Loose Screws by Karen Templeton Page A

intelligence. Of course, I do understand that parents’ embarrassing their kids goes with the territory. But there are limits. Nedra, however, never seemed to learn what those were.
    Since we’ve already discussed the fact that I’m not going to kill my mother, I do the next best thing: I pretend we’re not related.
    When the train pulls into our station, my stomach lurches into my throat and stays there. I wrestle out from underneath my seat the three bags into which I intend to pack the essentials, although the plan is to ask Phyllis to stop by the local Mailboxes, Etc., on our way for some boxes so I can pack up and send the rest back to Manhattan via UPS. And yes, it would make more sense to simply rent a car and drive everything back. But neither Nedra nor I drive, since both of us were raised in Manhattan, where cars are a liability, not a convenience.
    Of course, Greg insisted I’d have to learn how to drive once I moved out to the suburbs, and because I was blinded by love and basically not in possession of all my faculties, I plastered a game smile to my face and said, “Why, sure, honey.” He even tried to teach me. Once. Let’s just say, the roads are safer with me not on them. I do not, apparently, possess any natural aptitude for steering two tons of potentially lethal metal with any degree of precision.
    We and the cases spill out onto the platform, where we both remark how nice it is to breathe without the sensation of trying to suck air through a soggy, moldy washcloth.
    The train pulls away. We are conspicuously alone on the platform, with nothing but a soot-free breeze and bird-song to keep us company.
    â€œYou did tell her you were coming up on the 11:04?” my mother says.
    I refuse to dignify that with an answer.
    â€œHer hair appointment must have run over.”
    â€œDon’t start,” I say on a long-suffering sigh, but she either doesn’t hear me or chooses not to respond. Insteadshe treads over to a bench, sinks down onto it, drags her book back out of her tote bag and calmly resumes her reading. Not ten seconds later, however, I nearly jump out of my skin at the sound of a male voice calling my name from the other end of the platform. I whip around, shielding my eyes from the glare of the sunlight bouncing off the tracks, nearly losing my cookies—literally—at the sight of the tall man in khaki shorts and a polo shirt loping down the platform toward us.
    I swear under my breath, thinking it’s Greg, suddenly giving serious consideration to the idea of swooning onto the tracks in the path of an oncoming train. Except the next train isn’t due for at least an hour and as the man gets closer, I realize the man’s hair is too long and dark, his shoulders too broad, to be Greg. Instead, it’s Bill, his younger-by-ten-months brother.
    Persona non grata in the Munson clan. In other words, a Democrat.
    He is also apparently a leg man, given the way his gaze is slithering over the area south of my hemline.
    When Greg and I were together, Bill simply never came up in the conversation. In fact, I nearly gagged on my white wine when, at our engagement party, Greg grudgingly produced this handsome, charming, six-foot-something sibling of whom I had no previous knowledge. He seemed like a nice enough guy to me, but Greg’s family acted as if the man ran drugs in his spare time.
    If only.
    From what I was able to glean from pumping Greg’s friends, seems Little Bill backed Big Bob’s opponent’s campaign in the last election.
    Ouch.
    However, now that I owe Greg basically no loyalty whatsoever, I decide to like his brother, just for spite. After all, I don’t even live in that congressional district—what the hell do I care who represents it? Besides, don’t look now, but my po’ little ol’ trounced Ego is just batting her eyes and sighing over the way the man’s grinning at me.
    Not that I’m