“Hmm, perhaps you could do it sans the Jack?”
“Mom, the Jack is the best part. That would be like me asking you not to cuss at Dad while you’re cleaning the ink from the dryer after another busted pen.” An oddly regular occurrence in my parents’ house since my dad was the old-fashioned kind of guy who wore a pen in his shirt pocket at all times.
“That son of a bitch,” she muttered under her breath. “One more time and he’s out. I swear this time.”
I barked a laugh. That time, it was completely genuine.
My parents were funny. The quirky type who loved each other hopelessly but also loved to give each other absolute hell. I guessed that was what you got after thirty-nine years of marriage.
They had what I’d always wanted: someone who could give me endless amounts of shit and laugh hysterically when I gave it right back. And for a while there, it was what I’d found.
Then it was what I’d lost.
I spoke around the ever-present lump in my throat. “I’m fine. Really.”
“Sure. Sure. Right. Right.” Translation: You’re a lying sack of shit. But since today is going to be rough, I’m not going to call you on it.
Pity aside, I was grateful for the out.
I flicked my gaze to the mile-high stack of folders on the corner of my desk. As soon as the weight of my grief had lifted enough for me to leave the house again, I’d thrown myself into my job and started my own accounting firm. Taking on too many clients. Working long into the night. Anything to avoid the memories lurking in the darkness at home.
“I should probably get back to work.”
“Oh hush, you own the place. Emily can take over punching ‘two plus two equals four’ on the calculator while you talk to your poor, neglected mother.”
Oh, yes. Two plus two equals four is exactly what my mother thought I did for a living. Until tax season. Then I quickly became her favorite child.
I rolled my eyes. “Neglected? What happened? Did Tyson finally learn to do his own laundry?”
“Come on now. Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Mom, he’s twenty-nine. I think he can manage separating the darks from the lights.”
“What, and ruin his manicure? Puh-lease.”
Leaning back in my chair, I stretched my legs out in front of me. “You know one of these days, he’s going to get married and his husband will hate you for babying him all these years.”
“Blasphemy. His wedding will be something of a passing-of-the-torch ceremony. Besides, we all know Jared adores me.”
“Yes, but… Wait. Jared? Did they get back together?”
There was a quiet squeak and then the line went silent for several beats.
“Mom?”
“I, uh…don’t think I was supposed to mention that.”
Of course she wasn’t. My whole family had been walking on eggshells with me since the accident, and as much as I appreciated it most of the time, I really fucking resented how, with something as big as my brother getting back together with his fiancé, I wasn’t the first damn person he called. Hell, I’d set the two of them up. Surely that had to give me some kind of priority status on the family phone chain.
“When did this happen?”
“Oh, honey, I’m sorry. We shouldn’t be talking about this. You have a lot going on today.”
“Too late. You can’t drop a bomb like that then expect to—”
Further conversation died when the door to my office swung open and my sister came strutting in, her designer purse swaying on her arm.
“What the fuck?” I mumbled as she made her way around the desk. Her overpowering perfume filled the room as though a path of flowers had formed in her wake.
As an outsider looking in, an x-ray of the Michaels family would look something like this:
Cassidy Michaels-Harrington: Oldest child, snob, interior designer, mother of two hellions I loved dearly, and married to an attorney who, if possible, was an even bigger snob.
Tyson Michaels: The baby, snob, finishing the last year of his plastic surgery residency and apparently re-engaged to an orthopedic surgeon who was not a snob, but in a lot of ways, he was by association because he put up with, and often encouraged, my brother’s behavior.
And then there was me, Bowen Michaels: blissfully normal accountant, stuck in the middle, wondering how in the hell my cool-ass parents had given birth to me and the co-mayors of Snobville.
They weren’t all bad though. Surprisingly, despite our differences, I was close with my siblings. I wasn’t sure I would have survived losing Sally if it hadn’t been for Cassidy dropping everything to move in with me for the first month. And then there was Tyson, who had spent countless nights sitting on the bathroom floor beside me as gut-wrenching sobs tore from my soul.
Nevertheless, we were different people. But we were family, and I was more grateful than words could ever express that I still had them.
Just not today.
I shot to my feet. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Cassidy curled her lip. “Good to see you too, little brother.”
“Is that Cassie?” Mom asked brightly. “Tell her she’s late.”
Fantastic. They were plotting against me. I really shouldn’t have been shocked anymore, but somehow, I still was.
The base of the phone slid across the desk behind me, knocking off a cup of pens as I prowled toward her. “Tell her yourself. She’s headed to your house now.”
Cassidy scoffed. “No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are. You are not coming with me today. I already told all of you—repeatedly—I want to do this on my own.”
She lifted a shoulder in a half shrug. “Well, we disagree.”
“It’s not up for debate,” I snapped. “Jesus Christ. What is wrong with you people? I haven’t been able to breathe since I woke up this morning. You think I want an audience for this? I want to go, get it over with, go home, and fucking forget.”
With a flick of her wrist, she swept her rich chestnut hair off her shoulder. It was one hundred percent my father’s color, which he had passed down to all of us, but hair aside, she was an exact replica of my mom. Tall and lean. Green eyes. High cheekbones. A bitchy attitude that she reserved just for me. And sometimes Tyson.
“I’m not here to be your audience, Bowen. You’re my brother, and I love you. I don’t even have to go inside. I’ll sit in the car. Whatever.” She rested her hand on my arm. “And before you start pounding your chest like a caveman, think about this. She wouldn’t want you to be alone, either.”
I winced. No. She wouldn’t have wanted any of this. But the minute that plane hit the runway, we all lost our choices in the matter.
She gave my bicep a squeeze. “Get your shit together. Let me take you to lunch, and then let’s go fight for justice for all one hundred and fifty-two people who died on that flight. But most of all, for Sally.”
My stomach sank. God, what a damn clusterfuck.
I didn’t want justice. I wanted her back.
Instead, I had to go to the courthouse and listen to an attorney for Sky High Airways claim that the crash of flight 672—which killed over three-quarters of the passengers as it skidded off the runway, broke in half, and then flipped before an engine exploded—wasn’t their fault.