Broken Records by Bree Bennett
Chapter 18
After dinner, Lucy didn’t bother showing Jack around the rest of the house, not yet. He had that dazed, slightly winded look of someone uninitiated with the ways of her family. They trudged up the first flight of stairs to the second floor, and then up the creaky wooden stairs to her bedroom in the attic.
When she was six, her parents had realized that she would require a break from time to time from their very loud, very talkative family. Ben partitioned off part of the attic and built her a bedroom of her very own. It was small and drafty, but it was quiet, and it was just for her, a rare thing in a family of ten.
“This is mine,” Lucy raised her hands in a “tah-dah” gesture, though anyone who saw the room would know it was hers. One wall was lined with wooden bookshelves, filled with rock memorabilia. A robin’s egg blue suitcase record player, her first, was folded up on one of the shelves. Another wall displayed framed concert posters for Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix, The Band, and more. The only things absent were her actual vinyls, which Brock had let her bring to their house in Indianapolis, and she had left them behind the day she escaped to New York.
“So this is the rabbit’s warren.” Jack circled the room, glancing at the wall art and pausing in front of a child’s drawing, framed with the same prestige as the albums.
“What’s this?” he squinted, turning his head back and forth.
“The Beatles. I drew them for art class in fifth grade. My mom framed it.”
“Why is George screaming? Is it because he’s holding a snake?”
“He’s singing, and that’s a guitar,” she said. “Elena got the artistic talent in the family.”
“Hmmm.” He fiddled with a miniature Grammy award replica and looked around the room, clearly stalling.
“That went better than it could have,” she offered. “My brothers still might castrate you, but overall, not bad.”
“I’m pretty sure everyone in your family could castrate me,” he said, cupping his hand in front of his jeans protectively. “Especially your one brother that looks like he knows at least twenty different ways to dispose of a dead body.”
“Oh, that’s Dante. And yeah, he probably does know.”
There was a sharp knock on the door, and Lettie’s muffled voice asking if she could come in. She entered, one hand holding a quilt and the other supporting Gianna in a cotton sling. Lucy’s heart throbbed when she saw her niece, wrinkly and pink and puffy and beautiful. She had only met the child once before, for barely an hour, but every part of her was already completely devoted to her happiness. She reached out a tentative finger, and when Gianna grasped it, nearly cheered despite the minutia of it all.
“An extra quilt,” Lettie explained. “It gets pretty cold up here.” She sent a pointed glance at Jack, who barely noticed. Unlike Lucy, he was staring at Gianna, nostrils flared as if she were one of the horsemen of the apocalypse. Had he ever even been near a baby in his life?
“Thanks,” said Lucy. Jack stopped looking at his future niece like she was Rosemary’s baby long enough to catch the not-so-subtle dismissal in Lettie’s eyes.
“I’m gonna go take a shower,” he said, tipping his head toward the door.
“Down the stairs, past the reading nook,” Lucy directed. “Towels in the closet inside the bathroom.”
When the door closed behind Jack, Lettie tossed the quilt haphazardly onto the bed and folded her arms. “Explain. Now.”
Lucy didn’t answer at first, too busy dancing her hand in front of Gianna in hopes of capturing a baby laugh.
“Nope,” Lettie tilted her body so that the baby was out of reach. “No baby giggles until I get answers.”
“What’s there really to explain?” Lucy sighed. “I went to New York. I met a guy—”
“Not a guy. A rock star.”
“He’s still a guy.” She fought back a wave of protective anger. “He’s still a person.”
“Of course he is,” Lettie said with a note of placation.
“It’s not like I brought home another stray,” Lucy added, looking pointedly at her older sister, who was responsible for the presence of a pot-bellied pig in the house in the first place.
“Isn’t it, though?” Lettie rubbed her temple. “Look, I’m just worried. This is very spontaneous.”
“Agreed.”
“You don’t do spontaneous.”
“Also agreed.” Lucy picked up the quilt, shaking it until it billowed like sailcloth across the bed.
“And you’re going to marry him!” Lettie shook her head. Gianna watched her mother’s dark auburn hair bounce with fascination. “You’re going to marry Jack Hunter!”
“No,” said Lucy, meeting Lettie’s eyes. “I’m marrying Jack Vincent.”
Lettie’s expression softened, and she sat down on the bed, patting it. Lucy joined her, sitting hip to hip. Her sister lifted her hand and looked at Lucy, a little questioningly, a little pleadingly, and she nodded. With a small smile, Lettie held Lucy’s hand in hers as she had since she was a child. The hand sizes might have changed over the years, but the love never had.
“You didn’t question me at all about Gianna’s father when everyone else was freaking out,” Lettie said. “I’ll trust you on this.”
Lucy went through that wild, unpredictable brain of hers, searching for the right word to describe Jack, but wonderful and fantastic and handsome and kind and every other adjective were just blind platitudes, little pieces that made up his whole being.
“He’s good,” she finally said. “He’s good.” And by the way Lettie squeezed her hand, she knew her sister understood.
“He made you laugh,” Lettie said. “At dinner.”
“Yes?”
“I don’t think any of us have heard you laugh in years.”
Lucy’s stomach knotted. “Really?” Lettie just nodded, and it was she who wouldn’t meet Lucy’s eyes, not the other way around.
After a moment, Lettie cleared her throat. “You know, if a guy looked at me the way Jack looks at you, I’d marry him too,” she adds.
Lucy scoffed. “What do you mean?”
“Like you hung the moon. I mean it. Every time I looked over, he was watching you, and his eyes had sparkles. I swear to God, fucking—” She glanced around the room on instinct as if their mother would pop out of the closet upon utterance of the curse word. “Fucking sparkles,” she continued in a lower voice. “And you had some sparkles of your own, Lucy.”
Lucy traced her finger along the fine, wispy tendrils of Gianna’s scant hair. It was a ruddy blonde, the color of honey. She knew better than to speculate out loud, but she wondered if the color came from Gianna’s father, or just some rebellious gene passed down.
Lucy,” her sister said, drawing her away from soft soft soft and blonde blonde blonde. “If you’re happy, we’ll all be happy, you know that. It might take those knuckleheads some time, but they’ll love Jack, too, because he’s yours.”
Lucy touched her engagement ring, rubbing against the sapphire and diamond petals, petals that reminded her of a certain sunflower left in tribute on tiles in Central Park.
“He’s mine,” she said. “He’s mine, and I’m his.”
* * *In the sad case of Jack vs. Farmhouse Bathroom, Jack was clearly the loser.
It began when he reached into the linen closet for a towel, and the towel hissed back. He yelped, stumbling backward as two glowing yellow eyes stared at him from within the crevices of the closet.
“Mr. Lincoln, I presume,” he muttered, poking a tentative finger inside the closet. The finger was batted away with a furious yowl and a painful swipe of claws. He shimmied a towel from underneath the cat and undressed, pausing only to close the closet door just enough that Lincoln could escape but that he wouldn’t be leering at Jack as he stripped.
After that, Jack reached into the antique farmhouse shower, twisting the faucet toward his favorite temperature between right there and not right there. Nothing happened. He wrenched it harder, tilting an ear toward the brass pipes, listening for some clanking hint that it was working. It wasn’t until he tugged the movable showerhead toward his face that he heard a gunshot-like bang seconds before a frigid stream of water blasted out, soaking him, the floor, and his pile of folded clothes. This led to his third challenge—he was going to have to trudge back to the attic bedroom wrapped only in a towel unless he wanted to squeeze himself back into soggy clothes. It might have been acceptable behavior for some of the hedonistic haunts he’d visited in the past—the ice hotel near Stockholm came to mind—but it felt a bit faux pas in his fiancée’s family’s farmhouse.
Jack showered quickly, not trusting that the hot water would last in plumbing that had existed since before he was born. The cat sulked in the closet as Jack wrapped the towel around his waist, a disgruntled grumble near the washcloths the only hint of his existence. He calculated that if he dashed out at the speed of a mall walker, he could go from the bathroom and up the attic stairs with a minimal chance of anyone seeing him. His course plotted, he unlocked the door, only to hear—
“Hello, Jack.” Dante drawled his name in a voice like a midnight glass of brandy.
Jack peeked out of the door into the reading nook and froze at the sight of Lucy’s three brothers: Nico and Matteo relaxing on the brocade sofa, fingers tented in mirror gestures, and Dante sprawled in an easy chair, his legs crossed up on an ottoman, a book in his hands.
“Hello,” Jack choked out. He cinched the towel at his waist, trying to cover up all his essential bits.
“We’re going to have a little conversation,” continued Dante, shutting the book with a snap.
“A conversation?” A trickle of water dribbled between his bare shoulder blades.
“You know,” Nico said, contemplating Jack over his fingertips. “The trouble with being a celebrity is that anyone can quickly find out anything about you. Crucial information for brothers to have.”
He flicked a hand at Matteo, who began reading from his smartphone.
“It has been reported,” he recited with a haughty air, “that Jack Hunter’s favorite color is yellow.”
Nico smacked his brother on the arm. “The post under that, dummy.” Matteo rubbed his bicep with a whimper.
“You’re already wrong,” muttered Jack. “My favorite color is blue.”
“‘Jack Hunter may have given the world hits like “Slow Down” and “Midnight in New Orleans,”’” read Matteo, “‘but he’s just as well known for his diva temper, ridiculous stunts, and an endless line of romantic paramours.’” He swiped downward. “Here’s an interesting article.”
Jack wanted to rub at his temples, but that would mean releasing the towel, and nudity wouldn’t improve the already precarious situation.
Matteo continued to read to himself before staring up at Jack with incredulity. “You did what at Disneyland?”
“It wasn’t that bad,” Jack said. “I’m still allowed back on the premises.”
“Ooh, this link takes me to a list of every woman you’ve been tied to, in alphabetical order. Let’s start with A. Angeli—”
“Is there a point to this?” Jack cracked his neck to hide a shiver.
“Look,” Nico sighed, pulling off his glasses with one hand and rubbing a wide hand over his face. “Even if you weren’t a celebrity, we’d be having this talk.”
“Don’t these talks usually involve looking down the barrel of a shotgun?” His patience and body temperature were waning.
“Mrao.” Lincoln crept out from the bathroom, rubbing his head on Jack’s bare ankle, his fur sticking to his clammy skin.
“Not you too,” Jack hissed at the cat, who flicked his tail and jumped onto the couch between Nico and Matteo. “Look, I’m going to marry your sister because I care about her. The end.” Once again, the lie didn’t feel quite so much like a lie. Jack clamped his arms against his side, attempting to look stoic but also to keep warm. “Can I go now?”
“Mrao,” said Lincoln.
“It’s just that—I mean, so soon after Brock—” Matteo frowned, clearly struggling with whatever he was trying to say. “Fourteen years, that’s a long relationship to get over.”
And that’s when the realization hit Jack. Brock had limited Lucy’s interactions with her family—which limited accidental discovery of any evidence of his behavior. Did they even know the whole story?
“Lucy’s relationship with Brock is her story to tell,” he said. “But I’d think as her brothers, you’d have a little more faith in her judgment.”
He had struck a nerve. Matteo blushed, and Nico looked away. Only Dante still gazed at him, dark eyes narrowed.
“You must be cold,” proffered Nico after a moment. “You should probably get dressed or something.”
Jack huffed in exasperation, suppressing another shiver. “Thanks for the advice.” He strode past them, heading for the attic stairs.
“Jack,” called Nico, his voice lighter. “If you’re absolutely honest about all this—well, it’ll be nice to have another brother in the family. God knows we’re outnumbered as it is.”
Jack stopped short. Brother? All of his childhood fantasies of having a sibling had faded by the time he was ten. What even went into having a brother? Lots of manly hugs with enthusiastic back slaps? G.I. Joe battles in the backyard?
“But if not…” Matteo trailed off, drawing a warning finger across his neck and making a dramatic gagging noise.
“Mrao,” Lincoln added, somehow adding a feline threat to the sound.
“Understood.” Jack nodded and bolted up the stairs, freezing his ass off and somewhat terrified for his life.
* * *Lucy was already in bed reading when Jack padded in, clutching his damp clothes like a security blanket. Her eyes trailed over his half-naked form, and she frowned.
“That was a longer shower than normal,” she said.
“Unexpected complications,” he answered. Feral brothers. Feral cat. Feral plumbing.
She covered her eyes and flicked a hand at him. “You can get dressed.”
Jack rifled through his suitcase for lounge pants and a sleep shirt. “You always close your eyes when I’m naked.”
“Your lips and your nipples are nearly blue,” she said. “Do you really want me to ogle you now?”
Yes, please,he thought. I’ll dance the “Macarena” naked if you would just look at me the way I look at you.
“No, I guess not,” he said, rubbing at his called-out nipples and slinking into his pajamas, thankful for the long sleeves and flannel in the drafty room. “You can open your eyes now.” He held his hands over the space heater. “Are you good with sharing the bed or do I need to camp out on the floor?”
“Jack,” she said with a sigh. “Get in here. We’re well past the ‘only one bed’ trope in our relationship.” He perked up at the word relationship, and then immediately panicked that he was perking up about anything regarding relationships.
Fake fiancée, fake fiancée, fake fiancée, he chanted in his head, but the past twenty-four hours had whipped every thought regarding Lucy into a mental Jell-O fruit salad—shaky, full of mysterious bits, and terrifying to bite into because it could be wonderful and filled with marshmallows, or it could be dreadful and filled with some experimental hipster concoction like coconut and cubed ham.
“You look awful,” Lucy said, putting down her book again. “What are you thinking about?”
I’m falling in love with you. And also, cubed ham.
He stretched and faked a roaring yawn. “Just tired.”
She tilted her head, indicating his side of the bed. “Come on.”
He slipped into the bed, not in a seductive way, but in a methodical, comfortable manner, as if they’d been doing this for years, and suddenly, he wanted that so badly it ached. He wanted to lean over and say things like, “How was your day, dear?” and “I missed you today, dear” and “Did you see that the Millers got a new rhododendron, dear?” and “Should we get a boat, dear?” And then, when he got tired, he’d fold up his reading spectacles, close whatever Oprah self-help book he was reading, and fall asleep with his arms wrapped around his wife. No, not just his wife—his Luciana.
But instead, he tucked the quilt around his shoulder, turned to face the wall and its poster of a wailing Diana Ross, and simply said, “Good night, Lucy.”