My brother and I currently occupy a tabletop dead-center of the brewery. Right now, it’s the worst damn place for Thatcher to be. He has a perfect view of all the guests, which is causing him to act more like a bodyguard than a man about to be married.
Thatcher stares at the beer, a dark porter on draft, that I shove at his chest. “Her teenage brothers are here, Banks. If anything happens to them—”
“It won’t,” I cut him off.
His eyes peel to the sofa area. Eliot and Tom Cobalt are in some deep whisper-conversation. Nothing good is going to come from that, but I’m not advertising my pessimistic thoughts right now. I’m a fucking rainbow of joy for my brother today. He deserves the hype man, not a Debbie Downer.
But Christ, it’s hard when I’m playing babysitter to Cobalt brothers and I’m a goalie playing defense as I try to keep Tony Ramella from approaching my brother. Lord knows Tony will throw out some dumb comment that’ll tank my brother’s mood.
Which is already too uptight to begin with.
“You should drink,” I try to encourage. “You’re not on-duty, and you won’t see Jane later. We’re not meeting up with the bachelorette party.” The thought sours my stomach because I’d love nothing more than to hang out with Sulli in a brewery, spa, barn, fucking horse-manure stalls—I’ll take anything, being honest. As long as I can spend more time with her.
“Agreed,” Akara says, approaching with a couple beer flights. “You need to enjoy this, Thatcher. You’re only getting one bachelor party.”
Thatcher doesn’t ease at those words. Not really sure what’ll take the ice out of his bones tonight. “What’s the word on the security meeting?” he asks Akara. “SFO is finally together now, we could have one in five before the gents are drunk.”
Akara checks the time on his watch. “Maybe in twenty.”
I wag a finger, then pound the table with said finger. “No work. No meetings. This is a fucking party. Can you two please shove the pencils and calculators in a drawer for one night?”
Akara fits on a black beanie, smiling. “Hey, I’ll do whatever the groom wants.”
Thatcher shoots me a look. “If we’re not talking about work, what do you want me to bring up?”
“Phillies, Eagles. Hell, I’ll take an hour of Jesus and Mary and rehashing the birth of Christ.”
Thatcher almost smiles.
There we go.
He grips the porter but doesn’t drink yet. “What about Sulli?”
I stiffen and shift, then scratch the back of my head. My brother is making casual conversation like my dumbass suggested, but I didn’t think he’d surface Sulli.
Akara is the one to say. “What about her?” He does a much better job not looking like he has spiders in his pants.
Thatcher’s gaze slices between us. “One of you likes her, one of you said you’re just friends. I thought you two would’ve talked it out by now.”
Lying to my twin is the biggest sin of my life. It’s more painful than any migraine. Like drinking gasoline by the gallon and lighting a match in my lungs. So I struggle to clarify the truth. That Akara hasn’t actually friend-zoned Sulli.
That we’re both dating her.
That I’m still likely to be heartbroken in the end.
“No conclusion yet,” Akara says to Thatcher, skating by a lie into a fucking gray area that I’m not sure I could find as easily.
Thatcher retorts, “Go talk about it then.” His South Philly lilt comes out in his simmering ire. He wants both of us to get our heads out of our asses. “If you need time alone, I can find Farrow.”
It’s surreal how buddy-buddy he is with Farrow. So much so that Farrow is one of five groomsmen. Along with me, Akara, Charlie, and Beckett. Never really saw a friendship with Farrow and Thatcher coming, not for how long Farrow really despised my brother. Probably for good reason since Thatcher had to single Farrow out, but I think pretty highly of Farrow that he was able to see the good in my brother in the end.
It means a lot to me, even if I’m not as close to Farrow.
Akara reaches up and clasps Thatcher’s shoulder. “It’s your bachelor party. We’re not going anywhere, man.”
Thatcher nods once, but he sets down his porter again.
Akara mimics one of my cousins, “So how about them Eagles?”
We all laugh.
Though, my brother is still scoping out the venue, mostly hawk-eyed on the Cobalt brothers.
We’re not alone here for long. Oscar, Quinn, and Donnelly leave their tabletop once they see our beer flights. “Don’t mind me,” Donnelly reaches for a small tasting glass and downs the beer in one gulp.
“That’s not a shot, bro,” Oscar says into a laugh.
“Where’s the stout?” Quinn asks, inspecting the flight.
“I’ll get it,” Oscar says, eying the bar. Pretty sure, he’s more likely heading that way for his husband. Jack is flagging down the bartender with zero to little luck. His brother Jesse seems to be chatting his ear off too.