Get Cuffed

Chapter 2

We’re not the biggest family in the world, but my dad has two younger brothers, and they had their own girls around the same time I was born. The only friends I really knew growing up were my first cousins, Vick and Max, with Max being the baby.

Of course, the little ones came along a couple of years later, Evie and Izzy, and the Prewitt brothers swore they were drowning in all the estrogen.

We look nothing alike, my cousins and I, too much DNA that has recombined for us to look anything alike at all, but we share the same last name—Prewitt—and I hold the title of being the eldest.

And in the Prewitt family, October is a special kind of month.

It is the beginning of spooky season—Vick’s favorite season, whereas I am a sun worshiper and Max loves Christmas to the point of fanaticism (how many Santa Clauses should one apartment have before it’s considered a fire hazard?).

We might have finished Canadian Thanksgiving, but that’s nothing more than a pre-Thanksgiving to the big, fat American one we celebrate in November. Because Vick’s mom, my auntie Lisa, is an American and that’s when she celebrates, therefore we all celebrate a second Thanksgiving as well.

So there’s really no reason why my mom’s fitting in another formal dinner tonight in the dining room.

We shouldn’t be, since we’re all going to die next month by eating too much, and then fully explode over the Christmas holidays. During that special two-week period, we all end up eating and drinking too much, until that bright, cold day in January when we all come to regret our decisions for the upcoming year.

Unless, of course, potential grandbabies are on the line, and I’m not getting younger, or having the kind of relationships with men that last.

I show up to my parents’ place with a bouquet of flowers (my mom’s nuts about them even though I can’t really tell the difference between a dahlia and a peony). I’ve got a bottle of wine my dad likes, the kind that gets his cheeks red after a single glass, where he usually regales us all about how he and my uncle Tristan terrorized their youngest sibling, my uncle Isaac when they were kids.

And from the stories I’ve heard, it truly is amazing how the brothers all survived this long, really.

I know I’m in deepest trouble when I walk into the dining room and the giant table for ten is set. There’s a pristine ivory tablecloth that has been ironed to within an inch of its life strewn taut across the table’s surface. We’ve got the good plates out, the lone one that has a chip from nearly dropping it is placed in my mom’s seat of honor at the head of the table, and we even have the snazzy crystal wine glasses placed at each setting.

Yup, suspicions confirmed. Never should have showed up and dealt with the silent treatment for not obeying. I never should have showed up!

I take one look, swing on my back foot and start booking it towards the front door, intent on escaping.

Ah, if only my parents didn’t know me so well.

They’re both there, blocking my quick exit strategy, and I know I can take them (obviously), but do I really want to?

How will I survive their crushing disappointment when it feels like any more added pressure in my life right now is going to make me explode?

I won’t be able to handle it, and even though this is going to suck, I’ll survive. It’s not like Brody’s going to move in. So I just have to grit my teeth and bear it, just plan on surviving tonight’s soon-to-be awkward and annoying dinner with my first love as the guest of honor.

Three hours with an ex-boyfriend and a blast from the past never actually killed anybody.

It’s not a crazy virus nor is it being exposed to toxic amounts of radiation—nothing so bad as that. I’m just going to have to eye my knife and fork more often than not and play games in my head where I have to convince myself that using them on Brody would be a bad, bad idea. There would be too many witnesses around, and my mom would kill me because then I’d never have a chance at getting married with my supposed one true love.

Maybe I should jump off the roof and take the hit. But then it would take the ambulance a while to get here, and I’d have to deal with my parents’ disappointment in my actions.

I wish I could turn invisible and leave.

“No, you’re staying, Amber, you’re staying.” Mom says, her eyes going oddly vacant and a whole lot scary as she grabs onto my arms and keeps me in place.

“The Kanes are coming over, and that’s that,” Mom says, and even though I’m a whole head taller than her, she still scares the s**t out of me.

“But why? Why would you invite them over, and me, too? At the same time?” I mash my hands together for emphasis.

“C’mon. Dad, I’ll buy you that set of golf clubs you’ve been eyeing for Christmas right now if you call it even, yeah?” I hold out my hand for a shake and my mom slaps it away, just as I watch my dad’s expression fall flat with disappointment.

“We’re friends,” Mom sighs, shoving me back into the kitchen where I’m on dish-moving duty. “Besides, I haven’t seen Brody since he’s been back. This was a perfect opportunity to get everyone together.” I scoff, fight the need to hurl, and turn on my heel, carting all the food to the dining table.

I’m ordered to open the bottle of wine, wrestling with the bottle opener before getting it right. I manage to avoid crumbling the entire cork into the bottle, popping it free when the doorbell rings to my childhood home. My ex-boyfriend (from years and years ago, but an ex-boyfriend nevertheless) and his parents are greeted and welcomed inside, like they haven’t done this a million times before.

We grew up close, Brody and me. We were friends first, and then eventually boyfriend and girlfriend when I realized I was besotted with him, and he was devoted to me.

But honestly, how can that be healthy when he was all I ever knew? Why do I still care?

Answer: it wasn’t healthy, but my parents still aren’t on board with the whole idea of us keeping our lives separate from one another. This isn’t some sort of fairy tale storybook, and I’m definitely not a princess waiting for her prince.

A workaholic princess that neglects pretty much everything in her life if it doesn’t pertain to her job.

God, my parents are going to make this so very awkward and horrible, and I’m going to die of embarrassment.

Plus, Brody’s a patient now, my patient, and we’re crossing eight hundred lines and all the rules and waivers and permissions the company I work for have set in place, most probably.

I’m going to stress-bake at least one hundred snickerdoodle cookies when I get home, and then bring them to the office tomorrow so everyone can have them, and I won’t be tempted to eat twelve in a row.

It doesn’t help that I’m dressed down. Now I wish I went all out, beautiful clothes and shoes and makeup, the armor I so desperately need instead of being this casual. Casual means comfortable, and I am not comfortable.

It doesn’t help that I do feel naked without my signature makeup and the sharp cat-eye that’s sharp enough to m**m, and the wispies I sometimes wear to make it seem like I actually have eyelashes.

I basically had rushed home, got into the shower to wash off the day after my quick-as-hell workout, and drove over to my parents’ place, in the West Island, the exact direction out of the city where there’s always a metric s**t-ton of traffic. I bopped my way through an almost hour and a half of it, replaying the entire Spice World album twice before switching to something else on my ‘Stuck in Traffic’ playlist.

And now we’re here, and Brody…he looks like he should be on the cover of Men’s Health or something. I goggle, holding the bottle of wine close to my face and wondering if I can just knock back a few gulps (or a hundred) to get me to the level I need to be at to deal with all this s**t.

God, my parents are not subtle, like, at all.

The old folks have all gone quiet, the Kanes and the Prewitts, and we’re all eyeing each other in the kitchen. We stand there and look at each other, not talking for seconds that drag into years, and I want to start screaming at the top of my lungs, waiting for someone else to make the first move.

Mrs. Kane (Emily) walks in to give me an awkward hug.

It’s only awkward ’cause I end up flinching hard enough to slosh the wine from the bottle I’m holding in a death grip. Wiping the stain off the floor with my sock would be in poor form, and I’m looking to survive tonight without my mom nitpicking at every little thing I do, trying to show me off to a potential suitor.

I awkwardly and stiffly return the hug, Brody’s delighted face peering back at me that I know, I know, that I’ve walked into a trap and gotten caught.

My mom finally ushers everyone into the dining room where seats are assigned—of course they’re assigned, of course. Would my mom do anything less if she knew that Brody and I were in the same room together?

It’s so she can pretend this is an engagement party or whatever. Jesus Christ.

It’s no surprise that I’m sitting next to Brody, which is better than directly looking at him, I guess. I can ignore my next-door neighbor, I literally do it all the time at home.

But now he’s all next to me after pulling out my chair and sliding it beneath me so I can get closer to the table—where the food is. I’ve unfortunately got his cologne in my nose, the notes something all too familiar, all too him, and something different, too, like he’s a stranger after all.

Maybe I can grab some bread and fake food poisoning? Pretend to choke to get out of here?

I don’t like where this is going.

My mom keeps looking at me with star-bright eyes, and Mrs. Kane practically beams. My dad has the audacity to keep from making eye contact with me, and Mr. Kane just looks plain embarrassed and keeps coughing into his fist, clearing his throat, and keeps taking sips from his freshly poured glass of wine.

My mom gives the signal, and I pounce on my food like it’s going to get taken away from me. In theory, if I eat fast, I can call it an early night.

I’m a genius, a veritable genius.

It doesn’t take long for Mom to clear her throat in precisely that way that basically means that I’m embarrassing her, and I’m not falling into line. So it’s going to be one of those nights.

Brody slowly invades my space as the stupid night wears on, but I don’t even think he knows he’s doing it. He’s been moving in increments, in familiarity rather than just pushing himself into my personal bubble.

It must be weird for him, too, maybe. If he had a heart, or a compassionate bone in his body. Honestly, it’s all his fault that we’re here. He had to come back to town to recover, and I’m stuck in the middle, totally expected to fall head over heels in love with him again just because he’s convenient and we have a history together.

I clutch my fork a little too tightly, pull in a deep breath, and resume scarfing down my food.

Brody bumps my knee under the table, and when I look over, I’m confronted with a small, private smile that has me halting in my chewing. He knows everything about this place, having been over a million times during the time we were dating.

He knows the layout of my childhood home—he knows what my old bedroom looks like, knows the living room, the feel of the carpet underneath our sock feet, knows the precise give of the old couch downstairs when we used to make out for hours on it.

Shut down that thought and have some wine.

Now is not the time to reminisce, to go down memory lane. It only ends in hell, anyway.

Mrs. Kane clears her throat delicately, a dainty hand covering her mouth, but she spears me with a glance. She’s looking at me like all of this is my fault, like she’s watching me at the guillotine, waiting for the precise moment my head’s gonna be eternally separated from my body.

“So, Brody tells me he’s one of your patients, now?” Mrs. Kane says patient like a bad word, and I just nod my head.

When I clearly don’t intend to elaborate, she continues. “Is that why he came home practically in tears today?”

I snort, choke on my food, and then get my airways clear with a single, hard cough. It takes me a second to notice Brody’s hand on my back, as if I gave him permission to touch me. I glare at him until he ceases all contact and turns to his mom.

She used to like me, and I used to like her, before her son made an ass out of me and showed me how much of a d**k he was, and clearly still is. Must be a huge failure to be a parent of an asshole.

Must be.

“Maybe because he was upset?” I venture, not wanting to have this conversation. I take another healthy gulp of wine, vowing retribution in my head.

“Mom—”

Emily hisses at her son, and the guy does the wise thing and shuts the hell up. Look at him, acting smart. “Are you taking it out on him, what happened between the two of you? I didn’t think you were that petty. He’s achieving his dreams,” she says, and my wine tastes sour in mouth.

“Emily,” Mr. Kane whines, nearly toppling his wine glass over on my mother’s pristine tablecloth, and Mom’s about ready to throw hands and feet.

“I’m doing my job, Mrs. Kane. It’s nothing more than that.”

The history in the room weighs down on us as we all drop our heads and concentrate on our food. It seems like we’re all chewing slowly so we don’t have to talk as there is always so much to say that’s better left unsaid.

It’s not like I missed Brody all that much.

I still miss the idea of the old me (even if she was naïve, and stupid, but still precious in her own way) when I was with him.

I miss the way I felt, sure, like I was loved, like I wasn’t measuring every guy I met thereafter against how well and sweetly Brody treated me, how he hung on my every word even if it was dumb, or too loud, just too me.

He listened to me, actively listened, and it wasn’t until I got older that I realized how very rare that was, how many friendships I had to prune because I wasn’t being heard, no matter how many times I spoke.

Right now, though, I don’t have the energy to argue, or to try to put up a front.

I’m already tired after the long workday, and this pot roast and potatoes isn’t filling me up the way I want it to.

I want my aunt Lisa’s pumpkin pie with vanilla whipped cream, and I want it now. That pie makes the world go ’round and everything seem better—it has magical properties and can save a night from the shitty circumstances that I’m already in.

“I’m sorry,” Mrs. Kane apologizes to the table, and that fiery burn in her eyes dwindles down to nothing more than a smoking ember. I know I’m not out of the red zone yet, but it’s looking a lot safer than it was a few seconds ago.

I nod my head, keep picking at my food, letting out a sigh when the silence stretches…and stretches…and stretches.

I glance up to look at Mom, who’s bugging her eyes out me, looking between Brody and I, swinging back and forth in a way that I’m afraid she’s going to pull something.

I don’t take the bait, even if Mom’s going to be supremely annoying later.

I’ll deal with the lecture, and that’ll be it, and then I can go home, crawl into bed and forget this ever happened. The silent treatment might not even be that bad – I won’t have to hear how great Brody is, and how I should try something with him again.

Yeah, right. When has that ever been it when we’re talking about Brody Kane?

I’ve unsuccessfully tried to shut down every conversation starter that we’ve had about Brody. Even though it’s been literal years, I don’t want to hear about how good his life’s going, how much money he’s making, how much he’s thriving without me, when I thought we would thrive together.

Naïve and stupid, I know, but the want is still stuck in the back of my throat, and I can’t swallow it down, no matter how hard I try.

The thought’s there, like a thorn stuck under my heart, and if I breathe too deeply, if I let myself take in a relaxed breath, I end up hurting myself all over again. I remember that the insidious thought remains—that I still haven’t fully moved on.

I should be married by now, or at least happy with a partner who adores me, and I adore him, but none of my relationships seem to work out for me.

Nope, the fact is that Brody Kane was the guy that got away, and now he’s back, like a crappy pair of underwear I thought I threw out but just keeps popping up in the oddest of places.

He’s here, he’s next to me, and our parents want to make something happen when it shouldn’t.

I still remember how it felt like to be loved by Brody Kane, and I’m not going to lie to myself—it was awesome, amazing. I’ve been chasing the feeling ever since, but I’m coming to realize that it’s not something that can be replicated.

And it sucks. It sucks really, really bad.

I’ve been holding onto the past for so long that I can’t seem to turn around and peer into the future.

But now my past has caught up with me. Hell, he’s sitting right next to me.

We finish our dessert around stilted conversation, non-starters, and awkward laughs as I squirm at being so uncomfortable. It’s not until the Kanes are heading out the door, practically running instead of walking, that Brody decides to pay attention to me.

“Hey, Amber, can we talk outside for a second?”

I can hear them all (Kanes and Prewitts, the entire audience) gasp in excitement and it sets my cheeks aflame. I roll my eyes, hard enough to pull something, and head outside with him. We’re walking down the street like we used to do, when we used to hold hands, or I’d make a run for it and Brody would chase and catch me.

Brody clears his throat, much in the way his dad does when he’s uncomfortable. I consider it a win.

“So…that was awful back there,” he says, and I keep my eyes pinned straight ahead so I don’t have to look at him, to try and figure out all the expressions flitting across his handsome face.

Did he have to turn super hot? Did he? How is that fair? I gained weight, and I’ve got circles under my eyes that have dark circles. What is this s**t?

I nod, shrug, and keep walking.

I’m tired, I want my comfy jammies and a good smutty book to read before bed, cry at the fluffy-cute parts and then sleep the sleep of the dead before having to wake up tomorrow and get back to work.

“God, when did it get so hard to talk to you?” he asks, sounding wistful, breath puffing out violet in the dark night.

We’re both not wearing coats other than our heavier sweaters that aren’t ideal for this kind of weather. It smells like it’s going to frost overnight, and I shiver hard from head to toe.

“Say what you need to say, all right? I’m tired. I’ve got a long drive back home. I’m probably going to get yelled at for being rude even though I did no such thing. What do you want me to say, Brody? Talk.”

I swing around to look at him, crossing my arms over my chest, holding myself together, that thorn in my heart pricking at me over and over and over again.

“I just…my parents are being a pain in the ass,” he says on a wince, rubbing at the back of his neck.

I nod, because yeah. If you’re lucky enough to get a good set of parents, they’re gonna be a pain in the ass, it’s like a law or something.

“And they’re constantly talking you up and being annoying about the whole thing, me being back in Montreal and all.” Brody huffs, staring down at his sneakers. They look like those Balenciaga Speedys I’ve been coveting for a year but couldn’t justify the frivolity when there’s so much more nail polishes I wanna collect.

“I don’t see how this is my problem, like at all.”

Brody nods, biting at his bottom lip, looking something like shy or nervous. Or am I seeing odd things in the shadows?

“What do you say that we give them what they want, huh? I’ve got another twelve weeks of rehab, right, and then I have to figure out what I’m going to do. So there’s a time limit, and we can say goodbye after that time. That’s all I’m asking for.”

Hold the phone and shut the front door, did he just…?

“What? What?!”

Brody can’t be saying what I think he’s saying, he just can’t be.

My hearing’s wonked out, or I’m hallucinating. Did I accidentally raise a demon that one time I wrote with lipstick on a mirror? Is this what this is?

Is Brody Kane the demon that’s going to haunt me for the rest of my natural life?

He grins, then it becomes a whole-ass smile, and I know I’m cooked. Cooked.

He’s being freaking serious.