Getting Real (Getting Some 3)

Most of the time.

“Hiiii, boys!”

Joyce Skillman, Stacey’s mom, stands on the stoop with her right hand raised and waving vigorously, wearing high-cut black velour lounge shorts and a low-cut matching top that’s at least fifty percent cleavage.

Joyce is a piece of work. She’s not like my mom or any other mom I know—she never was.

Joyce is . . . youth-oriented. Blond and bouncy even at sixty. She’s into yoga, clean food, and air purifiers, Botox and breast implants and just enough nipping and tucking to keep things fresh.

My boys call her by her first name, per her request.

“I made martinis!” She shakes a half-filled martini glass in her other hand, because she’s also the kind of mom who loves martinis and isn’t shy about sharing her passion.

She offered one to Aaron when he was eleven.

“Hey, Joyce,” I greet her as the four of us approach the stoop.

She reaches up on her toes, clutching me in a full-body-pressing hug.

“Connor—it’s been too long!”

It hasn’t been that long. She was with Stacey a couple months ago during the weekend kid trade-off, when all three boys were still spending time with their mother.

“You look good.” She gives my bicep a squeeze and strokes a hand across my T-shirt- covered chest.

And then lower, slowly . . . down over my abs.

“Have you been working out?”

A robot voice squawks in my head.

Danger, Will Robinson! Danger!

Joyce has always been affectionate, but she’s never been ass-grabby. At least not with me.

“Uh . . . thanks.” I take a step back, out of the grope zone. “Not working out any more than usual.”

I glance at my brothers—gauging their reactions—wondering if I’m reading too much into it.

Timmy’s grinning like a pervy idiot. If WTF had an expression, it would be Garrett’s face at this very moment. And Ryan . . . Ryan’s staring at the ’67 Camaro in the neighbor’s driveway, most likely not listening to a word that’s being said.

“Well, bachelorhood suits you.” Joyce says, picking up a clear-liquid-filled glass from the table and holding it toward me with a sly smile. “Martini?”

“I’m okay, thanks.”

Never one to turn down a free drink, Timmy volunteers.

“I’ll take it.”

Joyce giggles as he drains the glass in one gulp. Then her eyes are back on me as she lifts a toothpick to her mouth and slowly slides the speared olive off with her lips.

And it’s like I’m in the Twilight Zone—the dysfunctional family Twilight Zone.

“We should probably get started on the furniture.” I hook my thumb back over my shoulder. “Aaron’s keeping an eye on Brayden and Spencer, but Bray’s been giving him a hard time lately so I don’t want to leave them alone for too long.”

I’ve been come-on to by the wrong woman before. Patients, the wives of a few hospital administrators—it happens. I know how to let a woman down gently. I’m hoping that mentioning the boys will steer Joyce away from the danger zone.

But she doesn’t take the bait.

Instead, she bats her eyelashes in my direction and says, “Aren’t I lucky—four big strong boys here just for me.”

* * *

For the next hour, we drag two antique couches, a red chaise lounge, a dining table, and a dozen wooden folding chairs up the basement steps and out to the curb.

It’s old furniture, heavy as shit, consisting of actual solid wood. And the narrow stairway makes maneuvering hard and tempers hot.

This isn’t a problem for me and Ryan.

“You okay on your side?” I ask him from the opposite end of the table before I move.

“All good.”

Ryan’s only two years younger than I am, so he’s always been less of a brother I had to watch out for and more like a partner in crime. He’s matter-of-fact, direct, and to the point, and slow to piss off.

“Jesus Christ, Timmy—I didn’t plan on getting my fingers crushed today. Can you turn it to the right and stop screwing around?”

Garrett’s four years younger than me and definitely more like a little brother. He’s perceptive, smart, caring—he can read people.

“But I’m so good at screwing around. It’s my duty to show the rest of you how it’s done.”

Then there’s Timmy.

My parents’ final swing and miss for a girl. I’ve always felt extra protective of him. Being fourth in a line of three hard acts to follow couldn’t have been easy. Plus, there’s a seven-year age gap between him and Garrett, which in kid years is huge.

This one time, when Garrett was fifteen, my parents went out to dinner and me and Ryan were somewhere and Garrett was supposed stay at home to babysit Tim all night. But Garrett’s high-school-girlfriend-now-wife, Callie, came over to watch a movie and afterward Garrett wanted to walk her home. He told Timmy to lock the door behind him and stay in the house until he got back.

Timmy—being the annoying eight-year-old baby brother he was—threatened to tell Mom and Dad, and whined about how much trouble Garrett was gonna be in if he got kidnapped.