The Player and the Pixie
Page 6

If I want cake, I’ll eat cake.
If I want a woman, I’ll eat a woman.
I heard her huff, it sounded nervous. “How much longer are you going to be?”
I took one more look in her medicine cabinet and found a lotion sample. Unopened. I cracked it open and sniffed . . . sandalwood. I squeezed out a dot on the back of my hand, and it went on light and silky. I pocketed it.
“Hey!” She pounded on the door. “What are you doing—”
I yanked it open before she completed the question, causing her to stumble back, startled. I have that effect on people because I’m not small. Truth be told, I’m quite large. I’m larger than was polite or appropriate, as my family frequently reminded me. Imposing, my aunt called it.
But I’d like to think I’m also agile, especially for my size.
Tapping into this agility, I maneuvered around the warm body and located my shirt and jacket, pulling them on as she watched. I didn’t waste time looking for my tie, instead claiming my shoes and socks, and sitting on a sad little bench by the front door.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her take a few timid steps toward me; she was in a bathrobe and her arms were crossed over her chest. “Have you lost your voice? Because you were chatty enough last night.”
“No,” I said, finished with my right sock and moving to the left.
“Is this a brush-off, then?”
“Yes.” I really liked my shoes. I reminded myself to find a pair in brown.
She sniffled. She was crying. I rolled my eyes. Sometimes they cried. Sometimes they cried buckets. I’m never moved by displays of overt mawkishness, especially when I could count on being tagged in a half hour on Twitter when she posted the pictures of me sleeping.
I stood and buttoned my shirt, then checked my back pocket to make sure I still had my wallet and phone. I did.
So I left.
I didn’t have time to stop by the shop and search for the mystery sandalwood lotion before breakfast, as I still needed to shower, shave, and dress properly. But I promised myself, if I could make it through the morning without entertaining any games of passive-aggressive superiority, I’d pick up a bottle on my way home.
Who was I kidding? Most of my family detested me. I’d pick up the lotion either way.
***
“Do sit down, Sean. You are quite too tall to stand.” My aunt waved her napkin at me, then added under her breath, “Excessively imposing.” She set the linen in her lap with a graceful movement, the kind that takes years to perfect but appeared effortless.
As she’d told me on numerous occasions, appearance was all that mattered.
Presently, I was standing—which she hated—at the breakfast buffet in her sunroom. The serving spoon I held, suspended in the air between the silver warming dish and my plate. My plate was empty. I hadn’t a chance to put any food on it yet as I’d just stood from the table.
“Once I’m finished at the buffet, I will sit down.” I was careful not to sound irritated. Any display of emotion was frowned upon and blamed on my regrettable parentage.
“If you must.” I wasn’t looking at her, but I could see her in my mind’s eye, sipping her tea with great effect. My standing was likely the most inconvenienced she’d been all week.
All six cousins were gathered, but Uncle Peter was absent. He’d been increasingly absent over the last few months, though no one had remarked on it. The lack of explanation led me to believe Uncle Peter, my mother’s brother, decided to spend more time with his other family in the country.
My uncle’s longstanding infidelity was the worst-kept secret in Dublin society, one that gave Aunt Cara the elevated rank of martyred saint amongst the social elite.
“That shindig last night was a complete bore, Sean. Sorry waste of an evening. I don’t know why I allowed you to talk me into going.” This statement came from my oldest cousin Grady, and my hand tightened on the serving spoon.
Grady was a banker, six inches shorter than me, and a complete eejit. He’d begged me for those tickets last week, then showed up with six friends instead of one, forcing me to pull several strings so they’d all be given admittance.
What I wanted to say: “I’m not surprised. Your staggeringly irrelevant existence meant every night was a bore.”
What I actually said: “I found the evening lacking as well.”
Both statements were equally true. But just as I finished speaking, the unbidden memory of Ronan Fitzpatrick’s sister flashed through my mind giving me pause. Mini-Fitzpatrick I’d called her, but she hadn’t looked or behaved like her brother.
His manner was that of an ape—reactionary, resorting to violence and threats his only strategy. I, on the other hand, preferred a different approach.
He hadn’t done any one thing in specific to earn my hatred. He ignored me mostly. Though it irked, being arguably the best player on the team and having my captain dismiss my efforts as mediocre, I might have overlooked his slights.
But after years of taking a back seat to his popularity and having the first question asked of me during any interview, What’s it like to work with Ronan Fitzpatrick? I was sick of him. I wanted him gone.
The fact that he was universally liked by everyone else only made me resent him more.
Yes, Ronan was a primate. Sadly, he was a talented primate irritatingly adept at getting people to like him, a skill I’d never mastered.
But his sister was different. She reminded me of a . . . well, of a fairy: cheerful, thoughtful, and adorably curious. I frowned because adorable wasn’t the right word.