He gives my sister a crooked grin. “Hi, Mrs. R.”
Alexandra smiles. “Hi, Johnny.” Then she turns toward our parents. “Mom, Dad, you remember Johnny Fitzgerald from downstairs? He’s kindly offered his services this weekend to help keep the little ones entertained.”
Johnny Fitzgerald. Sound familiar? Think back, way back.
I’ll give you a minute to flex the old memory.
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Remember the foolish, misguided preschooler who told Mackenzie that penises were better than baginas, a lifetime ago? Yep— that Johnny Fitzgerald.
He lives one floor down. Ever since preschool, he and Mackenzie have been connected at the hip. His dad’s an old-money asshole—his mom’s a functioning alcoholic. Alexandra has him over as often as possible so he can gain exposure to a normal family unit.
Mackenzie pokes her finger at Johnny. “You can help—but you have to do what I say. I’m in charge.”
I throw a smirk my sister’s way. “Boy, does that sound familiar.”
On cue, James squawks from the corner. “Mine! Is mine!”
Alexandra lifts an eyebrow. “So does that. Must be genetic.”
Then Mackenzie and Johnny’s newest battle of the sexes begins. “Hold on a second, Kenzie,” he says. “I should be in charge. I’m a boy and they’re boys.”
“So?”
“So, I can show them how to do things you can’t.”
My niece’s hands fall to her hips, imitating my sister’s stance perfectly. Talk about genetics. “Like what?”
“I can show them to throw a baseball.”
“So can I.”
“I can play cars with them.”
Mackenzie scoffs, “So can I.”
Johnny goes in for the kill. “I can show them how to pee standing up.”
There’s a heavy pause. Mackenzie frowns.
Johnny starts to think he’s won. So young, so dumb.
Until Mackenzie smiles. Triumphantly. “They wear diapers—they don’t use the toilet yet.”
Johnny lowers his head in submission. Might as well get used to it now, kid. “Okay—you can be in charge.”
Mackenzie smiles wider. Then she taps her fingers together, not unlike Mr. Burns from The Simpsons . “Excellent.”
Chapter 4
T en minutes later, Jack O’Shay shows up. He’s wearing a smart, light blue button-down and casual slacks. His red hair is cut short and gelled within an inch of its life. Jack’s the last of my single friends. The lone wolf. A desperado. He’s still living the life I always thought I’d have. Spontaneous. Irresponsible. Uninhibited. He takes great pleasure in ragging on us about all the great nights—and wild snatch—we’re missing out on.
Not going to lie; I get a kick out of his stories—because I remember how much fun a random hookup can be. But I wouldn’t trade places with him in a million years. The grass doesn’t get any greener then Kate Brooks.
We’re all gathered in the kitchen now, where my mom and sister have laid out a continental breakfast. Jack chews on a fresh-baked croissant and chats with my mother. “You’re looking lovely as always, Mrs. Evans.”
She giggles like a cheerleader talking to the star quarterback. Ewww. “Thank you, Jack. That’s sweet of you to say.”
“Just being honest. Now tell me—how often do you get mistaken for the nanny when you’re out with these little guys? ’Cause there’s no way anyone would believe you’re a grandma.”
It sounds like he’s coming on to my mom, but he’s not. When you’re a player, this is just how you talk—to all women. Remember that the next time some hotshot is dazzling you with his verbal diarrhea. You’re not special—he doesn’t mean it. It’s just his nature.
My father doesn’t seem to appreciate this fact, however. See how he moves closer to my mom? How he scowls in Jack’s direction? “Don’t talk to my wife, O’Shay.”
Jack instantly sobers and steps back. “Yes, sir.”
“Don’t look at her, either.”
“No, sir.”
My old man may be getting on in
Alexandra smiles. “Hi, Johnny.” Then she turns toward our parents. “Mom, Dad, you remember Johnny Fitzgerald from downstairs? He’s kindly offered his services this weekend to help keep the little ones entertained.”
Johnny Fitzgerald. Sound familiar? Think back, way back.
I’ll give you a minute to flex the old memory.
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
Remember the foolish, misguided preschooler who told Mackenzie that penises were better than baginas, a lifetime ago? Yep— that Johnny Fitzgerald.
He lives one floor down. Ever since preschool, he and Mackenzie have been connected at the hip. His dad’s an old-money asshole—his mom’s a functioning alcoholic. Alexandra has him over as often as possible so he can gain exposure to a normal family unit.
Mackenzie pokes her finger at Johnny. “You can help—but you have to do what I say. I’m in charge.”
I throw a smirk my sister’s way. “Boy, does that sound familiar.”
On cue, James squawks from the corner. “Mine! Is mine!”
Alexandra lifts an eyebrow. “So does that. Must be genetic.”
Then Mackenzie and Johnny’s newest battle of the sexes begins. “Hold on a second, Kenzie,” he says. “I should be in charge. I’m a boy and they’re boys.”
“So?”
“So, I can show them how to do things you can’t.”
My niece’s hands fall to her hips, imitating my sister’s stance perfectly. Talk about genetics. “Like what?”
“I can show them to throw a baseball.”
“So can I.”
“I can play cars with them.”
Mackenzie scoffs, “So can I.”
Johnny goes in for the kill. “I can show them how to pee standing up.”
There’s a heavy pause. Mackenzie frowns.
Johnny starts to think he’s won. So young, so dumb.
Until Mackenzie smiles. Triumphantly. “They wear diapers—they don’t use the toilet yet.”
Johnny lowers his head in submission. Might as well get used to it now, kid. “Okay—you can be in charge.”
Mackenzie smiles wider. Then she taps her fingers together, not unlike Mr. Burns from The Simpsons . “Excellent.”
Chapter 4
T en minutes later, Jack O’Shay shows up. He’s wearing a smart, light blue button-down and casual slacks. His red hair is cut short and gelled within an inch of its life. Jack’s the last of my single friends. The lone wolf. A desperado. He’s still living the life I always thought I’d have. Spontaneous. Irresponsible. Uninhibited. He takes great pleasure in ragging on us about all the great nights—and wild snatch—we’re missing out on.
Not going to lie; I get a kick out of his stories—because I remember how much fun a random hookup can be. But I wouldn’t trade places with him in a million years. The grass doesn’t get any greener then Kate Brooks.
We’re all gathered in the kitchen now, where my mom and sister have laid out a continental breakfast. Jack chews on a fresh-baked croissant and chats with my mother. “You’re looking lovely as always, Mrs. Evans.”
She giggles like a cheerleader talking to the star quarterback. Ewww. “Thank you, Jack. That’s sweet of you to say.”
“Just being honest. Now tell me—how often do you get mistaken for the nanny when you’re out with these little guys? ’Cause there’s no way anyone would believe you’re a grandma.”
It sounds like he’s coming on to my mom, but he’s not. When you’re a player, this is just how you talk—to all women. Remember that the next time some hotshot is dazzling you with his verbal diarrhea. You’re not special—he doesn’t mean it. It’s just his nature.
My father doesn’t seem to appreciate this fact, however. See how he moves closer to my mom? How he scowls in Jack’s direction? “Don’t talk to my wife, O’Shay.”
Jack instantly sobers and steps back. “Yes, sir.”
“Don’t look at her, either.”
“No, sir.”
My old man may be getting on in
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