The Dirty Ones

Yes.

Pleasantly.

I see them often, appreciate them more than ever, and do my best to be a good brother.

I opened a law practice in Charlotte after I was admitted to the Vermont Bar. Kiera and I have lived here happily for almost five years. And even though I can see Essex College from my attic window, I don’t look for the tower that was never there. I see a steeple, and the various buildings, and sometimes I even watch the rowers from the back porch.

It can’t hurt me anymore.

I don’t give it that kind of power.

“It’s starting!” Kiera calls up from the first floor. “Come down here!”

“One sec!” I call back.

I miss Bennett every day. So much. He wasn’t the kid who was ever gonna do great things, but he was a guy with a big heart. Someone who took care of Camille and did his best. He always did his best.

They never proved their suicides were murder and I live with that regret in my heart. The regret that we didn’t save him and Camille. I even miss Camille. I read her book out loud to Kiera and stream it live for the fans every year on the anniversary of their deaths.

It’s called A Bunny In The Oven. I didn’t even know there was such a thing as cuddle-kink—I laugh every time I say that word. But there is. It’s a crazy-stupid, crazy-funny, crazy-sexy Camille version of a middle-aged New York City transplant who now owns a rabbitry—another thing I didn’t know existed—and solves weird erotic mysteries in this little country town.

Fuckin’ thing has sold like ten million copies in the last five years since Camille died. Super crazy.

And also super cool.

It makes me feel good. Because Camille was loved and they won’t let her die, even when she’s dead. They remember her. They keep her words alive. They send us cards, and flowers, which we put out on the back porch of the cottage, and if the lake isn’t frozen near the shore there’s a boat parade. If it is, people set up ice-fishing huts and dress up like… middle-age New York transplants who now own a rabbitry.

Fucking shit is weird.

I love it.

“Connor!” Kiera yells. “Come down now! It’s starting!”

“Coming,” I say, picking up the present I’ve been up here wrapping. It’s not her birthday yet, but I’m gonna give it to her tonight anyway. Because it’s a special day. That’s why we called the news conference.

I walk down the two flights of stairs to the living room and find her sitting on the couch wearing leggings and a too-big sweater. Her shearling boots are really slippers, but I won’t tell.

“Oh, my God. Hayes is looking so smug. You gotta see—” She stops when she sees the present. “What’s that?”

I hold up a finger. “Wait,” I say. “Just let me look at you for a moment. Write a little story in my head about this day.”

She giggles.

She’s so beautiful when she giggles. Her long hair is messy. She didn’t bother brushing it today, just swept it up into a hair tie with no fucks to give. No makeup. Not a single thing about her that isn’t original, and natural, and perfect, and true.

“I’m Hayes Fitzgerald, representing Connor and Kiera Arlington, and I have two important announcements today.” Hayes’ voice comes from the large flat screen above the fireplace. He’s standing out on the shoveled front porch, red, white, and blue streamers hanging all over the place. There’s people in the yard holding signs that say, Run, Connor, Run!

He and Sofia married right after we did. They already have two kids who don’t have nannies and share a bedroom with a bunk bed they got at Sears when they’re at our house. They live at the cottage house in the summer and her New York penthouse in the winter.

Hayes turned his family estate into an actual museum. People have weddings there and shit. Parties and corporate events. One year a group of Girl Scouts camped there for a week. Two kids actually got lost for a day but they eventually found them in the bowling alley having the time of their life, half dazed from a sugar-high and sick to their stomachs after raiding the fully-stocked snack bar.

Fuckin’ Fitzgerald monstrosity.

Sofia still writes, but she and Kiera write together now and Sofia uses her real name. They have a long-running erotic mystery series about two female bounty hunters trying to round up a half dozen sexy assassins for the CIA. It’s called The Broken Ones and it’s pretty good too.

And pretty hot. Sometimes Kiera reads them out loud to me before bed but she never gets far. I usually throw the book at the wall and just tackle her under the sheets.

But it’s all her fault. I can’t help that my wife is a damn good erotica writer.