I roll my eyes. “I’m certain that’s not what she meant.”
“I’m certain it is,” Etta replies, resting her head on my brother’s biceps, curled against his side, sliding her hand up and down his arm like she’s petting a mink stole.
Henrietta idolizes my brother.
Though “idolizes” is probably too platonic a word. She worships him. The only person she worships more is that NSYNC chap who had that freakishly curly hair when he was in his prime.
Luke doesn’t return the worship, but he adores her enough to let her accost him as much as she likes whenever he’s in town.
“I love you, Abby, but you’re as uptight as all get-out. Especially recently—you’ve been all clenchy and sour-faced. It makes me tense just looking at you.”
Luke nods. “I have to agree with Henrietta. About your sourpuss . . . and that Dr. Whitewater was saying she thinks you need to get your rocks off.”
I frown at him. “Traveling has made you vulgar.”
“It’s made me honest,” he says, chuckling.
Like a hive mind, Henrietta elaborates.
“Dr. Whitewater wants you to have some regularly scheduled freaky-freaky between the sheets. You need to get boffed, a little rumpy-pumpy, ride the stone pony, spend a little time impaled on a hot rod of steel.” She wiggles her eyebrows. “Vroom, vroom.”
“You’re both impossible.” I scoff. “And, for the record, I engage in self-administered rumpy-pumpy every Tuesday and Saturday. That’s all the stress relief I need.”
I can’t believe I actually just told them that. I can’t believe we’re even discussing this.
Etta slaps her forehead. “You have scheduled days for masturbation? That’s just sad. And a self-administered orgasm is like performing the Heimlich on yourself—really not as effective as having someone else do it for you.”
I roll my eyes. “An orgasm is an orgasm.”
“Spoken like a woman who hasn’t popped off with the participation of another actual human being in far too long,” she counters, her expression infuriatingly sure. “It’s not the same.”
“It’s really not,” my brother agrees, shaking his head like a traitorous traitor.
Even dependable Kevin piles on, shaking his head as well. “It’s not the same.”
Then he leans forward, his brown eyes bold and brave. “But I’d be willing to help you out.”
And I am . . . confused.
“Help me how?”
“I’m free on Tuesdays and Saturdays. I’ll be your hot rod of steel. You can use me—I volunteer as tribute.”
My stomach roils at the suggestion. Kevin is handsome and sweet, but I’ve never once thought of him as more than a friend. Certainly never a “hot rod” of anything.
Henrietta breaks the news to him gently.
“Settle down there, Katniss. Your role in this scenario is best mate, not bedmate. Firmly in the friend zone, dearie.”
His face falls with disappointment. It seems Tommy Sullivan was correct about Kevin wanting to “fuck” me.
And maybe he was right about me being clueless as well.
“I do appreciate the offer, Kevin, but Henrietta’s right. Sleeping with you would be like sleeping with . . .” I point at my brother “. . . him.”
My tongue reflexively juts out and I gag an honest-to-God gag.
“Bleck!”
“Besides,” Henrietta goes on, swirling the spoon in her bowl of chowder contemplatively, “Abby is used to being large and in charge—if she’s going to loosen up, she needs a man who can boss it out of her. A man who’s bossier than she is—and that’s not your way, Kevin.”
Kevin nods, conceding the point. And Henrietta turns to me, her eyes glowing with sneaky, suggestive satisfaction. “Do you know who is man enough for the job? A bloke who’s the opposite of bleck in every way?”
My eyes roll closed and I feel a headache coming on.
“Don’t say it.”
She says it.
“The bodyguard.”
After a moment, my brother rubs his chin thoughtfully.
“He did seem fond of you, Abby.”
“Like I said,” Henrietta prods, “a feature, not a bug.”
I sigh, because I don’t want to talk about this. I don’t want to be thinking about it. Or him. Not when he already takes up so much time in my thoughts.
“I can’t just take up with a bodyguard.”
“Whoa,” Kevin says, holding up his hands. “Snob alert.”
“I’m not being a snob, I’m being realistic. My grandmother would have a conniption. Have you ever seen a dowager countess pitch a fit? It’s not pretty.”
“Why do you give a rat’s arse what Grandmother would say?” Luke asks.
“You were raised in the same household I was—how can you not?”
“Because I’ve gotten out. Broken free of the Haddock bubble of influence. If you weren’t still firmly entrenched inside, you’d be able to see our family for what they are: The Umbrella Academy, but more dysfunctional. Our parents, Sterling, Athena and especially dear Grandmother have no business judging anyone. Ever.”
“Do you want to know what I think?” Henrietta asks.
I rub my temples. “I really don’t.”
“I think you liked him. I think, deep down, you know you could like him a whole lot more.” Henrietta’s voice gentles, and she’s not teasing me now—she’s speaking as a friend. My best friend. “And all those feelings you work so hard to pretend you don’t have might make things messy—and I think messy scares you, Abby.”