The double entrance doors to Fallon’s condo come into view, and I press the doorbell to the right. An officious donging sound resonates from within and after just a few moments, the door is opened by Fallon’s fiancé.
Blain Stratherton, III.
As in when he introduces himself to people, he actually says, “Blain Stratherton the Third.”
I wonder if it bothers him that he’s not “the First,” sort of like it bothers him to be on the thirty-seventh floor rather than the fortieth.
At any rate, he bears the most obnoxious name ever and, boy, does it fit his personality. He comes from a family of rich attorneys who made their wealth in something other than the law, but I don’t care enough to ask Fallon about it. He’s a partner in a law firm along with his father and grandfather, and it’s called Stratherton, Stratherton & Stratherton, PA.
The first time I met him, he droned on and on about his law firm—how it was the top-rated firm in the Seattle area. When he told me the name, I just couldn’t help myself.
“I have a marketing idea,” I had said to him from across the dinner table. It was the first of maybe three times I’d accepted a dinner invitation from Fallon.
“What’s that?” He’d smiled condescendingly as he lifted his wineglass to his mouth.
“Why not just call it the Stratherton firm?” I asked, being deadly serious and not smart-assed at all. “It’s just easier to say, and I think it has a great deal of panache.”
Blain blinked at me over the edge of his wineglass as if I’d just sprouted horns from the top of my head. Finally, he said, “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s important that each of our names are represented.”
Now I was the one blinking because that was perhaps the dumbest reasoning ever. Fallon had told me before that Blain had an incredibly high IQ, but, at that moment, I didn’t believe it at all.
I held back on what I wanted to say, which was to point out the obvious—that each of their names were still represented, even if it was only on the sign once—but I knew it would be a waste of air. Instead, I’d said, “Well… I think your way sounds nicer.”
He’d nodded pompously, and that was that.
We haven’t had any deep discussions since then.
I study Blain now as he stands with one hand on the doorknob, not even bothering to look at me or invite me in. He’s reading a thick document—presumably legal in nature—clutched in his hand.
I’ll give it to him, though. He’s pretty enough—if perfectly coiffed blond hair, manicured nails, and a little bit of snoot in your man’s attitude is what you want, then he’s great.
Perfect for Fallon, actually, because ever since she opened the art gallery, she’s grown a bit snobby herself. I don’t hold that against her, though. She deals in fine art for extremely wealthy people, so she has to fit in with them. Honestly, they appear as if they were made for each other and if she’s happy, then I’ll bite my tongue and be happy for her.
Without lifting his gaze from the document in his hand, Blain merely says, “Finley.”
“Blain,” I reply as I step into the large foyer with gleaming hardwood floors inlaid with wooden fleur-de-lis in a lighter color around the edge.
Ignoring me, he closes the door and turns away. He walks toward the massive living area with floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the Puget Sound. I watch as he sits on the couch, crosses one leg over the other while loosening his tie, and continues to read the papers in his hand.
I shrug, a bit grateful not to have to converse with him because it’s always stilted, and he makes me feel like a dumbass somehow. More so than the terrifying elevator ride, Blain is really the main reason I don’t accept Fallon’s invitations very often. I just can’t get on board with liking him, no matter if she loves him. He takes every opportunity to make me feel inferior and while I have a pretty thick skin, I just don’t like it.
Granted, Fallon likes to remind me of my shortcomings, but at least she has a concerned tone when she does so. I’m mature enough to realize it comes from a place of love and a need to still act like a mother figure to me. Blain just likes to degrade me because he’s an asshole, and he was raised to be that way. Still, he could be tolerable if Fallon worked to make him so, but, sadly, the last reason I don’t accept many invites is that Fallon lets him get away with his bad behavior. Oh, sometimes she’ll shake her head silently in admonishment, or press her lips together in disapproval at something caustic he’ll say to me, or sometimes she’ll merely say, “Blain” in a soft tone of warning. But never once has she taken a stand and told Blain to stop treating me so poorly, and that hurts just a tiny bit. We may not have a tight, twin-like bond, but we are family and I thought there would be some loyalty.
I put those thoughts aside—because they’re bitter and I don’t like to be that type of person—as I head down a hall to the master suite. I decided a long time ago I was done holding things against Fallon because she didn’t meet my expectations. I’ve learned to accept things as they are, and I keep my distance for the most part.
But on other occasions, such as tonight, I gladly stand by her in support because there were years where we had no one but each other.
As I traverse the long hall, I take a moment to admire the artwork Fallon has chosen. Blain let her redecorate the condo when she moved in. While I’m not a fan of the dark, charcoal-colored walls, I do like she chose light-colored paintings done in whites, beiges, and silvers. They’re all abstract, which I appreciate because I think everyone can see something different within what looks like chaos except to the person who created it.
Fallon and Blain have been dating for three years and have lived together for one. He proposed to her last year with a huge five-carat diamond ring. When she proudly showed it off to me, I was boggled by its size and brilliance, but I was happy for her because she was happy. Secretly though, deep down, I was terrified it would attract bad people to her and she’d be robbed one day while walking the streets of Seattle.
And I’m not talking about the homeless crisis we are currently experiencing in my city, which puts unsavory characters on virtually every block. I’m more worried about the evil people out there who would gladly chop her hand off to get that diamond or for the pure satisfaction of the violent event.
People like Dan in the coffee shop or Mr. Pelman, my hunchbacked neighbor.
At any rate, this is Fallon’s home now and while it’s too austere for me, it makes her happy, so I’m happy for her. She and Blain will be getting married in the fall and soon they’ll have uptight, perfectly coiffed little babies, who I’ll revel in getting dirty and teaching them bad things.
I find my sister sitting at a vanity table in the bathroom, which is spread out with cosmetics, applying some shimmery dust to her cheeks. She sees me in the mirror’s reflection and turns, her smile bright. “You made it.”
“Of course I did.” I laugh.
“Did you see Blain?” Fallon turns back to the mirror, using a brush over her cheeks. “Did he offer you a drink?”
No, Fallon. He didn’t even offer me common courtesy.
But I would never say that to my sister because I know she loves the douchebag, and, for whatever reason, he makes her happy. Plus, I don’t want her ever to have to choose between us.