My Darling Jane (The Darlings)

I burst through the double doors of the neighborhood bar. A sea of faces turns toward me, some recognizing me, others reacting to the fury etched on my face.

I’m usually the life of any party, but not today. Today, my mood is as dark as my expression must be. I’m on a mission.

“Macy! Lacy!” My voice booms across the room, slicing through the buzz of conversations and the strains of an Aerosmith classic playing in the background. The chatter dies down, eyes on me, but I’m focused on one mission only.

There, huddled in the back corner, are the culprits, my nieces, or as I like to call them, Thing One and Thing Two. Their shiny blond ponytails, so like their mother’s, are a dead giveaway. They’re just seventeen, but with a knack for wreaking havoc that rivals a category-five hurricane.

I march toward them, my stride purposeful, parting the crowd. Whispers trail in my wake.

“Hey, isn’t that Jasper Jannich?” I hear someone say.

Another voice pipes up. “Wonder who pissed him off.”

Normally, I’d bask in the attention and say hello. The energy of a sports bar crowd is my fuel. But tonight, my focus is on those brats. They’re so engrossed in whatever mischief they’re cooking up they don’t even notice me bearing down on them.

I’m about to lay down the law.

At least it’s not as bad as I imagined. When I went into their bedroom in my apartment to check on them and found the room empty, I half expected to come in and find them dancing on the bar. Doing shots. Flirting with people old enough to have given them life.

Instead, they’re gathered around a pinball machine, giggling as Lacy shoots the ball. They’re not drinking as far as I can see, and they’re wearing modest shorts and shirts.

I smirk at their faces, illuminated by the flickering lights of the machine. The pinball machine itself is a Guardians of the Galaxy one, its glossy surface a riot of colors as the silver ball ricochets off bumpers and slides through tunnels.

Macy, who is more extroverted, glances over at me as if she expected me to show up. She waves excitedly. “Lacy is killing it on this game.”

I cross my arms. “Hey! Here’s the funny thing . . . this doesn’t look like your bedroom.”

Macy shrugs. “It’s not. You evidently decided to take a nap during the movie, and we didn’t want to wake you up. We left you a note on the fridge, so you can’t be mad at us. And this game is so fun. You have another quarter?”

They stare at me, waiting for me to blow my lid. That’s what they want me to do. They’ve been trying my patience for two weeks, and I never imagined how hard it would be just to keep track of them. How on earth does my sister Rayna do it?

“But you suck at it,” I tell them. I’ve never been able to stay mad at them for long. “Stand aside. You need to be quick with your fingers. Let the master work.”

They exchange a surprised look and then let me through. “So you’re not going to tell Mom we snuck out?” Macy asks.

I’m used to keeping things from Rayna. I grew up doing it. Probably the reason she was reluctant to drop her kids off with me while she went on a girls’ trip through Europe. She gave me a laundry list of shit she didn’t want them doing, as if she just knew they’d try it.

And they have. The difference is, I’m not the mom. I’m the fun uncle.

I fish a quarter from my pocket and feed it into the machine. “Nah. Watch.”

Shooting the ball, I work the buttons expertly, racking up the points. They shriek and clap around me in their excitement, which just keeps me going. I probably should be raising hell and getting them home, since they’re underage, but they’re not drinking. This is just good, harmless fun.

But we are in a bar. Ugh. I’m a terrible parental figure.

Which is why I’m never having kids.

A fact I’ve been reminded of lately by these two walking advertisements for birth control.

They drank all my OJ. They leave their dirty dishes everywhere. They yell at me for getting in the way of their TikTok dances. Not to mention they leave clothes and feminine products scattered around my apartment.

I should know how it is. I grew up with four older sisters.

But here’s one thing I know: sharing a locker room with the New York Pythons is like a day at the beach compared to sharing a house with females.

My sister owes me big time.

Soon, other people gather around, watching me tear up the machine, cheering me on.

But then I time it wrong and the ball slips past the flippers, officially ending my run. I check the score: 477,435,000.

My nieces applaud and grab my arms as they jump up and down. “You got the high score!” they say in unison. It’s weird how they say things at the same time, in the same tone.

I give them a thumbs-up. “Okay. Let’s get you h—”

“Aw, come on, Jasper. Can’t we just play a little longer?” Macy says.

They are adorable, and their pouts are going to break a lot of hearts one day. I’m putty in their hands. I fish another few quarters out of my jeans and hand the coins to them. “Just until this is gone. Okay?”

They jump up and grab it and set to work. I point to the bar, not that they’re paying attention to me.

“I’m going to get a . . .” I trail off. It doesn’t matter. I’ve lost them to the machine.

I sidle up to the bar. “Hey, Lee,” I say to the bartender, checking to see what they have on tap. I don’t know why I do. This place has become my local watering hole this summer, and their offerings never change.

“Give me a Guinness.”

He pours me the draft and slides it over to me. That’s when I look up and see her at the other side of the bar. My eyebrows shoot up in surprise.

You can’t miss her.

She’s taller than most of the men around her.

And gorgeous with those wide-set green eyes that tilt up at the corners.

She’s got lush lips and a sprinkle of freckles over her nose and upper cheeks.

She’s that perfect mix of girl next door and dead sexy.

Too bad she’s repulsive to me.

There she is. Jane Darling, dressed in some god-awful toga.

I smirk at the bow and arrow strapped to her back. Does she think it’s Halloween? It’s like she’s lost a bet.

I’ve known Jane for a while, our paths crossing thanks to her sister being married to my buddy Graham for the past few years. She’s always had this air of disapproval about her whenever I’m around, like I’m some kind of sports cliché, a meathead football player. And sure, I can play that part, but there’s more to me than touchdowns and tabloids.

Her eyes scan the crowd, and I can’t help but watch her. There’s something about her that intrigues me, despite my aversion.

Maybe it’s the challenge of a woman who doesn’t like me.

She’s talking to some motorcycle dude now, his studded leather jacket and tattoos a stark contrast to her angelic getup. I can’t hear their conversation, but by the way she’s tilting her head and listening intently, she’s in full cupid mode. I stifle a laugh.

Part of me wants to march over there and ruffle her feathers (angel wings) a bit. It’s always fun to get a rise out of her.

“Why’s that girl dressed like she’s about to shoot arrows?” I ask the bartender, nodding subtly in her direction.

He laughs. “Matchmaking gig. Trying to drum up business. She came in and talked to the owner last week.”

I take a sip of my beer, the cool liquid sliding down my throat. Jane, the grump, playing cupid? The world’s full of surprises.

I recall a conversation with Graham where he mentioned she was starting her own business. I guess this must be it.

I take another swig of my beer, my mind drifting back to the last time I crossed paths with Jane. It was at Graham’s apartment. He’d invited me down for a birthday party for his wife, Emmy. It was a big group of people, mostly Emmy’s friends, Graham’s family, and a couple of players from the team. Jane, ever snippy with me, had gotten a little tipsy and sloshed her red wine all over me.

Was it on purpose? Perhaps.

Graham offered me a dry dress shirt, and I changed into it in the bathroom. I’d just gotten it buttoned up when a girl I’d been seeing called me on the phone. Sure, I heard Jane knocking on the door, saying she had to go to the bathroom, and asking why I was so slow, but she knew Graham’s place had several bathrooms. I ignored her, chuckling at the way she grumbled through the door. Then the minx picked the lock with a hairpin and walked right in. She gave me a scathing glance, grabbed my phone, and told the girl I was a jerk. She marched past me, hiked up her little dress, and peed right in front of me. I gaped at her as she sashayed away.

Throughout the evening, she kept making these snide remarks under her breath, just loud enough for me to catch. “Typical jock,” she’d mutter as I chatted with some of the guys, or “Bet he can’t even spell ‘commitment.’”

It was barbed—classic Jane.

Then there was the time she slapped me a few years ago after I’d kissed her out of the blue. That memory always brings a smug smile to my face. Best slap ever.

She finishes her conversation with Mr. Motorcycle and turns away, her toga swishing dramatically. I find myself considering going over there and talking to her. Not as the football star, but just as a guy who can’t handle it when someone doesn’t like him.

I take another swig of my beer as she moves on to another fellow at the bar.

A few minutes pass, and I can tell he’s clearly into her. What red-blooded guy wouldn’t be? But from the vibe she’s giving off, the feeling isn’t mutual. She keeps looking around, like she’s waiting for a knight to come along.

That ain’t me. But if the situation calls for it, I can pretend.

Chugging the rest of my beer, I decide to dust off my armor.

I look back at my nieces, who are fully absorbed in the game.

Then I slip off the stool and head for the shrew.