“My aim was top-notch in uni,” he calls out in a sing-song voice. He flushes, washes his hands, and emerges, looking victorious as he thrusts his arms in the air. “I did it. One minute and thirteen seconds. That’s a bloody record piss. I told you I’m a champion racehorse.”
I laugh because he’s so ridiculous. “Yes, Erik. Good on you. You pissed like a racehorse, as predicted. Now, can you please get your drunk arse to bed right now?” I point to the mattress.
After Erik’s ludicrous suggestion that Elise marry me, he proceeded to order a round of shots for the three of us, drink the trio himself, then propose to every woman at the pub. At that point, Elise called an Uber, and we dragged him out of the bar to wait for the Peugeot. Wily thing, Erik slipped into the corner market, grabbed a bouquet of flowers, slapped twenty euros in the paw of the cashier, and presented them to Elise.
“You’ll say yes to me, won’t you, love? American women are so much more trustworthy than the IKEA ladies,” he’d said, slumping onto her shoulder once we piled into the car.
“Half-American,” she’d added with a smile.
“I like half and half in my coffee. Do you?”
She’d laughed. “Of course.”
“Which half of you isn’t American?”
She tapped her stomach. “I have a very French appetite,” she’d said, then winked at me.
Now here we are at my flat, where she’s waiting in the living room. I told her she didn’t have to come along, but at that point, we were all sort of in this together, so I didn’t put up a protest when she stayed to the bitter end.
These are not the circumstances I had in mind when I pictured getting her back to my flat.
With Erik giving off fumes of Patron, he flops onto the bed, flapping his arms and legs in half circles. “I’m a snow angel, Chris.”
“All you need is snow.”
He sighs happily as he kicks off his shoes. “This is a perfect bed. I was meant to sleep in this bed tonight. I’m so glad my wife turned out to be a conniving bitch because it means I get to sleep in this stellar bed.”
He flips to his belly and buries his face in the soft feather pillow, letting out a contented moan as if he’s making love to the pillow. “Well, hello there, gorgeous.” He raises half his face, glancing at me with one eye. “This pillow is my new wife,” he whispers out of the side of his mouth. “Oh shit. I better propose to her properly.” He props himself up on his elbows, gazing longingly at it. “Hello, pretty pillow. Will you please be my wife? Only you can save my company from that stroppy cow.” He drops his head dramatically and cries out. “That sweet little cow. I’m still in love with her, and she left me instead.”
“I know, Erik. I know, and it sucks royally,” I say, tugging the corner of the duvet and covering him with it. “But get some sleep, okay? We’ll sort it out in the morning.”
“I’ll sleep it off,” he mumbles. “When I wake up, you’ll make it all better for me, right?”
I wince, wishing I could make this pain disappear by morning. Erik flaps his arm around on the cover like a fish out of water, fumbling around for my hand, I think. I smack his palm, and he yanks me close, hugging me. “It’s a bro hug,” he whispers, then laughs at his own bizarre joke. “It really is, Chris. This is the stinking definition of a bro hug.”
I laugh too. “We’ll take a picture and file it with the Oxford Dictionary.”
“I love the dictionary. Do you have a dictionary I can curl up with? Wait! I have an idea. Maybe you can marry a dictionary, and then you’ll be even smarter, and you won’t do something right fucking stupid, like sign your shares over to your dictionary wife.”
I clap his back and peel myself away from his zealous embrace. “I promise not to sign any shares to the dictionary.”
“It’ll all be better in the morning?” His eyelids float closed. “You’ll fix this for me, won’t you? I was so stupid. I was so bloody stupid.” His voice starts to fade. “Make it all go away.”
I don’t know if he means the pain or the problem, but either way, my heart aches terribly for him. I’ve no clue what I can actually do, but I know I will try. “I’ll do everything I can.”
“Love you,” he murmurs.
“Love you too.”
As I click the door closed, I breathe a sigh of relief. At least he’s in bed, and that’s where he needs to be right now.
As for me, I’m not sure where I’m supposed to be. My plan for the night capsized a few hours ago—though of course, I don’t fault my brother, he’s the one going through hell—then the plan sunk to the bottom of the ocean when he word-vomited the ludicrous notion that Elise ought to marry me. I wouldn’t be surprised if Elise has only stuck around for the night so she could tell me she has no time in her life for these kinds of shenanigans.
She’s not the remarrying kind.
Nor am I.
One failed marriage is enough for me, thank you very much.
When I turn into the living room, I find Elise has curled up on the couch, her shoes on the hardwood floor, her legs tucked under her, and she’s flipping through a travel magazine. The bouquet of flowers Erik bought her is in a vase on the table, and I like that she tracked down a vase on her own and didn’t let the flowers wilt.
She drops the magazine on the table and gives a sympathetic smile.
I smile back, and for the first time with her, I’m honestly not sure where we stand. From the start, we’ve been carefully circumscribed, with lines neatly drawn. But my brother’s outlandish suggestion has knocked me outside those lines, and I’ve no clue how Elise feels about Erik’s wild idea or if she even feels anything about it at all.
“I can’t thank you enough for being there tonight. You were incredibly helpful.”
She frowns. “I feel terrible for what happened to him. It’s awful.”
I sigh. “Yeah, me too, and it is awful. But I didn’t want to ruin your night, even though Erik really did appreciate you being there.”
“You didn’t ruin anything,” she says softly, and this is the new side to Elise I saw tonight. She has a caretaker in her, and I couldn’t have predicted that.
“And I appreciate that you were with us. I needed it too.”
She gestures to the black-and-white photographs framed on my wall, then to the couch, a table, and the few books and magazines that rest on it. “I see your home is quite fitting for you. It looks as if everything has been imported directly from Scandinavian Design.”
I laugh and sit next to her on the couch, glad her sense of humor is still intact. “I’m not sure if you know this, but being a dual citizen of Denmark and the UK, I’m legally required to buy all of my furniture from that store or from IKEA.”
