Shifting Gears
George
Her nails are a bit long, too long, like talons—well-kept but impractical. How does she tie her shoelaces? I quickly glance under the table and see Irene is wearing heels—three-inch heels on a brunch date are a bit much. I mean, I don’t mind heels digging into my back during sex. In fact, I might even enjoy it, but it’s only 9 a.m.
I go through my mental checklist—it’s a new checklist, not one I’ve used often. Before, it was all a short and shallow list that would apply for potential bedmates, but this new list will weed out any incompatible wife candidates.
Irene is cute, has a nice physique, looks after herself, and is naturally cheerful—very much the kind of girl I usually go for, but something isn’t quite gelling right now. The longer I sit here listening to her ramble on about her work drama, the more I start to think that I might be the problem in my search for a perma-companion.
I haven’t dated like this in ages, and now that I think about it, I haven’t “dated” anyone seriously since Ellie. Normally, I’d be at the bar looking for a little single serving of company for the night, but after seeing Charlie so happy—that is, happy by Charlie’s standards—something has shifted for me. If my social lepper of a little sister can find an awesome bloke like Sebastian, then even I should be able to find someone adequate. Right?
In all honesty, I haven’t felt this hopeful in a while. I feel ready to finally pull my head out of my ass, find my forever girl and grow roots, but if this date and the eight disasters that came before it are an indication of how things will pan out here, then I’m in trouble. Franny’s little sister, Sandra, set me up with this one. She’s helping me find a wife from among her friends.
I usually have rules against going anywhere near friends of the family, and the friends of friends— too much risk of unnecessary drama—but I like Sandra—I remember her being a good egg back when we used to live here. Since “you are who you hang with,” I thought that Irene would also be a good egg by association. Yeah, nah.
Maybe small-town girls aren’t my cup of tea. Yes, I sound like a prick, but I don’t care. I know myself well enough to know that in the long run, I need to be stimulated cerebrally, not just visually. I need someone well-traveled, with a bundle of life experience, maybe a college degree, someone who won’t let me steamroll all over them—someone feisty. I’m known to be a stubborn prick and think mighty highly of myself—it can’t be helped, not that I try very hard. Or at all.
Being almost a head taller than everyone around me means there are also physical compatibility issues to consider. I don’t mind smaller girls, but they feel so frail in my hands—I’m going to need some physically formidable, and when I look at Irene, I can tell she isn’t it—one trip to pound town, and she’d be covered in bruises.
As I continue to zone out from my date’s talking, I consider returning to Sydney, but I’ve done the rounds there, too. Maybe I should go somewhere new. I could head over to Detroit and find myself a cool car. Ah, who am I kidding? Charlie needs me here.
She’s been keeping the pregnancy thing on the down low and not telling anyone, most likely waiting the standard three months as our sisters-in-law did, but the moment she started limiting her coffee intake, it was obvious to me she was up the duff. That and Gosia has the worst poker face I’ve ever seen in my life.
This morning, when I was about to leave for this disaster of a date, I asked Gosia whether she thought Charlie would have a boy or a girl. She was stupefied for a good moment before she figured me out, but it was already too late. When you grow up with a brick wall for a little sister, you get good at reading the tiniest of expressions. Gosia narrowed her eyes and wagged her finger at me before returning to whatever she was doing.
That was all the confirmation I needed. I, for one, hope it’s a girl—we have far too many boys in the family.
I look at Irene with the intention of asking her a follow-up question about the little clothing boutique she owns. At this point, her small business is the only interesting thing about her, but at that moment, I just realized how much I didn’t care. God damn it, when did I become such a fucking asshole.
“Do you want kids?” I suddenly blurt out. Let’s cut to the chase.
Irene looks stumped by my sudden, off-topic question, but time is my most valuable asset. If I’m going to nail down a woman ASAP, I can’t listen to her waffle on about irrelevant matters for another twenty minutes if she’s not interested in kids. It’s an instant dealbreaker—I want them, and I don’t want to change anyone’s mind to hop on the baby bandwagon—it’s a big commitment.
“Sure, maybe one day in the future, when I’m thirty, thirty-five,” she leans on her hand and smiles.
She looks young, I should double-check how far off that might be. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-three. What about you, do you want kids?”
“I want at least six, kinda now-ish.”
She snickers, but her smile slowly begins to fade when she realizes I’m being 100% serious.
I point from her to me. “This isn’t going to work. We’re not on the same book, let alone the same page.”
To my pleasant surprise, Irene shrugs casually. “Fair enough. Want to come over to my place?”
It’s tempting, but I’m trying to keep my nose clean. “How does one politely decline an invitation for sex without insulting someone? Thank you, but I think I’m going through a bit of an emotionally awkward phase right now and don’t think it wise to participate in such activities.”
Irene pouts dramatically. “You have the reputation of being the best lay in town, and now that it’s finally my time to take you out for a spin, you turn into a prude?”
Ah, shit, I’ve turned myself into the village bicycle, and now everyone wants to go for a ride. I’ve clearly forgotten just how chatty small towns can be. Great forethought, George. No woman here will take you seriously now. You’re officially this town’s man-whore.
Irene grabs her bag and starts saying her farewells, but I’m already checked out and too distracted by the peculiar scene unfolding in the street behind her. A yellow digger, covered in crazy-looking, cartoon graffiti bombs, pulls up outside the café, with Angela and my sister Charlie handing off the sides.
I watch, confused, as they jump off the digger and enter the café, with Angela, who practically dances circles around Charlie, talking nonstop at her. Looking at Chucky, you’d think she was suffering greatly and plotting ways to end her existence, but to me, she looks happy. The change has been incredible.
When she landed in the hospital, all thanks to that asshole, Mark, the brothers, and I had a hard time coming to terms with the fact we let that happen to our little Chucky. We all accept that Charlize is an adult who can make her own decisions, but we all thought she would have at least mentioned something, especially to me. I could have done something to get her out of there, but the stubborn clam just had to handle it “her way.”
Charlize glares at Irene as she approaches my table. Irene is visibly uncomfortable with the prolonged eye contact as they pass one another, and gives Charlie a wide berth.
Charlie sits opposite me. “What was wrong with that one?”
“She only wanted me for my schlong,” I grumbled, reaching for my coffee.
Charlie rolled her eyes without actually rolling them. “Gross.”
Angela comes over to our table after ordering a few takeaway coffees. “Charlie, I’m grabbing a sammich. You want one?”
“No, I’ll have a sandwich, please,” Charlie mumbles.
I look up at Angela. “Angela, dude, run away with me. Leave Mason behind, and let’s get hitched in Las Vegas by Elvis.” I wiggle my brows for an extra layer of smart-aleck douchery.
Charlie goes to smack me, but her strikes are getting predictable, and I easily dodge her hand.
“Nothing but air, Chucky. You’re off your game.”
“Angie is off limits,” Charlie says flatly.
“Yeah, plus I’m an ecstatically married woman with babies on the way,” Angela says, shuffle dancing her way back to the counter with a goofy smile on her face, no doubt to order her sandwiches.
I should have come here sooner—Angela’s always been an awesome girl, and now she’s a badass builder in teeny, short shorts and oversized boots. Hot.
“Stop looking at her like that,” Charlie threatens, “Mason’s already onto you.”
“Chuck, I have no interest in stealing anyone’s wife,” I say, looking outside at the badass digger still parked outside.
My eyes land on the digger’s driver, who moments ago went unnoticed, purely because when my eyes first glossed over their giant build, I naturally assumed they were a man. Now that I look again, I catch her removing her oversized builder’s shirt to reveal the body that lies buried beneath—that’s all woman right there, and I can tell from here that she’s a tall one.
The woman leans forward, holding her phone to her ear while talking rapidly, looking away in the opposite direction. I can’t tell what color her hair is under that hard hat of hers, but one thing is loud and clear: she’s Italian—the way her hands move as she speaks screams louder than words ever could.
“She’s off limits too,” I look at my grump of a sister, who glares at me with the intention to kill.
“Who is that?” I ask.
“Nobody.”
“Tell me.”
“No, she’s mine, you can’t have her.”
I smirk, more intrigued by the second. Charlie shoots to her feet, points to her eyes, and back at me before following Angela to the exit.
“Off limits,” Charlie mouths, threateningly dragging her finger across her neck as she heads out the door.
“Bye, George,” Angela says on the way out, and I watch as they climb up the digger.
I still can’t make out the driver’s face, but if Charlie is marking her turf so fiercely, I guess I’ll have to back off—us Anderson kids made an agreement not to mess with each other’s friends, but I’m the only unattached sibling, and therefore the only one left playing by those rules.
As Angela hands the driver a coffee, I manage to sneak a peek at her smile from under that hat of hers, and I get the sudden feeling that I’m going to be looking for loopholes in our agreement in the very near future.
“Oh, shit,” I mumble, and suddenly, the urge to follow them completely overwhelms all logical thoughts.
I pay the bill as quickly as possible, and when I finally make it outside, I see the digger has stopped further up the road. Angie climbs off to talk to someone. Perfect, I’ll have time to catch up.
I’ll follow the digger and pester my perky little sister about her new builder friend. I mean, it’s not as if I have anything else to do today. I get into my hired car and drive in the direction they went. The digger is faster than expected, but I catch up without a problem.
Angela hangs off the side, waving to people as they holler at her—she’s mighty popular around here. She waves like the winner in some sort of Twilight Zone, builder chicks, pageant parade.
I see Charlie watching me like a hawk with that scornful, unimpressed look in her eyes. I can’t help but laugh as she narrows her eyes at me.
“Next time, just give me a name to go off, and we won’t have to play these games, Chucky,” I say, fully knowing she can’t hear me, yet somehow, I think she got the gist because she flips me off.
The digger takes a right, and I follow at a safe distance until a truck starts backing out of a driveway, cutting me off momentarily. No matter, I can see the site they’re working on for the day, where the digger disappears into a driveway about a block away.
I park my rental across the street from the house where the digger is parked and notice Charlie and Angela sitting casually on the digger, eating their sandwiches and sipping their coffees.
I walk over and stand next to them, taking in the sight before me—the old house has been gutted from all its doors and windows, with areas taped off to limit access. A few guys toss some last bits and pieces into a nearby skip before mingling outside.
“Why do I vaguely remember this house?” I finally ask.
“It was Fiona, the cat lady’s house,” Angela explains with a mouth full of food.
“Right, yeah…she has that messed-up cat with two legs and one eye,” I recall.
“That’s the one,” Angela says before biting into her sandwich, “Mr. Pickles.”
“She died,” Charlie adds flatly before her lips curl into the tiniest, most sinister smirk. “The cats started to eat her fingertips before they found her.”
“Gross,” I mumbled.
We loitered there for a good five minutes before I lost hope in sneaking another peek at my mystery digger driver. Everyone here seems to be waiting for something to happen. It was then I noticed the crew working on the house isn’t a renovation crew, but a demo crew—they’re all wearing the same shirts with the same whacky logo on the back—it’s a smiling, cartoon graffiti bomb like the one’s sprayed onto the digger, with the words “Frankie’s Demo Team, Let’s Wreck Some $#!+” and a phone number.
“Why is the house being demolished? Looks to be in good nick.” I ask.
“The new owners want to put in a big basement,” Angela says, finishing her sandwich and crumpling up the paper bag it came in.
I look at Charlie. “What are we waiting for exactly?”
“A boom,” she mutters.
“Oh, sick, I like booms,” I say as I slip my hands into my pockets.
I finally spot who I suspect is my mystery digger driver chatting to some guy, her hand casually resting on a sledgehammer. She turns her head, letting her braided hair slip from her front to hang down her back.
Red.
Her hair is red.
That’s a severe problem for me—redheads have been my weakness since the incident with the mailbox.
Whatever boom we were waiting for must have gone off, and I’ve just died and gone to heaven.
The woman must feel me gawking at her because she looks my way over her shoulder and shoots me a mischievous smirk that seems to grab me by the hair and slam my face into the ground. I see it all now; my whole future flashes before me as those green eyes hammer the final nail in my coffin—she’s my wife, pregnant, and two little tykes already run about with a couple of Blue Heelers herding the kids.
Well, fuck.
I’m done for, she’s it.
She’s the one.
I had dreams like this once before—once. When those dreams were shattered, I kept my feet firmly planted on the ground. Now, along comes Red and shakes the very ground I stand on, challenging everything.
George likey.
Georgie want.
