Craft (The Gibson Boys 2)

“I take it back. I’m not in jail. I don’t know about the rest of them.”

She releases a long, frustrated breath. “Sometimes you guys make me feel like I already have kids.”

“When you’re an excellent mother one day, you can thank us.”

Her laugh, something you don’t hear too much from my sister, rolls through the phone. “Not planning on having kids anytime soon. Maybe ever.” As if she catches herself, her laughter mellows. “That was really inconsiderate of me.”

“It’s fine,” I say, not wanting to go there. Not right now. “Blaire, I have a problem.”

“Well, kudos to you for getting to the point without me dragging it out of you. Tell Walker to take notes.” The silence between us stretches longer than Blaire’s patience. “If you aren’t going to tell me, let me get off of here. I have a brief due in the morning and, while you find yourself fascinating, I really don’t.”

“You love me.”

“Clearly,” she scoffs. “Now what is it?”

Taking a deep breath, I pace around the living room. “I think you need to commit me.”

“What?”

“Commit me. Find a nice psychiatric hospital and just put me in it. Keep money on my commissary and I’ll pay you when I get out.”

“First of all, it’s a commissary in jail. Unless you’ve committed a crime, you should be good. On that note—”

“I’m a law-abiding citizen,” I interrupt.

It’s her turn to blow out a breath. “Good. In that case, why do you need a psychiatric hospital?”

“Blaire. I’m feeling … guilt,” I gulp. “This is not funny.”

She continues to laugh at me.

“Damn it, Blaire.”

“There’s a part of me that doesn’t even want to know.”

“Fine. I’m sorry I called you.”

“Oh, stop being a baby,” she huffs. The sound of paper crinkles through the line before she clears her throat. “Why do you have guilt?”

My free hand digs into my scalp as I pace the little path I’ve made around the living room. “Okay. There’s this girl, all right? I haven’t actually met her before.”

“Is she an app girl?”

“Yeah. She’s an app girl,” I say, irritated by her unnecessary interruption. “We’ve texted back and forth for a while through the app and she’s funny, you know? Witty as hell.”

“And?”

“And nothing. That’s it about her.”

“I’m not following you.”

“Well, there’s this other girl,” I say, squirming. Stopping in my tracks, my hip against the recliner, I try to discern the correct place to start explaining Mariah.

My first instinct is to start with her smile, but Blaire won’t care about that. Probably not her icing either or that Nana basically bequeathed her Pyrex collection to her last night. Do I start with the fact that she’s a librarian or that she thinks I’m a dick or that she tried to date a dork of epic proportions tonight?

“Lance?” Blaire asks carefully. “You still here?”

“Yeah,” I groan.

“I have one question for you.”

“Okay.”

“Who did you meet first?”

“I’ve known Mariah longer,” I admit. “But, like, I haven’t. I mean, we work together, so I’ve known her like that. But not like that, if you feel me.”

“I have something to tell you and you probably aren’t going to like it.”

“Is the only hospital you know all male? Because that won’t work for me,” I tell her. “I need some action even if I’m crazy.”

She laughs again, but softer this time. “You like Mariah.”

The snort comes before I can stop it. “Of course I like her. There’s not much not to like. Except the way she razzes me. And refuses to sleep with me. And I would never tell her this, but her mint chocolate chip icing isn’t my favorite.”

“Lance.”

“You sound like Mom when you do that,” I note, a wobble in my tone. My throat goes dry as I listen to my sister.

“Is the guilt you feel because you are messing with both ladies at the same time?”

“I’ve never felt this way before,” I say through the cotton in my throat. “I’ve fucked three, four women at the same time. I mean, not at the same time because I’m not sure I even have the energy for that, but I’d try if it—”

“Lance.”

“Yeah?”

“Listen to yourself. I’ve never heard you like this. Ever.”

I slip over the arm of the chair and land haphazardly across it. “That makes two of us,” I say straight-faced.

“Break things off with app girl and see where they go with the other.”

“Mariah?”

“Yes, Mariah. Just see what happens. What can it hurt?”

“Oh, ya know,” I say, letting my head fall backwards. “Just everything.”

She rambles on about taking a risk and opening myself up. Then the conversation ventures into how losing our parents made us close ourselves off from the world and how she understands that but maybe it’s not the right thing to do.

“So, is the Ice Queen thawing?” I snicker.

“Go to Hell, Lance.”

Sitting up, I get positioned correctly in the chair. My temple throbs with every move I make. The more I think about the rest of the conversation I want to have with her, the worse it gets.