioned advice about following my heart, but bringing her in required intensive editing because Mom and I did
not
talk about sexytimes. In the end, my mother realized what I was doing, and her all-knowing chuckle gave it away.

“All right, Lolo,” she laughed. “I don’t need the whole story. But you have a lot of love to give, and you should let yourself give it.”

When I stepped back to think about my relationship with Matthew, every turning point was inextricably linked to those sexytimes. We communicated through dirty talk and touch and need, and every time I tried to convince myself that was crazy, I realized it was also perfectly right. Everything I needed to know and everything I needed to say were offered between the sheets—and against walls, in showers, and on the desk in his office—and nothing more was necessary. Not now, not yet.

Shannon and I were tight, and though we often talked about everything and nothing, she was altogether too close to this situation. We weren’t talking about biting and we weren’t talking about whether I was falling for her brother.

I was on my own with this one, fumbling around in the dark.

“Don’t worry about Thanksgiving, Lauren. I order the meal from an organic farm, cooked and everything, and my assistant, Tom, will drive out to Boxboro to pick it all up on Wednesday. Less of a salmonella risk that way.” Shannon rolled her eyes. “Besides, it’s not like the boys ever bring anything.”

“Exactly. So what I can do? Wine? Flowers?”

She leveled a serious gaze at me. “This is not a classy event, Lauren. The Walsh children do not do classy. My brothers are well-educated, well-dressed brutes, and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. I’ll be happy if the cranberry sauce stays out of the rugs. Did Matt ever tell you how this all started? The ‘let’s raid Shan’s place on Thanksgiving’ tradition?”

I refilled our glasses and shook my head.

Shannon dropped her gaze. “We basically stopped doing holidays when my mother died. Sometimes my father’s sisters would have us over, but not always, and my father turned it into a shit show. He does that a lot.”

Where Matthew never mentioned his father, Shannon and Sam often talked around the issues with him, and his tenuous role in the business, and I knew things were getting worse. The bruise on Matthew’s face was the work of his father, though the exact turn of events was still unclear. Matthew wouldn’t discuss it, and Sam struggled to talk about the most recent incident without lapsing into incoherent swearing rampages. It all made the Commodore’s quirks that much more tolerable.

“Thanksgiving at my place started the year Patrick finished college. The rest of the tribe was either still in school or at home with my father.” She paused to sample the olives, and turned back to me. “Erin had a huge fight with my father and the situation was shambles—which is how she leaves most things—so she was staying with me. Somehow everyone else ended up camping in my five hundred square foot apartment. Patrick and his stiff upper lip convinced me that we needed a family holiday. Just once I’d like to see these events in his pristine apartment.”

I nibbled an olive, waiting for Shannon to continue. I couldn’t imagine a childhood without holiday celebrations and the traditional trappings of family. Mine might be scattered and engaged in our own pursuits now, but my best memories and everything I knew about family came from holidays and trips.

“Riley convinced me to cook, and there are more exaggerated stories about me giving everyone food poisoning that year than I care to recount. But it was the first time we actually had Thanksgiving together since my mom died. And aside from everyone puking all over my apartment, it was nice.”

I covered my face with my hands and leaned away from the table, trying and failing to conceal my laughter. “That’s a terrible story, Shannon! ‘Aside from the puking it was nice’? Oh my friend, what are we going to do with you?”

She smiled and glanced around the wine bar. “We’ve done it every year since, but with far less food poisoning.”

“We need to stop talking about this.” No wonder this girl was starting to prefer Soul Cycle to connecting with the opposite sex. Ball-busting was her national pastime, and she couldn’t find a polite topic of conversation with two hands and a flashlight. “New topic: getting Shannon some action. Last week you were meeting Charlie for coffee. How’d that turn out?”

“Oh my God,” Shannon groaned.

“That bad?”

The number of men who could go up against Shannon and hold their own was woefully limited—Matthew could probably construct an equation and give us an exact number—and it was no surprise her online dating endeavors met with little success. She required an unshakable alpha male who could handle every ounce of her alpha girl without expecting her to yield in the least.

“He had this white phlegmy thing on his lips. I spent the entire time staring at his mouth, silently willing him to wipe it off. I even started wiping my own mouth excessively as a hint. Nothing.” She groaned. “And he lacked the most basic social skills, in addition to zero awareness of white phlegmy stuff.”

“How’d you leave it?”

“Eh, you know. ‘Maybe we’ll grab coffee or a drink after the holidays.’” Shannon rolled her eyes. “Remind me to stop seeing club guys outside of clubs. They’re like trolls: they need to stay under their bridges.”

MATTHEW

From: Erin Walsh

To: Matthew Walsh

Date: November 16 at 01:51 CEST

Subject: RE: answer your phone

M –

Sorry, kid. I’ve been way off the grid. I’m in Germany, btw, right on the border of the Czech Republic and working in the Vogtland region. I think this might be the place where Hansel and Gretel went missing. A couple nights ago, some of us followed a path through the woods and ended up in the CR, and after the weird shit we saw, I can easily write scary children’s stories now. Photos attached.

The thermal springs around the Kammerbühl volcano are wild, but I speak no Deutsche and some of the people in this village think I’m a witch. It’s like, cool, whatever, but stop throwing holy water at me, you know?

I’m headed back to Spain soon, and we can talk then. Any urgent/Matt’s-on-the-ledge-again issues?

– e

From: Matthew Walsh

To: Erin Walsh

Date: November 16 at 09:12 EDT

Subject: RE: answer your phone

E –

Whenever I think my life is complex, I get an email from you about sneaking into foreign countries and holy water. It reminds me that I need to put aside bail money for when you get arrested.

And no, I’m not on the ledge. Things are good. Let me know when you’re back in Spain.

M

From: Erin Walsh

To: Matthew Walsh

Date: November 16 at 23:09 CEST

Subject: vague much?

M –

Not trying to get all psychiatric on your ass, but I’m pretty sure saying “things are good” is your way of telling me things aren’t exactly good.

– e

From: Matthew Walsh

To: Erin Walsh

Date: November 17 at 06:41 EDT

Subject: things ARE good

E –

The sun isn’t up yet and I’ve been in my office for almost an hour.

I’m registered for a triathlon this weekend and I haven’t swam for more than ten minutes since Labor Day.

Patrick fired another assistant. The current total for the year is now four fired assistants, and we’re placing bets on whether he makes it to a clean five.

Sam wants to add roof gardens to every single project that comes through the door, and he doesn’t actually know enough about landscaping or horticulture or anything that might qualify him to put gardens on top of roofs, but no one wants to tell him that.

Riley still can’t zip his pants and I had to explain to him why we ALWAYS double check that we’ve turned off the main water line before doing any demo. And yes, I had to explain it while standing in two feet of water.

But yeah, things are good. Where are you?

M

From: Erin Walsh

To: Matthew Walsh

Date: November 18 at 11:29 CEST

Subject: RE: things ARE good

M –

I notice you didn’t mention a word about chica. Is that done?

– e

From: Matthew Walsh

To: Erin Walsh

Date: November 18 at 19:31 EDT

Subject: RE: things ARE good

E –

Things with Lauren are good. Different. Complex. But good.

Where are you?

M

From: Erin Walsh

To: Matthew Walsh

Date: November 19 at 01:09 CEST

Subject: Italy

M –

I’m in Naples. Spending time in the lab and then rubbing Vesuvius’s belly for a bit. No travel on my calendar for a week or two, not unless someone wants to sneak into the CR with me again. And I’m totally game for that.

Expand on “different but good.” Let it out, kid. Just let it out.

– e

From: Matthew Walsh

To: Erin Walsh

Date: November 19 at 22:17 EDT

Subject: RE: Italy

E –

Come home for Thanksgiving or Christmas or whatever. You can stay at my place and you don’t have to see Shannon. Let me know when you want to come, and I’ll order a ticket for you, but I can’t talk about this shit over email anymore. Meet her and you’ll get it. You’ll love her. Come home. Even for a few days.

M

From: Erin Walsh

To: Matthew Walsh

Date: November 20 at 20:02 CEST

Subject: RE: Italy

M –

Will I love her as much as you do?

– e

From: Matthew Walsh

To: Erin Walsh

Date: November 21 at 05:49 EDT

Subject: RE: Italy

I hope so.

LAUREN

W
ith only nine
months until the doors of my school opened, I was rounding the curve and finally seeing the end of this marathon. As the first day neared, my confidence grew. I understood the role I’d fill when it was time for teaching and learning, and I loved everything about it. I needed kids and classrooms, and the craziness of running the building was nothing compared to chasing down vendors, board members, state officials, and researchers. The preparation, the non-kid, non-classroom stuff I could do without.