CHAPTER TEN
Logan
My brother and Patricia had been about to rip each other’s eyes out, I could tell when I entered the living room. Neither of them are the subtle type. Patricia was practically hissing, claws out, and my twin looked like he could pound concrete.
I sighed. I’d gotten myself into this mess, and it was up to me to get myself out. But I didn’t want to think about it now. With all the confusion swirling in my head, from the girl at the Donkey Club to the images of Kathryn, I just wanted to live in peace for a while, focus on the lunch with Dad, enjoy a nice meal. He’d asked us to meet him at the hospital, which was weird, but I assumed we were just picking him up before going to a restaurant nearby.
Unfortunately, when we called from the car, he instructed us to park and come in.
“No need, we’re happy to circle until you’re ready,” said Lance, his eyebrows raised at the surrounding neighborhood. Newark General is in a seedy part of town, and I wasn’t comfortable parking my Tesla in a place like this, valet service or not.
But with a big sigh, I gave in. What the hell, my dad was sixty-five, a busy, well-respected professional determined to work until his last day, and I might as well just say yes. We pulled into a public parking garage and the attendant’s eyes lit up when he saw my car. I sighed again.
“Take care of her okay?” I asked, handing him my keys. If I was lucky, he’d just take it for a quick spin and not a full-out drag race.
But when Lance and I showed up at Pulmonology Department, the receptionist directed us to the chapel on the second floor instead. “Your dad’s already there,” she said, her face giving nothing away.
Oh god. Probably a child had died and my dad wanted us to attend the wake, out of respect. I hated kid’s funerals, they’re ten times more depressing than an adult one, and we’d been to a few in the past.
My brother and I quietly made our way into the chapel and surprisingly, our dad was standing at the altar with a priest, no casket in sight.
“Hey Dad,” I said, giving him a hug. “What’s all this? I thought we were going for lunch.”
“How about McVittie’s?” threw in Lance.
My dad laughed. He’s a handsome man, even at sixty-five, and it’s easy to tell we’re related. All three of us are tall and athletic, although my dad’s shrunk somewhat with age, his posture slightly stooped.
“My boys are always thinking about food,” he chuckled jovially. “Pastor Vince, please meet my sons Logan and Lance, the non-stop eating machines of New Jersey.”
It was true. Growing up my brother and I had consumed enormous amounts of food, forcing our chef to go grocery shopping every day, and cooking had been one of the first skills we’d learned. I could make a make a mean steak, and Lance’s specialty was barbecue, complete with collard greens and corn.
But before we could confirm a lunch place, my dad spoke up.
“Logan, Lance, I’ve asked you here to be best men at my wedding,” he announced.
“What?” gawked Lance. I have to say that the expression on my face couldn’t have been any more flattering.
“You’re right in time to meet your new stepmom,” he whispered as the wedding march began playing, gesturing us to stand aside.
And like automatons, my brother and I took our place next to our father as the doors swung open … and there stood Kacey, from the Donkey Club.