Two for the Aisle

September: On the List (1 Month, 2 Days)

It put a whole new context to the postcards, emails, and letters the boys had sent her when their suitcase arrived back in New York a week and a half before they did. The tags allowed her to track its progress from Los Angeles back to New York, and then onto Moscow. Moscow, of all places. Uncharted territory as far as she knew; none of the Stantons had ever been to Russia.

She snorted. Well, their luggage had, at any rate. She left the suitcase at the foot of Matt and Topher’s neatly made bed, much to the curiosity of the cats, and chuckled all the way out to Tate’s place in Brooklyn. She told him of the last postcard she’d received, and did not, under any circumstances, tell him about the suitcase.

It was then very, very worth it to see his expression when Matt and Topher materialized out of the arrivals crowd. His jaw dropped open; Delia stifled a laugh. Nearly a month without razors had given the pair of them the fledgling beginnings of beards. Matt had attempted to corral his; Topher clearly hadn’t given a shit, and the ginger beard that always made her giggle had run wild.

“Don’t you two look chipper after, what? How many hours on a plane?”

Topher reached out, his other hand still tangled with Matt’s, and patted Tate’s cheek. “Let’s not talk about that. But we can talk about the number of sheep I’ve seen.”

“It was like being back in Ireland,” Matt said with a grin.

“More than you can count,” he said, waving one arm expansively. “Like, sheep frickin’ everywhere.” He finally let go of Matt’s hand to wrap his arm around Tate’s shoulders as they started for the parking lot. There were ribbons tied to the zippers on his backpack – the pink stripes suggested it had been Cameron – and Delia noted the way his fingers shook.

Matt looped his arm through Delia’s and they strolled through the crowd together.

“Do I want to know?” she asked.

“There was a lot of turbulence on our last few flights.” He flexed the fingers on his left hand. “A lot of turbulence.”

“Toph doesn’t do turbulence real well.”

He flashed her a no shit look. “Worst flight of my life, and that includes the RyanAir flight from Dublin to Paris.” Matt shrugged his shoulders. “Gets a little hairy when the flight attendants start rearranging people in the cabin to evenly distribute weight.”

“There’s no way in hell you got Topher on a plane like that,” she said, noting her cousin was doing much better in the open air.

“Oh, fuck no. He took the train.” He scrubbed at his beard. “I sold my seat on the plane and rode the train back with him. We spent a few days in London,” he added, pulling his backpack off and slinging it into the open back hatch of the Suburban.

“London? When?” Topher rested his arms over the seat back.

“After Paris.”

A slow smile melted across Topher’s face, though it was tinged with something much more melancholy. Mira was natively French, and had done more to raise Topher than anyone else with either the last of Stanton or James.

Delia had an inkling that Topher may have taken Matt on a detour through the French countryside to where Mira had once lived. Even if he hadn’t had a name for the feeling yet, she was willing to bet good money Topher had wanted to take him to share with him something immensely private. His familial love of Mira ran almost as deep as his love for Matt.

Topher smiled fondly and said something in French. A quick glance at Matt told her hadn’t understood the words, but he preened at the tone. She damn near dropped her purse when he answered in German, and Topher’s expression melted into something she could only classify as hopeless romantic.

If the two of them were any cuter, she and Tate were going to spontaneously develop diabetes.

Then again, in comparison to the heartbreak Topher had seen for years, she much preferred his current contented glow to hollow-eyed and hurting. He wore it much better. They all did.

 

“Beer for you, wine for me. We good, then?”

Matt surveyed the mess that was their kitchen table with wide eyes, scrubbed hand over the side of his face, and nodded. Then he reached for his first beer, as this was going to be more than problematic.

Topher confirmed his gut feeling by wrestling with the cork for the pinot gris and taking the first slug directly from the bottle.

“Right. Head table we don’t need to worry about. That’s me, you, Delia, Sammy, Tate, Claire, Effie, and Dean,” Matt said, writing the names on a separate sheet of paper and putting a 1 above them. “My parents with the Mugwump and Danni?”

“And Uncle Phil,” he added. He sifted through the stack of RSVPs for the people in question, and wrote the corresponding table number in the lower right corner.

“The tables seat six.”

Topher took another hit off the pinot gris and held up a hand. “Maddy.”

“Table Two is full.” Matt crossed names off one list, and had moved onto table three when it hit him. “Babe? What are we doing with your mother if she shows up?”

“Besides calling the FBI hotline? She can watch from the back row.”

Matt didn’t know if he was serious or joking, and decided the better course of action would be to let the comment slide. “Table Three. Sean, Meredith, and Kelso? Dean’s brother and parents,” he added, at Topher’s confusion.

“This is why I need a map, Matty.”

“This is why we’re doing a seating chart. Gimme three Stantons.”

“Donovan, Krista, and Hunter.”

Slowly, over the course of a couple hours and near-copious amounts of alcohol, they had a seating chart that would, hopefully, appease everyone. Or, if it didn’t, at least it wouldn’t start any outstanding family feuds in the short amount of time it would take for people to eat dinner.

Topher swayed in his seat as Delia wandered into the kitchen. “You got a minute?”

“For you, I can find five,” she said. “Why?”

Matt drained the last of his beer – literally – and gestured to the papers in front of him. “Can you look for anybody we missed?”

Delia leaned mostly on the table; Matt didn’t look like he’d stay upright if she rested much of her weight on his shoulder, and perused his lists. “I think you’ve got everybody. Well, wait…Aunt Natalie?”

“Seat in the back with a TV tray,” Topher muttered, turning the cork over and over between his fingers. “If she shows up she won’t stay for the reception.”

“Where’s the nearest FBI field office? Out of curiosity, that’s all,” Matt added hastily at the look he received from Delia. Topher was more occupied with a wine cork than he otherwise would be were he in any headspace other than drunk, and, considering they were talking about his mother, most likely wouldn’t meet Matt’s eyes, anyway.

“Find someplace for Cadie to sit and have dinner, and you guys have got everyone covered,” she said, ruffling Matt’s already unruly hair.

With the cork in one hand, Topher picked up the wine bottle in the other, and toasted Matt and Delia across the table. “Beautiful.” He slugged back the rest of the pinot gris, and sat back, a self-satisfied smile playing at the edge of his mouth.