Rem moves to sit down on the sofa, and his gaze shifts toward the wall, completely unfocused. It’s like he’s not even in the room right now, like he’s off somewhere else, and I can only fucking hope wherever it is feels kinder.
The space around us is so fucking quiet, eerily so, that when the door swings open and our uncle steps inside, I flinch. I can’t even recall a time when at least one of the Winslow children wasn’t talking, cackling, vibrating with energy.
“What’s going on?” our uncle asks, looking around the room with a furrowed brow. Obviously, after spending twenty-nine years helping raise us children—nineteen of which featured all five of us—he can spot the anomalies of the room’s vibe immediately. “Wedding is supposed to start in ten minutes. Why are you guys still in here, and why the hell do you all look like you do?”
“She’s not coming,” Remy mutters, the first words he’s spoken since the letter turned to dust on the floor.
Uncle Brad’s eyebrows pull together as he questions, “What?” and I shoot Ty a look of disgust. For God’s sake, could he not have fucking explained before they got in here?
“Charlotte isn’t coming!” Remy booms from his spot on the couch, his head still in his hands. “She left, and she’s not fucking coming back.”
Brad’s eyes go wide. “What?” Rife with concern, he shoots his attention to me, and I nod in confirmation.
“This is why I made you come back here,” Ty explains quietly, still standing beside him. I have to pinch my eyes closed and hold them, his timing is so painfully late.
“What do we do, Uncle B?” Winnie whispers, her voice tight with tears. “Should I go get Mom?”
“Shit,” Brad says on a sigh and briefly runs a hand through his pepper-gray hair—a motion that is so reminiscent of my eldest brother, it’s not even funny. Some characteristics are clearly the result of nurture, rather than nature.
But when Remy stands up from the couch unexpectedly and finds a third fucking vase from a side table to smash against the wall, Brad Robinson knows it’s time to act. I’m sure he’ll have tons of fucking questions later. Why? How? Are we sure? How much do hit men cost? But right now, the closest thing he has to a son is in the throes of destroying the Carlyle Hotel, one stupid vase at a time.
“No,” Uncle Brad answers Winnie with a shake of his head. “Leave your mother where she is for now. I’ll handle everything with the venue and reception and guests.” Briefly, Brad looks toward Remy, and his eyes soften with tenderness and pain. But he quickly snaps out of that and leans forward to whisper to me, “You guys get Rem out of here, okay?”
“You got it.”
Before he leaves the room, he walks over to Remy, who is standing at the window again, his back to the rest of us. Both arms wrapped around him, our uncle squeezes his eldest nephew in a tight hug and says something that’s only meant for his ears.
Then he’s off. Out of the groom’s suite and down the hall to deal with the wedding logistics.
I don’t hesitate to jump into action, pulling my phone out of my pocket and calling the driver of the wedding limo and telling him to leave his spot at the front curb and meet us at the less conspicuous side entrance. Remy and other people—especially wedding guests—don’t need to mix right now.
Ty, Jude, Winnie, and I form a circle around Remy and hustle him out of the room, down several branched halls, and out to Madison Avenue, the cloak of summer heat hitting us smack in the face like an old worn boxing glove. The radiant sunshine and cheery birds from our arrival seem cloying and suffocating now.
Thankfully, Donnie, our limo driver, is ready and waiting.
I break away from the group and rush forward to hold the door to the car open. Remy is the first to hop inside. Winnie is next, her eyes sad as she carefully lifts up the bottom of her red bridesmaid dress to follow her eldest brother, and Ty climbs in immediately after.
Jude is next, but for some reason, he pauses, resting his hand on the top of the door. “Flynn?” he asks, his voice quiet.
“Yeah?”
“You don’t think…we shouldn’t be…” He pauses, then finds his words. “The psychic, bro,” he says on a ragged whisper. “I mean, should I be worried about losing the bet I made on tomorrow’s heavyweight fight between Billings and Dempsey? I really don’t want to cough up eight large.”
I almost want to laugh at the absurdity of his question.
And the godawful timing.
But the urge to hit him is stronger.
“Jude,” I say, shaking my head and reaching out to smack him on the back of the neck. “Not the time, man. Not the time at all.”