Then He Happened Read online

  I smile blankly. There’s no reason to tell him that it’s just another fucking rumor. My brother doesn't like to share. I walk Mr. Smith toward the exit where I shake his hand one more time, pat his shoulder, and watch him as he leaves.

  I sigh when he’s out of sight. Biggest fucking deal of the year and it went smoothly. I hope. We’ll see if that holds up after he looks over the contract.

  Jason Spearman: Send the Smith contract. He’s on board.

  Fitz Everhart: It’s almost midnight.

  Jason Spearman: Oops, I didn’t notice. Goodnight.

  I grin after I hit send and put away my phone. I head back toward the bar to go talk up that redhead who's been driving me crazy for the past couple of hours. I want a taste of her.

  She leans forward when I get to her. Her palms rest on the wood bar, as a bartender sets a martini glass in front of her — two olives held by a toothpick float in the clear liquid.

  “Evening,” I say to no one in particular and then signal the bartender. “Give me your top shelf scotch on the rocks.”

  I give the redhead a subtle smile.

  “Hey there,” she says, a hint of a grin shows on her plump lips. “I was wondering how long it was going to take you to come and join me.”

  I slide onto the stool next to her, finally looking at her. Her emerald eyes stare at me hungrily. I’m interested enough that despite the blatant invitation I can see in her eyes, an invitation that would normally diminish her appeal, it doesn’t turn me off.

  Once the bartender serves my drink, I raise my glass to her in a silent toast, then I toss it back in one swallow. She flashes a smile, following suit but only taking a sip of her drink. I can appreciate that.

  “You waited a long time while,” I state, signaling the bartender for another drink. “I feel like I owe you something.”

  She licks her lips, takes her purse with her, and motions toward the back of the restaurant. “My place is near.” She dangles a pair of keys. “Let me go and freshen up before we head out.”

  I tap my second glass of scotch. “I’ll be waiting.”

  As she saunters away, I watch her luscious curves. My gaze stops when I spot a table close to the bar where an older couple is getting ready to leave.

  He’s helping her with her coat. I wonder how long they’ve been together. If they’ve always been this happy. If they ever ripped each other apart so bad they didn’t come back together quite the same way.

  I wonder if he ever came home to an empty house and whether or not he wondered if she’d ever come back to him.

  What was it about her that made him believe that love exists?

  “Ready?” Red says, standing right beside me. I have no idea when she got back or how long I’ve been staring at these people.

  “Have been since the moment I saw you,” I say, not really to her. But if she hears and assumes I mean her.

  Who am I to spoil her fun?

  Her eyes crinkle.

  This is the part where she says something charming and I think, hey, maybe she’s something special. Until I’m on a bed somewhere balls deep in her tight pussy wondering what I should have for lunch tomorrow.

  When did sex get so tedious?

  I look at the old couple again. After eight fucking years, it finally sinks in. I don’t think I ever had the kind of relationship that outlasts a marriage with Greta.

  We Spearmans are fucking unlucky when it comes to love. Greta made sure I didn’t break that tradition. But thank fuck, I didn’t have to go any farther than the altar she left me on.

  3

  Jason

  “What the ever-loving fuck happened to your furniture?” I ask when I walk into my brother's penthouse.

  Jack’s apartment used to ooze filthy-rich-business-mogul with more bare surfaces and black and white exteriors than the fucking Antarctic.

  But for the past few months, every time I walk in here, it’s like a progress photo on Extreme Makeover “Whipped” Edition.

  It looks like a painting from the 40s was hit by a semi-truck of cat toys.

  “Did your couch get eaten by the ghost of Christmas yikes?” I ask. I swear next time I show up, I’ll be tripping over trains or blocks or whatever kids play with each other now. I shudder.

  “Ramen and Sushi scratched the couches. Emmeline used that as an excuse to replace the living room,” he says.

  “I’m so sorry he did this to you,” I lament to the memory of his bachelor pad.

  He groans next to me, but I don’t give a fuck. We used to be so alike, and now, he’s another poor sap lost to the futility of settling down.

  Where’s my wingman when I need him?

  Nesting, with some petite, curvy, snarling woman who has him hypnotized like a roadside attraction.

  “I thought she wasn’t moving in,” I say.

  Speak of the devil, Emmeline, Jack’s girlfriend, walks in laughing. I wish I could say that I hate her, but she’s not terrible. I’d go as far to say she’s funny and kind, and socially aware in ways that make up for my brother’s ineptitude.

  “Good morning, Jason,” she says with a bright tone that should be illegal. “To answer your question, no, we aren’t living together.”

  “Sure you aren’t,” I say sarcastically. “Your furballs are taking over the penthouse.”

  “Like me, my kittens like to stay overnight,” she says as she smirks at me. “Often.”

  “Our kittens,” Jack says and then takes her into his arms and kisses her deeply.

  Because of course he would. Obviously, they live in a movie where the side character, me, doesn’t mind awkwardly standing there while they swap spit.

  “Any day now,” I hum.

  “We're looking for a house,” Jack says when they pull away. “When we find it, you'll be the first one to receive the news that we moved in together. She stays nightly because I’m kind of irresistible.”

  “So, I’m irresistible?” I ask Emmeline jokingly.

  It is fun driving her crazy because that drives Jack crazy. That way, everyone’s annoyed. I’m judicious that way.

  She gives me a once over and shakes her head. “You two barely look alike. Your hair is lighter, your eyes are too for that matter, and you’re shorter.”

  “By half an inch,” I protest. “And I’m stronger than him.” I flex and puff my chest for dramatic effect.

  She waves at me dismissively. “You’ll find your other half one day, Jason. Stop pestering me.”

  “Aw, come on, where’s the fun Em with unending patience and a good sense of humor? We have fun here, remember?”

  In all fairness, I may be pushing my luck. We may or may not have met because I tried to catcall her to piss off my brother. Boy did she rip me a new one after that.

  She shrugs. “If you say so.”

  Yep, I’m definitely pushing my luck.

  I could be less of a playful dick, but ever since I left San Francisco to be closer to Jack a year ago, they’re the only family I see regularly. I have to capitalize on who I’ve got for as long as I’ve got.

  So, if that means Em is eternally unamused by my bullshit, that’s fine. As long as I keep getting invited to brunch.

  “Coffee or latte?” Em asks from the kitchen, pulling me out of my thoughts.

  “Espresso?” I ask hopefully.

  She nods. “I heard you had a sleepover this week.”

  Fuck. Josselyn. She can’t keep her mouth shut.

  “You can’t prove anything,” I say defensively.

  Em rolls her eyes. “Assistants talk, Jason. I just happen to get the 4-1-1 because I’m a fun boss.”

  “I need a new assistant,” I complain.

  “What you need is to get your act together,” Emmeline says and looks over at Jack who’s glaring at her.

  See? That’s what I’m talking about. They have their dumb, secret love language that I get shut out of, and it’s only a matter of time before they start using their eyebrows to pick movies without me.
/>
  “Fine,” she finally says to Jack. “I’ll keep my opinions to myself. He can do whatever he wants with his life.”

  I restrain myself from groaning audibly. This is how it’s been since they started dating. They’re so bored in their happy ending they keep meddling in my life. There’s nothing too big, or too small, in my life for them to want to change.

  Well, it’s Em who does it.

  Some days, I wonder if she’s just speaking for Jack? Why the fuck do they even care?

  It’s not like I tell them to stop fucking around the office.

  It feels like a punch in the stomach, seeing how in sync they are. I’m glad my brother found someone who loves him. He deserves it after that fucking bitch who broke his spirit.

  In fact, seeing them together makes me think coupling isn’t as terrible as I make it sound. But then I remind myself that that’s not who I am. And if I ever have reason to doubt that, I just recall the day I was left at the altar.

  Fuck. I run a hand through my hair. I need a week away from their lovefest with someone exponentially more fun—or some people like that.

  “Speaking of which.” I clear my throat. “Can I borrow the house in Steamboat?”

  Emmeline sets a platter of fruit on the table and looks at me shaking her head.

  “Stop judging me,” I say. “My body, my choices.”

  “Em,” Jack says, shaking his head.

  She mimes zipping her lips before sitting down. I’m impressed that she keeps quiet.

  And she does. Until halfway through brunch when she just has to say—

  “I’m just saying that if you continue with the string of meaningless hookups, you’ll never find what you need.”

  Jack snorts, and I roll my eyes.

  She can’t keep her opinions to herself, can she?

  “Almost ten years ago, this guy was telling me to live, and now his better half is telling me to stop.” I wave my hand around. “Make up your minds, people. I’m happy. Take it or leave it.”

  “Keep telling yourself that,” she insists.

  So what if sometimes I wonder what it’d be like to find a woman who makes me grin like an idiot, the way Em does with Jack? It doesn’t matter.

  Been there, done that, got the t-shirt.

  Emmeline is the exception to the Spearman rule. I’m fine just the way my life is.

  I look at both of them, rub my chest, and sigh.

  Yep, I’m fine. Who needs this?

  4

  Eileen

  The woman’s mouth keeps moving. I tuned out a while ago... but I can’t stop focusing on how weird her lips smack together. They aren’t paying me enough for this. I’m ready to jump out the damn window into a garbage truck.

  I swear, I spend thirty minutes during every session just listening to her rant about one thing or another. Listen, I love my job. It’s just some of the parents of my patients... not so much.

  “Working with teens and adults with special needs is rewarding,” they said.

  “You’ll love everything about it,” they lied.

  No one warned me about the guardians who think they know everything.

  “...You’re doing it wrong,” she finally gets to her point. “There’s a better brand of therapeutic tape.”

  She walks to her coffee table and returns with the most expensive brand of tape on the market. I sigh.

  “They use this in the Olympics,” she explains, shoving the tape in my face. “What you’re using isn’t right and, according to the YouTube channel, you should be applying it from top to bottom.”

  I don’t get paid enough to deal with parents like her. How is it that I work for a woman who lives in a high-end neighborhood and can afford to spend more money on magazines than I spend on groceries?

  If I wanted to work with assholes like her, I’d be in a private practice.

  “Are you listening to me?” she asks, as her flesh turns a red crimson as her anger and frustration grows. The vein on her temple is about to burst. Her green eyes are on me. “I’ll be calling your supervisor about this.”

  I roll my eyes before staring her down. I’m ten weeks past done with her bullshit. “It’s not about the tape. It’s all about how you apply it. Let me explain to you again how it’s done.”

  She picks up her phone and turns on the camera. “I’ll be recording it. But I think you’re wrong. Are you sure you’re a trained professional?”

  No, I just printed the credentials of my fucking hundred-thousand-dollar college degree from some website. I just throw money to a tuition loan company for fun.

  Does she honestly think just anyone can get a job as a therapist?

  I look around the living room—of the second floor of her fucking mansion—and say, “Are you sure you can’t afford private therapy?”

  She scrunches her nose and looks me over weirdly before she says, “I’m ready.”

  Well, I’m glad we understand each other, lady.

  I begin to apply the tape on her son’s back to retrain his posture. Jim is a sweet guy. He’s almost twenty and is Autistic. I wish there were more resources for him, or that she would spend a little more money helping him.

  Regardless, I just hate that she’s always judging me while I work.

  Rumor has it that she has run off at least seven therapists. No one wants to deal with her. The only reason I’m here is because I need the money. If I had the luxury of choosing my own hours, I’d be somewhere else.

  “This isn’t the way that the guy in the YouTube video does it,” she says as I finish.

  “Let’s try this way first and see how that works,” I suggest tightly.

  I’m not going to give her my damn credentials. I have a doctorate in physical therapy. I can’t deal with her constant condescension, but I also can’t burn this bridge any time soon, or possibly ever.

  “Next week, I think we should go to the park,” I say. “Work on his coordination.”

  “You’re an at-home therapist,” she argues.

  “I understand that. But unfortunately, you don’t have the equipment that I need. The stuff I have in my car is for small children.”

  She rolls her eyes. What is she? Twelve? “Fine, but I’ll be with you. He can’t be alone with a stranger.”

  “Of course,” I say, grabbing my tote bag and wave at her son, Jim, waiting for him to wave back. “See you next week, Jimbo.”

  He gives me a wide smile and walks toward his room.

  “I’m starting a practice with a friend,” one of my classmates says. Presley? Paisley? It’s one of those names. “My father is paying for the initial cost. You know…”

  I tune out how her professional and personal career will be more gratifying than mine. I’d like to title this moment as, How to Tell Your Life Sucks.

  “Well, I’m still nervous about my future,” says another guy. “My employer promised a raise, but what if he fires me instead?”

  “We’re in high demand,” another person says. “Everyone needs a physical therapist, a speech therapist, or a special ed teacher. My sister, who studied psychology, applied for a graduate degree that allows her to work as an applied behavioral therapist.”

  Everyone is congratulating each other about their careers and the stacks of money they’ll be making once they graduate. No one’s thinking about their patients.

  This is depressing. Why’d I agree to have lunch with these leeches? I’m not a hermit, but let’s be honest, I don't exactly mingle with my cohorts. My schedule is tight. Either I’m at school or working with one of my patients.

  My options are to leave my current job and search for a practice that would pay me double or keep giving services to people who depend on the government to provide therapists. I’ll stick to the latter as long as my savings can justify my morals.

  My older sister says I’m an idealist, that I should be a lot more practical. I’m twenty-six and still as lost as I was when I started college.

  But what’s the alternative?
/>   Am I supposed to be hopping on the capitalistic wheel where everyone is just rushing through some unfulfilled career that pays decent but sucks the life out of them?

  In an ideal world, things would be different. I can’t save everyone and can’t do much on my own with the salary I make or could even potentially make. Which is why I do my best by working for low-income people who can’t afford to send their children to therapy.

  It’s obvious that my income won’t be high, but I’ll survive.

  Hopefully?

  5

  Eileen

  At the end of the day, I’m emotionally and physically exhausted. Instead of going home, I go to the bar to meet one of my favorite people.

  “Three weeks before the big day!” My best friend, Camilla, shouts when I squeeze into our regular booth at Finley’s Pub.

  “Shh,” I tell her. “You’re gonna jinx it.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Stop being paranoid.”

  The bar is crowded with older guys watching some sports and twenty-somethings laughing over pitchers of watered-down beer. This is our favorite bar in town because my dad used to own it, and also because it’s renowned for their loaded fries and cheap beer—not because the drinks are good.

  They’ll go down fine enough and get me to relax to get through the week. As Camilla pours me a glass of whatever IPA we’re trying tonight, I know that’s all that really matters at this point in the day, week, and year.

  “You know I’m right. You’ve seen the shit I’ve been through during my birthdays,” I say.

  “It’s not that bad,” she insists.

  But I swear she’s trying to hide a smirk.

  Of course, I don’t leave it at that. Instead, I bring a few nuggets from memory lane.

  “Remember when Grandma Lori came to visit on my fifth birthday, and she ended up hospitalized after that bee sting,” I begin. “Or remember my seventh birthday party? Joe O’Riley was playing pin the tail on the donkey, and he landed on my fucking cake.”