I shot him a courteous smile. “You can wait.”
“Or they can go,” he countered. “A deal is a deal, and I may be a bad businessman, but like every Fitzpatrick, I don’t take lightly to being fucked over.”
In my periphery, Emmabelle cleared her throat and began to collect her things. Persy did the same, and Aisling hurried to the kitchen to empty her wine glass in the sink and rinse it. I wondered what they were thinking. How badly I was going to get grilled for this scene? I didn’t know why Hunter was so careless in implying we should sleep together. There were three eyewitnesses here. All of them could potentially sell us out. I knew my friends were trustworthy and would never do it. But he didn’t.
Prickly, defiant, and tired of the tiny paper cuts in my heart, I jerked my chin up. He couldn’t keep pushing me around. I was, after all, his keeper.
“My friends are staying,” I said icily. “Feel free to treat yourself to a cold shower if you can’t handle the heat.” I turned around, marched to the sofa, and restarted Sex and the City. I could feel the contemplative gazes scorching my face. I put on my don’t-screw-with-me expression and all three of my friends scooted onto the couch next to me, though they looked more like prisoners than willing participants.
“Hmm… Hi, Hunt. Mom says she’s tried calling you all week,” Aisling mumbled, her eyes glued to her lap.
Hunter ignored her, still setting me on fire with his eyes.
“Hey, Fitzpatrick.” Emmabelle crossed her ankles on our coffee table, making herself comfortable. “Looking good in a three-piece. Boss?”
“Please,” he huffed, looking down at her. “Do I look broke? Brioni.”
“Wow.” Emmabelle whistled low, and for some reason, I was pathetically ecstatic to find Hunter was completely immune to the charms of my gorgeous, stylish friend. “You’re even more of a dickhead than the rumors let on.”
“Dick is the operative word,” he grumbled, stomping his way to his room, his eyes still on me. “With no one to appreciate it.”
That was my cue to turn tomato red and wish upon him every excruciating death recorded on Earth. As soon as Hunter was out of earshot, all eyes snapped back to me.
“Can I say something before everyone bombards you with their two cents?” Aisling raised her hand timidly, like we were in a classroom.
“No,” I shot out at the same time Persy and Emmabelle said yes.
She cleared her throat, rearranging herself on my Hunter’s couch.
“I love my brother dearly. He is actually a terrific person when you get to know him. People judge him by the headlines he makes, but I know him as the guy who comes visiting every holiday with presents and hugs and funny stories about his life. But…Sailor, he is a player. He makes you think you’re the center of his world without even meaning to, then disappears when he gets bored and tired of you. And he always gets bored and tired of women. I’ve seen him parading no less than twenty-three dates in the years he studied in California. He brought a new girl home each vacation—sometimes going through them in the course of hours, like they were underwear. I will never tell my parents about you two. It is not my business to tell. However…” She looked away, out the window, so I couldn’t read her face.
What was she hoping to hide? Pity? Secondhand embarrassment?
She shook her head. “All I’m saying is, remember it’s just for the time being. I’d like to think that one day, Hunter will find his lobster. But at nineteen, it’s unlikely it will be anytime soon.”
Silence fell over us as we considered what Aisling had just said.
“Lobsters don’t mate for life,” I blurted, and everyone looked at me in confusion. I poured the remainder of the wine into a glass, bringing it to my mouth with a shrug. “Sorry, but Friends isn’t the most reliable source for general knowledge. Phoebe, in particular, always seemed like a loose cannon to me. Anyway, lobsters do not, in fact, mate for life. Actually, the dominant male lobster mates with an entire harem of female lobsters in a series of flings that lasts approximately two weeks. Basically, lobsters are not like swans or penguins. They are not monogamous. They are the douchebags of the animal kingdom—the ones who vomit into people’s shoes during frat parties after losing bets and own several Instagram accounts. If there ever were an animal deserving of being boiled alive, shrieking in horror, to atone for its sins, it would be the lobster. Not that I absolve this kind of behavior toward lobsters. They, too, are people, after all.” I finished with a lame joke, as if the entire monologue wasn’t mental-institution-worthy enough.
They stared silently. I supposed they were asking themselves what in the ever-loving God I was talking about. Why wasn’t I getting to the point of Hunter and me? I decided to wrap it up, gulping down the wine and placing the empty glass on the coffee table.
“So, I guess what I’m trying to say is, Hunter is a lobster. I know that. Rest assured, Aisling, if I ever found myself in a state of temporary insanity and decided to take your brother as a lover, I would be sure to remember he is not the marrying kind.”
It took Persy, Emmabelle, and Aisling a few beats of silence to collect themselves. After that, Emmabelle was the first to speak.
“Snap, bitch. You caught feelings for him.”
Persy covered her mouth with her ringed hand. “Poor Sailor. This is beyond curable. Did you hear that monologue? She is legit a goner.”