Chapter 26
Colby
The Morgan family’s Sunday night dinner with Josh Faraday is over and done. As it turns out, Josh is an awesome guy, his Lamborghini and thousand-dollar shoes notwithstanding. As far as I could tell, Josh is sincere, funny, and intelligent. Far humbler than I expected him to be, probably due to his tragic childhood. And, man, did he make it abundantly clear he’s deeply in love with my little sister. And the icing on the cake? Right before dinner, after Dax had let all of us hear rough cuts of the first three songs on the album he’s been recording, Josh offered to send the tracks to that music-mogul buddy of his, Reed Rivers. As far as I was concerned, it was that precise moment when Josh earned “honorary Morgan brother” status in my book. I mean, obviously, I already knew the guy had impregnated my little sister, thereby reserving him a seat at our Thanksgiving table until the end of time. But, at least for me, a guy sticking his dick inside my sister without wearing a condom doesn’t a brother make. On the other hand, a guy wearing his heart on his sleeve about his love for my sister and offering to help my baby brother make his lifelong dreams come true? Well, now. That’s a guy who just went from being a sperm donor to family.
And now the evening is over and the house is quiet and empty, except for Dax and me. Josh and Kat left ten minutes ago, looking happy and relieved about how well both Josh and The Big Baby news were received tonight. Ryan left a couple minutes after Josh and Kat, saying he was headed to Olivia’s. Mom and Dad left right after Ryan to take Ralphie for a walk, probably wanting to talk in private about their only daughter’s shocking news.
And I’m just hanging, as usual. Specifically, I’m lying on my parents’ couch with my leg up and my arm in a sling, thinking about Lydia. Only tonight, rather than thinking about how much I want to fuck Lydia, or how beautiful she is when she laughs, all I can think about is why she’s never mentioned she’s got three kids. I’ve thought about it a lot and decided it’s not the existence of the kids themselves that bothers me. I like kids. If Lydia had done me the courtesy of telling me about her kids, I would have been down to meet them. A little bit scared? Yes. I admit that. But I certainly wouldn’t have run away, screaming. No, the thing that’s got me so freaked out about the whole thing is that I truly thought Lydia and I had been building something off-the-charts amazing this past month, that we were making a once-in-a-lifetime soul connection. But now I can’t help thinking maybe what I’ve been feeling is a projection brought on by painkillers and post-traumatic stress and the fact that every time I look at her, I imagine myself with my tongue lodged firmly between her legs.
“Ho-lee shit!” Keane exclaims loudly on Dax’s phone, drawing me out of my thoughts.
Due to some high-paying bachelorette party tonight, Keane didn’t make the big dinner. So now he’s getting the post-dinner scoop from Dax, who’s sitting next to me talking to Keane via video chat. From what I can tell from Keane’s image on Dax’s phone, our neon sheep appears to be sitting in his car, dressed in a black cowboy hat, vest, and a large sheriff’s badge.
“Yup,” Dax says. “Mom had a photo of you dancing in your G-string.”
“Oh, Jesus,” Keane says. “How’d she find out?”
Dax tells Keane what Mom told all of us at dinner tonight: that thanks to the adult daughter of one of her friends attending a recent bachelorette party, Mom now knows exactly how her second-to-youngest child makes his living—and it ain’t bartending, like he told her.
“Well, when the hell is she gonna tell me she knows?” Keane asks.
“She’s probably planning a surprise attack,” Dax says.
“Hey, Keane. Just so you know...” I pipe in, and Dax quickly adjusts his phone to capture my face on their video chat. “The three older kids voted not to tell you Mom found out. We thought it’d be funny to let Mom blindside you.”
“Bastards. Dax is the only one who had my back?”
“Yup.”
“Well, that’s not nice,” Keane says. “If any of you older kids were strippers and Mom found out about you, I’d totally tell you, brah.”
“Dude, at age thirteen, you told Mom your dick-and-balls doodle was a rocket at lift-off. You can handle Mom just fine without any kind of heads-up from any of us.”
Keane scowls at me again. “This is a tad bit bigger deal than selling a dirty doodle to a damsel, dude.” He sighs. “Well, thanks for the heads-up, Daxy. That’s why I love you the most. Colby?”
“Yeah?”
He smashes his nose right into the camera on his phone and says, “Fuck you.”
I laugh.
Keane pulls back again. “So anything else exciting happen at dinner tonight?”
Dax and I look at each other and smile.
“Not really,” Dax says. “Oh, wait. Yeah. There was one thing. Kat’s preggers.”
“What?”
“Yup.”
Keane goes uncharacteristically quiet. Finally, he says softly, “Is she gonna keep it?”
“Yeah.” Dax tells Keane the whole story and Keane listens intently, occasionally saying, “Whoa!” and “Oh my God.”
“I guess I’d better meet this Josh Faraday dude at some point, huh?” Keane says.
“Sure sounds like it,” Dax says.
“How far along is she?” Keane asks.
“Twelve weeks.”
“Hooooo-leeee shit,” Keane says, shaking his head. “Well, fair warning, dudes: the minute that kid is born, I’m gonna be gunning for top-uncle honors.”
“Is that so?” Dax says. “Uncle Peen is gonna be babysitting in between shaking his ass for dollah billz and smoking bowls?”
“I never said I’d babysit. I’m just gonna, you know, hang with the kid whenever Mom’s around to change its diapers and shit.” He glances at the dash of his car and his eyes go wide. “Oh, shit. I gotta fly, fuckers. Thanks for the intel, Little Brahito. It’s time for me to shake my ass for a room full of horny cowgirls.”
“Another bachelorette party?” Dax asks.
“Nope. Just finished one of those across town. Peen Star’s doing double duty tonight, pardner. Round Two of the rodeo? A Just-Got-Divorced Celebration with a bunch of MILFs. I got triple my usual fee. Yeehaw!”
“Watch yourself, Peenie Weenie,” Dax says. “Divorcees are notorious cougars.”
“I can only hope and pray you’re right about that, son.” He snickers. “Over and out, fellas. I’ll see you brothers from the same mother on the flipside. Peen Star out.” The call disconnects.
Dax plops his phone onto the coffee table in front of us. “I think Peen Star’s about to get laid by a divorcee.”
“Maybe even an entire pack of them,” I say.
Dax grimaces. “My brother is Deuce Bigalow.”
“He says his cock isn’t for sale. That it’s just for fun after he’s been paid for his actual services.”
“Oh, yeah, that sounds like an ironclad plan.”
“Ryan and I told him.”
Dax shakes his head. “Fucking Peen.”
“Fucking Peen.”
Dax pats my good leg. “So it’s just you and me tonight, dude. Keane’s off getting laid. Kum Shot’s off getting laid. Rum Cake’s off getting laid. And we’re sitting here watching Jimmy Kimmel.”
I motion to my bum leg and arm in a sling. “I know what my excuse is. What’s yours, Rock Star?”
Dax sighs. “Epic burn-out on the pointlessness of it all.”
“Pointlessness? Daxy, for God’s sake, you’re twenty. You can get laid literally any night of the week. And it’s already pointless?”
“Dude, I can get laid too easily these days. It’s actually kind of mind-fucking to have girls be that aggressive with me. And this is just the beginning. What’s gonna happen if 22 Goats takes off worldwide? We’ve just been playing local clubs and festivals and the pussy practically rains from the sky. I can’t imagine what it’s like for bands who play arenas and world tours. It’s got to be kind of soul-sucking in a weird way. We’re genetically built to have to work for it, at least a little bit.”
“You’re complaining about girls throwing themselves at you?”
“I’m not complaining. I’m just saying it’s a head trip, that’s all. I’ve got to consciously work at staying humble, you know? It’s hard not to get a little bit jaded when you say hello to a pretty girl and thirty seconds later she’s offering to suck your dick.”
“Okay, so you’re not into groupies. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that, Dax. You’ve always been a deep thinker. I mean, there’s nothing wrong with casual sex, but, yeah, it tends to get old for the thinking man.”
Dax bites his cheek. “I’m not saying I’ll never partake in the groupie dabble. I’m not a saint. But I’m feeling like my life is a room with a buffet featuring nothing but donuts these days, and no matter what I do, or which room I try to walk into, I keep getting escorted into that same room with all the damned donuts.”
“Any man would get sick of donuts if that’s all there was. Like I said, sounds normal to me.”
“Right? It’s not weird at all to occasionally say, ‘Gosh, thanks for all the donuts, universe, but, um, can I maybe get a big ol’ steak, once in a while? Maybe a loaded baked potato and some broccoli?”
“Not weird at all. I’ve been there myself. I’m no rock star, but, trust me, donuts definitely have a thing for firefighters. I’m surprised you’re already sick of donuts at twenty.”
“Dude. Again. Let me repeat. I’m not going cold turkey on donuts. I’m just saying they’re starting to bore me, and that’s making me question everything.”
“Great. Question everything. And then write a song about it.”
“I’m one step ahead of you, Master Yoda. Wrote the song last night.”
“Play it for me.”
“Yeah?”
“Of course.”
Dax leaps up, grabs his guitar across the room, and then plays me a song about a guy searching for love that takes my breath away.
“Amazing, Dax,” I say. “That right there is why I’m genuinely in awe of you.”
Dax beams at me. “Thanks, Bee.”
“One day, Baby Brother, the entire world’s gonna know how brilliant you are. Mark my words. You’re gonna be a star.”
Dax’s face flushes. “Thanks.” He puts his guitar down. “So what about you, Old Man? Have you met any steak and broccoli lately? I noticed you looking at your physical therapist in the hospital like she was a bone-in ribeye.”
“Bite your tongue, son. Lydia Decker is the finest filet mignon.”
“So you’re into her? Not my imagination?”
“I’m totally obsessed with her.”
“I’m not surprised. She’s hot as hell, man. And exactly your type.”
“Daxy, you’re a day late and a dollar short with this conversation. I already had the exact same one with Ryan, Peen, and Z the other night when you were in the kitchen playing cards with Kat and Mom and Dad.”
“That’s what you boys were talking about when you got stoned out of your minds? Ha! I knew it was something good. So what was the take-away? You’re going after her, I assume? Or is she already taken?”
I sigh. “Funny you should ask that. Honestly, I don’t know what the fuck is going on with Lydia at the moment. I just got some news about her that put me in a bit of a tailspin, actually.”
Dax leans back onto the couch. “Lay it on me, Big Brother.”
“It’s a long story.”
“I’ve got all night. As far as I’m concerned, the donut buffet is closed.”
I take a deep breath and launch into telling my baby brother The Story of Lydia, from beginning to end. “I’ve been really clear with her I’m gunning for her,” I say in wrap-up. “And she’s never once shut me down, other than to say we have to wait because of that policy thing. And then, boom. Kat drops the bomb on me the other day that Lydia’s got three kids she’s never told me about and now I don’t know what to think.”
Dax purses his lips for a long moment. “Okay, you want my best guess, Cheese?”
“Lay it on me, Rock Star.”
“It’s a shot in the dark. Just a hunch. But if I were a betting man, I’d say Lydia’s still legally married to the kids’ father.”
I feel like I’ve been punched in the gut. Just the thought sends my pulse racing. “No way,” I blurt. “She told me she’s single. She wouldn’t lie to me about that. She wouldn’t lie to me about anything.”
Dax smirks. “Not mentioning she’s got three kids after a month of listening to you talk about how much you love your dog isn’t kind of lying to you?”
My stomach churns. Shit.
“Think back, Cheese. Did you ask Lydia if she’s married or if she’s single?”
“The terms are mutually exclusive. You ask one, you get the answer to the other.”
“One would think. But maybe in this instance Lydia’s interpreting ‘single’ as ‘currently available because I’m separated from my husband.’ Maybe she thinks if she tells you about her kids, your next question will be ‘So what’s the deal with their father?’ And she doesn’t want to mention that part to you yet because she’s technically not single yet.”
My stomach flips over. Lydia once mentioned she’d been to therapy in the past and that it had helped her during a “tough time.” Was she referring to marriage counseling? Oh, Jesus. My head is spinning. I just don’t know what to think. Did she have all three kids with the same guy? And if so, what’s her relationship status with him? Has she been married? Is she friendly with the guy or is there some kind of drama there?
“Hey,” Dax says, having an epiphany. “Maybe her husband wants to get back together with her. Or maybe he’s a dickhead and they’re having a huge custody dispute and she wants to finalize the divorce with him before she dives into anything with anyone else. Maybe that’s why she’s been insisting on waiting for physical therapy to be over before you two dive in—she’s actually waiting for her divorce to get finalized.”
I bite the inside of my cheek and remain mute. Everything Dax said doesn’t sound like Lydia to me... but, then again, she’s got three kids and I had no idea... and those kids weren’t the product of immaculate conception.
“How long does it take to get a divorce?” Dax asks.
“I dunno. Google it. My laptop is over there.”
My baby brother grabs my laptop and immediately begins tapping something out on my keyboard. “Okay,” Dax says. “It typically takes anywhere from six weeks to twelve months for a divorce to finalize, depending on a bunch of factors.” He looks up from my screen. “One would think it’d take longer to finalize a divorce when you’ve got three kids, right? Whoa, maybe her husband was abusive.”
“Stop jumping to conclusions,” I say.
Dax shrugs. “Why else wouldn’t Lydia have told you about three kids? It’s got to be something like she’s got a restraining order on her ex.”
“Now you see why I’m so tortured right now. It’s definitely got to be something that’s kept her from telling me. But what?”
Dax taps on my keyboard again. “I’m gonna research the shit out of her for you, baby doll. What’s her last name?”
“Decker.”
“Lydia... Decker.” Dax taps on my keyboard again and quickly surmises Lydia’s not on Instagram, Facebook or any other social media platform. “Interesting,” he observes. Again, he taps on my keyboard and says, “Okay, I’m going old-school. Google. I’m searching ‘Lydia Decker, physical therapist, Seattle, children, divorce.’” When the search results pop up, Dax positions himself so we can both see my screen. “Anything look particularly interesting to you?” he asks.
I survey the preview panes for the various links and quickly surmise the first page of blurbs is about physical therapist Lydia Decker recently helping to organize a fundraiser for a children’s hospital last year in Seattle. “Go to the next page of results,” I command.
Dax clicks and scrolls... and then gasps. “Holy shit.”
I follow Dax’s pointed finger and my heart stops. He’s indicating a preview pane that reads:
Seattle police officer, Darren Decker, age 29, was shot and killed today while answering a domestic violence call in South Seattle. Officer Decker is survived by his wife, Lydia Decker, and their two children, Theodore, age 7, and Isabella, age 4.
I feel instantly dizzy. Sick to my stomach. And sick to my heart. “Lydia,” I breathe. Every cell in my body has instantly awakened with a ferocious urge to comfort and protect her. To love her.
Dax clicks on the link and tilts the screen and we both review the article in stunned silence. When I’m done reading the horrific words on my computer, I close my eyes, too overwhelmed with emotion to keep them open.
“Dax,” I whisper. “Oh my God. Poor Lydia.”
“Yeah, I know,” Dax says. “This is... horrible.”
I shake my head. “That beautiful woman’s been through fucking hell—the worst hell imaginable—and all this time, I had absolutely no idea.”