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My entire fucking family is fucking Evan Rosier. Even my 94-year-old great-fucking-grandmother is fucking Evan Rosier.
I don’t know what they see in him. Sure, he’s gorgeous. I get that. But he’s not the charming, innovative genius my mother believes. He’s a fraud. He’s the smarmiest smarmy bastard in the history of the world. I don’t care if he is filthy rich. (His father owns a sugar plantation or two. Thousand. How fucking smarmy can you get?) He’s telling them about his yacht, and my mother is cooing. I’m going to be sick.
I swear he’s toying with me. I’m staring into my lobster bisque, and thinking. Lobster makes me sick. The tepid orange color of the bisque makes me sick. Evan Fucking Rosier makes me sick.
Out of the corner of my eye I can see him smirking at me. He stares right at me, smirking his smarmy bastard smirk. I’m not fooled. Every time I look up to glare at him, he’s looking away. Perfect timing. He’s staring at me up until the moment I look up, and then he’s deep in conversation with my grandfather, or passing my brother the salt, or whispering sweetly to his sister. Either he’s toying with me, or I’m going batshit fucking insane.
“But Evanne,” my mother purrs, gesticulating with a perfect, manicured hand over her lobster bisque the color of diarrhea mixed with milk. Evanne, he introduces himself, as if it were French. It’s not French, I tell them. His name is Evan. I am ignored. Evanne. I’m going to be sick. “Surely Paris gets tiring.”
“Oh, I can’t stand it,” Evan purrs back. He’s faking it. He’s got to be faking it. “All that charm and magnificent food. It’s awful. I can’t wait to leave.”
They laugh, as if it’s some magnificent joke. I can’t believe this. No one person is capable of these sheer amounts of smarm.
“Besides,” he says, “those Parisian women can’t compare to my schnookums.” And then he kisses my sister. Who giggles. My five-foot-ten fucking amazon of a sister, who is a disgustingly successful psychiatrist in New York City, is giggling at her smarmy bastard of a husband. This is not my sister. This is a giggling alien clone who has been sent here as a replacement of my sister, from some bright pastel version of hell. My sister would castrate any man who touched her. And now there is nuzzling. They are practically snogging at the dinner table, in front of our great-grandmother Amaranta Dean, who is simpering happily at them both. “Oh, aren’t they sweet?” she gurgles, her hands shaking as she clasps them in rapture.
“I’m going to be sick,” I say, and stood. He was smirking at me. I left.
I spend the next twenty minutes in the bathroom, staring at the soapsuds on the sink, and trying to stop thinking about E. F. Rosier. I look in the mirror and I see my own, familiar face morph into his visage of evil. His nose, his eyes, his lips, and he’s smirking at me again. I don’t look in the mirror.
He’s staying with us at our family home on the lake. We all are, like we do every summer. I hate summer. I hate my family. I hate Evan Rosier. He’s been smirking at me all week.
I hear giggling in the corridor. I hate giggling. After a moment, I recognize the giggling as my mother’s. This travesty is too much to bear. I open the door. They’re walking up the stairs, and she’s leaning on him, since she’s had too much to drink. They’re whispering. I feel something rise in my throat and get stuck there.
Evan Fucking Rosier is flirting with his mother-in-law. And his mother-in-law–my mother–is leaning on him and giggling. He sees me. He smirks. I indulge in a very satisfying little fantasy of wrapping my hands around the perfect, honey-tanned skin at his throat and watching him choke and die.
“Matthew,” he says to me.
“Please die,” I respond. They both start laughing at me. Fucking laughing. I slam the door to my room like a petulant teenager.
I am not a petulant teenager. I am a petulant twenty-something who is failing out of law school. I hate him with a wild, single-minded obsession, like the opposite of a schoolgirl with a crush. I want to cover notebooks with his name so that I can burn them, and only then will I stop thinking of him. There’s a notebook and a pen in my hand. I look down at the page. Matthew Dean Please Die Rosier, it says. I stare. Mathew Dean Fucking Please-Die Rosier. I crumple the sheet and then shred it.
I am completely batshit fucking insane.
My sister’s room is next to mine. Our beds share a wall. I can hear it, as he fucks her. The force of their bed hitting the wall shakes my bed on the other side. I can hear my sister moaning. The whole fucking house can hear my sister moaning. They’re having really, really, damn good sex. I can hear the bedsprings shrieking as he fucks her.
I feel like bedsprings. I imagine that he’s fucking me. I hear her scream his name. It’s not on my lips. It’s not. Evan.
Evan Fucking Please-Die Rosier.
I can hear the bats in my own belfry, and they sound like the shrieking of the bedsprings.
I dream that he’s fucking my whole fucking family, on my sister’s Büyükesat Escort bed. All of them, even my 94-year-old great-fucking-grandmother, piled on my sister’s bed, and the shrieking of the bedsprings.
My eyes open and the sunlight is lurking through the venetian blinds like an early-morning burglar. The early bird may get the worm, but the early burglar gets thrown in jail. Someone should inform the sun. Who the fuck would want to get up early for worms, anyway? Fucking bats. Probably.
I stagger into the bathroom, and there he is. Completely fucking naked in the bathroom I share with my sister. There’s a toothbrush in his mouth. He smirks at me around the toothbrush. Evan Fucking Please-Die Rosier is ass-naked in my bathroom, fresh from banging my sister. I can feel my own brain cells committing ritual suicide inside my head, with little death screams sending twitches of pain through my skull.
I close the bathroom door and stand there staring at the wood two inches from my face. He opens it. Smirks. The toothbrush is gone.
“Are you coming in,” he asks, “or are you going to let me out?”
“Please fucking die,” I manage to say. Naked Fucking Evan Please-Die Rosier.
He takes a step closer. “I don’t see you moving.”
I move, backwards. I am not staring. I wonder how many brain cells I can lose before I become comatose. E. F. P.-D. Rosier is the sadistic scientific experiment which is testing this. He steps forward. I can smell the peppermint on his breath. He walks into my sister’s room. Leaves the door open.
I walk into the bathroom. Stare at the soap suds on the sink. There are two toothbrushes on the sink. One is my sister’s. One is mine. Mine is wet.
He used my fucking toothbrush.
“You fucking bastard!” I shout.
My brother James leans in the bathroom door. James Fucking Dean. This atrocity can only be blamed on my mother. “Matty?”
“Don’t fucking call me Matty.”
“What’s mum told you about profaning before breakfast?”
“I learned all the profanity I know from mum.”
“But not before breakfast.”
“Get the fuck out of the bathroom,” I say. I shove him out, then slam the door.
I stare at the two toothbrushes on the sink. Sharing someone’s toothbrush seems like the oral equivalent of French kissing. I’m going to have to get a new toothbrush, and keep it under lock and key. I brush my teeth with some toothpaste on my fingertip. I throw the desecrated toothbrush in the trash can.
I walk down to the kitchen and pour myself a glass of juice. I look out the window to the porch and immediately regret it. Evan Fucking Please-Die Rosier is breathing on my nineteen-year-old brother James Fucking Dean. Their faces are six inches apart. Evan Rosier is seducing my brother. I can see them on my sister’s bed. Fucking.
He’s been here a week and he’s already fucked my whole family, except me. I’m not fooled by him. He’s fucked my 94-year-old great-fucking-grandmother. He’s fucked my dog, and I don’t even have a dog. But not me. Me he smirks at, but he’ll never fuck me.
I push open the screen door. “What are you doing?”
James jumps. Evan Fucking Rosier just smirks at me. “He had something in his eye.”
“Bullshit.”
“Well, in that case,” Evan F. P.-D. Rosier wraps his arms around his brother-in-law. “I was whispering sweet nothings in his ear.”
James is as infatuated by this bastard as the rest of my family. He melts. I’m going to be sick again.
Evan’s eyes are on mine. They’re deep blue, lapis lazuli blue, and he’s smirking. Smirking as he runs his hand down my brother’s body. Smirking as he glides a finger into the hem of my brother’s jeans. I’m still holding the glass of juice. I’m going to drop it. I can feel my brain cells beginning a mass exodus out my ears.
“Careful,” Evan says, taking the glass from me. James very nearly collapses at the sudden lack of molestation.
He takes a drink then hands it back to me. I can see the impression of his lips on the glass.
“Please die,” I tell him.
“You keep saying that.”
“You’re not dead yet.”
“You’ve had ample opportunity to murder me.”
I throw the rest of the juice in his face. It was contaminated, anyway. I walk inside.
“Did you hear them last night?” My aunt gossips, as I enter the den. Trudy, my mother’s only unmarried sister. My mother’s only sister with less than three marriages. My mother killed her first two husbands, probably with arsenic. The third, she still complains, died of a heart attack during copulation on their wedding night. And the simpering fourth she leads around on an invisible leash like a fucking lapdog. My mother’s eldest sister is currently on her ninth honeymoon. Her tenth husband will be Evan Fucking Rosier.
“How could I not?” I steal a fried egg and a piece of toast from my mother’s plate, which she’s forgotten. She’s bickering with my grandfather over what to name the baby. Evan and Val Rosier’s nonexistant hypothetical demonspawn Elvankent Escort offspring. “You don’t name an antichrist,” I interrupt. “Just call him the Beast. Evil Widdle Beastie-kins, for short.”
“Matthew,” my mother scolds.
When I die and go to hell, I fully expect to be tormented in Hell by Evan and Val Fucking Please-Die Rosier’s demonspawn offspring, Beastie-kins Rosier. This fact will be the only thing preventing me from suicide at the thing’s hypothetical birth. Fortunately, my sister is not a child-bearing woman. IF, by some horrific chance, she becomes impregnanted, I will take it upon myself to destroy her and the parasite in her womb before it can grow. For her own good, and for the sake of the world.
People are talking, and organizing their day. Evan Rosier takes a seat on the couch by my great grandmother Amaranta. He’s wearing a clean shirt. I can’t bear to watch.
“Matthew, darling,” my mother flutters. I hate that tone of voice. I hate being called darling. “Margarita isn’t feeling well today, and we need some things at the store. Be a dear, would you?”
I don’t want to tell her we haven’t had a housekeeper named Margarita since I was in high school. Our housekeeper’s name is Lucy. “Mum, I can’t drive.”
“Then get someone to take you, darling.”
“I’ll take him,” says Evan Please-Die Rosier.
“No,” I say, glaring.
“Oh, Evanne, thank you so much. Matthew, sweetie, the list is on the fridge. I left money in the cookie jar.”
“No,” I repeat. “He can fucking go alone.”
“But you know the brands I like, darling.” And my mother flutters out the door. The room is empty, except for my great grandmother Amaranta, who is playing cat’s cradle with Evan Rosier.
“Ready?” he asks me. “We’ll take my truck.”
“Amaranta knows the brands she likes. Take her.”
He looks at my great-grandmother, then smirks at me. “So how is it you’re not only still living with your parents, but you also don’t know how to drive?”
I twitch. I bet my mother knows where I could get some arsenic. She could also probably tell me how much I’d need to kill six feet two inches of E. F. Rosier.
“You coming, sweet cheeks?” He heads for the door.
I follow, hating my life. “Please just die.”
He unlocks the car door and opens it for me. “You could grab the wheel as we’re driving over a bridge, send us both to a watery grave.”
I get in. The truck is pretty crappy, for someone who owns a yacht. I tell him so.
“What?” He laughs, patting the dashboard. “My baby’s got personality.”
“Cars shouldn’t have personality,” I say. “Cars should just fucking work.”
He starts the car. Smirks at me. I swear it’s his natural fucking facial expression, but I’ve never seen him smirking at anyone else. Just me. He’s tormenting me, because I’m not fooled by him. Because I’m not fucking him. I’m not fucking Evan Rosier.
I sit stiffly in his cluttered car. There’s a fucking hula dancer on his dashboard, swinging her faded green plastic skirt. We pass over a bridge and he smirks at me, as if to offer the wheel, if I’d like to grab it. I look away from him, out the window. I hate cars. I’m going to be sick.
“I hope we didn’t keep you up last night.”
I don’t look up. I know he’s smirking. I’ve developed a sixth sense for it. Smirk radar. “You mean when you were fucking my sister? The whole house heard you.”
“Oh,” he says. “You know. Newlyweds.”
“Bullshit. She’s going to divorce you within the year. Within the month.”
He smirks. “Wanna bet?”
I’m a penniless college student. I’m failing law school. And my sister was giggling. “Fine,” I say. “She’ll divorce you within a month. And if she does…” I think a moment. “If she doesn’t castrate you, I will.”
He laughs. “Vindictive little bitch, aren’t you, sweet cheeks?”
I twitch. “Name your terms.”
“Done. If she doesn’t divorce me, you’ll let me take you out to dinner.”
You have got to be fucking kidding me. Evan Fucking Please-Die Rosier just asked me out.
“Please die,” I say. My voice doesn’t sound like a whimper.
“Deal?”
“Did you seriously just fucking ask me out on a date?”
“Yes.”
“I’m straight. You’re married. To my sister.”
“So?” He smirks at me.
“Eyes on the doggam road!”
“Doggam?”
I twitch. “God-damn. Eyes on the god-damn road.”
He drives, but I can see him smirking out of the corner of my eye. “Dyslexic much?
“Please fucking die.”
“You keep saying that. I wonder if you know what it means.” He pulls up at the supermarket and cuts the engine. “So do we have a bet?”
“She’s going to divorce you.”
“Well?”
“Fine,” I snarl. “Done. But I’m not sleeping with you.”
He’s laughing at me. I slam the car door. I hate Evan Fucking Rosier. He follows me.
“Does my sister know you’re cheating on her with every single member of my fucking family?”
“Of course.”
“Even the dog.”
He Beşevler Escort smirks, bemused. “Your family doesn’t have a dog.”
“Even my 94-year-old great-fucking-grandmother Amaranta.”
“Hey,” he laughs. “Don’t underestimate her ability in bed just because of her age.”
I’m going to be sick. I send him in search of milk, because it’s on the opposite side of the supermarket. When he returns, I send him to get eggs. Eggs are next to the milk. His pants are too fucking tight. I hope they’re cutting off circulation to his balls.
He keeps his mouth shut as I pay, and carries the groceries out to the car. I want to ask why Evan Fucking Owns-A-Yacht Rosier lets me pay for the groceries, but I don’t want to give him an excuse to start talking again.
“So what about you?” he asks, helping me put away the groceries. “Law school?”
“Are you trying to make small talk?”
“I’m just wondering if you’re going to be the lawyer on the divorce case. And if you take bribes.”
“I’m still in school. So no. I won’t.”
He leans on the refrigerator door as I put things away. “Got a boyfriend?”
I twitch. “No, I do not have a girlfriend, thanks for asking, please die.”
He hands me a carton of eggs. “Gotcha. Virgin?”
I drop the eggs. I fucking hate that word. “No,” I snarl, picking up the carton. All but two of the eggs are broken. I put the carton in the fridge.
He’s smirking at me.
“I hate you,” I tell him.
“I can tell,” he replies. I close the fridge. He opens it. Removes the carton of eggs. Starts salvaging the contents. “Hungry?”
“I hope you get salmonella,” I say.
“Grab the bread for me, would you? We need toast.”
“I’m not eating anything you cook.”
He smirks at me. “I made breakfast.”
“Oh. Fucking fantastic. More eggs. With toast.”
“Sure. And the tomatoes, they’re in the fridge.”
“I know they’re in the fridge. I fucking put them there myself.”
“If we make sandwiches, with some tomatoes and mozzarella, then it’s not quite the same as having eggs again. And I don’t want these to go to waste. Get the mozzarella.
“Why won’t you just die?” I hand him the mozzarella. His fingers actually fucking brush mine. He smirks.
“You smarmy fucking bastard,” I say.
“We should go on a picnic,” he says. “It’s a nice day.”
“That’s a great idea. You go on a picnic. With your wife.”
“Val’s busy.” I hate that fucking smirk. I hate Evan Rosier.
“Go get my backpack, would you? It’s upstairs.”
“Go fuck yourself,” I reply. I walk to the porch and sit. I stare at the peeling paint on the railing.
“Ready?” He’s carrying his backpack.
“Go to Hell.”
“It’s no fun to stay at home by yourself.”
“Go to Hell,” I repeat. “You smarmy fucking bastard.”
“Come with me,” he says. Walks over to the rowboat. Deposits the bag. Walks back over to me. “Are you coming?”
“Please die,” I say.
I am so fucking surprised when he slings me over his shoulder, that we are halfway to the boat before I start my efforts to kick him in the balls.
“Fucking put me down, you grandmother-fucking son of a fucking monkey-ass bastard!” I yell. He drops me. In the boat. I lose my balance and sit down hard, narrowly missing a fall into the lake. He shoves off, before I can scramble back to the dock. I don’t move. I hate boats. I hate water.
I’m going to die. I’m going to die in a boat with Evan Fucking Rosier. I hate boats. I’m going to be sick.
He rows out to the islands. He’s as good at rowing as he is at fucking, and I boat is like the bed on which he fucks my sister. He takes his shirt off as he rows. I watch his muscles rippling. He fucking gleams in the sunlight, like he’s fucking Adonis. I can hear the bedsprings from here. I start planning his death. His death once we’re back on solid ground, that is. I think electrocution might be nice. It has such an accidental appearance to it. Make it seem like suicide. Hell, I’d commit suicide if I were married to my sister. She’s an inch taller than I am.
He jumps out and pulls the boat onto the shore of a little island with a quiet beach. His pants look even tighter when wet. My surviving brain cells have banded together in a vicious little tribe. Each one is single-mindedly intent on the death of Evan Fucking Please-Die Rosier.
I get out of the boat once it’s safely up on shore. I’m going to be sick.
He stretches his incredible fucking torso. I’m not staring. I’m not watching as he kicks off his pants. I don’t care that he has the finest ass I’ve ever seen. I don’t care that he’s hung like it ought to be a fucking crime. I feel dizzy. I sit down on the sand.
“Join me for a swim?” He asks.
“I think I’m going to be sick,” I say. He plunges into the water. I’m not watching this. I’m not watching the water sliding over his body, like he’s fucking the god-damn lake.
He walks out of the water with the sun glittering on him. My mouth is dry. “Hungry?” he asks, like he’s not standing over me like some kind of fucking greek god. Ass-fucking-naked. I’m incapable of speech. He opens his backpack, spreads a blanket in the shade. The members of my little tribe of brain cells are having seizures. I am staring at his ass.
“Sweetcheeks?” He smirks at me over his shoulder. “You coming?”
I can’t take it anymore. I go for his throat.
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