Falling for the Brother

It was unbuttoned down to midchest.

She stared down at her hands. And then out toward the ocean again.

Why was his shirt unbuttoned? Surely not for her? Had she told him she liked running her fingers through the hair on his chest? Parts of that night they’d spent together were a blur.

Other things she remembered as though they’d happened yesterday.

He was talking to the waiter about beers on tap and specials. Her preference was neither on tap nor on special. She waited.

He ordered a tall dark lager for himself. And the light beer, bottled, that she’d always preferred.

“You changed your clothes,” were the first words out of her mouth when the waiter left. She wished she’d bitten her tongue.

He nodded. “I was up most of the night and hit the sack as soon as I got home.”

And then he’d obviously showered when he got up. That was why the musky aftershave he wore was reaching her nostrils so clearly. He’d just put it on.

“Where are you staying?”

“At home, why?”

“You drove back to Albina this morning?” And then another two hours to meet her for questioning?

“Yeah.”

“You going all the way back tonight?”

His shrug distracted her. Those shoulders… She had a mental flash of tanned, smooth skin. And a strength that allowed him to support his own weight, and hers, too, as he’d moved them together into the most incredible physical experience…

“Depends on how much beer I drink,” he said, not quite smiling, but she thought he might have if their situation had been different.

“Well, don’t let me keep you.” Their beers had arrived. She took a long cold sip before he could tip his mug to her bottle—something he’d done with each and every drink they’d shared that long-ago night. Their toasts had grown more and more ridiculous as the night had worn on. If she was remembering right, they’d tipped their glasses to see-through bras and boxers at one point.

He opened his pad before he took a sip. Got out a pen. Asked a series of questions that she knew were designed to put her at ease. Did she and Bruce purchase their house together? Had she liked it? Did she help choose the furniture? Yes, to all of the above. He wanted to know how she liked Santa Raquel. She liked it fine. Did she miss Albina? Not really.

She missed being closer to her parents, but since he didn’t ask, she didn’t reveal that piece of information.

It dawned on her, as she sipped twice as fast as he did, that he’d been driving for the past couple of hours. “Did you have dinner? They have great bar food here.”

His weakness. She knew that from Bruce.

Funny that she’d only ever seen the guy a handful of times in her life and yet knew so much about him.

Knew him intimately…

She took another sip. Her limit was three. He’d better be done with his questions by then because that was when she was leaving.

“I made a sandwich and ate it on the road.” He glanced at the tables around them, presumably to see what others were consuming, and she reached for a menu, placing it in front of him.

Her tentative theory was that if he was busy eating, he couldn’t be worrying about getting information for that pad he’d yet to write on. She really had nothing to give him that could in any way prove that Bruce had hurt Miriam. She had proof of him not keeping his word. Proof of unexplained absences. She’d caught him looking at normal adult porn on the internet once in the year they’d been married.

None of that added up to anything worthy of an investigation. Or anything criminal, either.

It just added up to a man she couldn’t accept as her partner in life. And one she tried to keep from disappointing her daughter.

“I think I’ll have this combination platter,” Mason said, looking up from the menu. “Will you share it with me?” He was getting fried green beans, onion rings and barbecued chicken niblets.

“I’ll have an onion ring or two. If you don’t eat them all.” She’d shared an appetizer platter with him once before. Really late at night, when she’d been too drunk to be aware of what was on it.

Or so she’d told herself.

In actual fact, she’d been tipsy enough not to care, enough to deaden the pain, but she hadn’t been too drunk to know about the choice she’d been making. She’d known, when she went to bed with him, exactly what she was doing. She simply hadn’t cared how wrong it had been.