Everyone agrees.

I keep Kate close to me as we all head to our respective rooms for a quick clothing change. And prepare to go our separate ways.

Chapter 7.

The barbecue at the adults-only pool is in full swing. There's music, sunshine, bikinis as far as the eye can see-and some I wish I didn't have to. Remember, ladies, two-piece bathing suits are a privilege, not a right.

We rent an enclosed cabana near the bar and settle down at the circular, umbrella-covered table in front of it. Our round of beers arrives and we hang out waiting for our turn in the volleyball tournament. For men, team sports have the power to inspire a warlike, us-against-them mentality. It's like spending the night in a foxhole-an instant bonding experience. Even if you don't like each other-h.e.l.l, even if you can't stand each other-you close ranks, pick up the slack where you have to. Because you're in the same platoon and anyone who's not with you is against you. They're the enemy.

Why am I telling you this? You'll understand shortly.

For now, I take a sip of my beer and focus on my sullen-faced brother-in-law. I get right to the point: "What's going on with you and my sister?"

He's not surprised by the question. But he's reluctant. "I don't want to talk about it."

"You don't want to talk about it? What? Did you grow a v.a.g.i.n.a on the walk over? I suppose next you'll tell me you're fine? Don't be a b.i.t.c.h, Steven-talk. What's up?"

He rubs his hand down his face and stares at the pool for a minute. Deliberating. Then he turns toward us and leans forward, elbows on the table. "All right. It started about two weeks ago. For a couple days, Alexandra had been in a rotten mood. But I wasn't worried-she just gets like that sometimes. And then I found something in the bathroom trash can . . . a pregnancy test."

Sympathetic groans roll across the table like the wave at a football game. "She's never gonna let you out of the house again."

"You gotta s.p.a.ce the kids out, Steven. If you have them too close together, one is bound to fall through the cracks."

"Now it's gonna be three against two-you're screwed."

Steven holds up his hand. "It was negative. Alexandra's not pregnant." He takes a swig from his beer. "But when I asked her about it, she went ballistic. Yelling at me about how I don't understand her-how I shouldn't worry about kids because I can have them until I'm seventy. And how men pretty much suck in general. Ever since then, she's been unbearable. It's like she's just looking for any excuse to be p.i.s.sed off at me."

Matthew advises, "Maybe she needs a break. You know-a night out to feel more like a woman and less like a mom?"

Steven shakes his head. "Already thought of that. I set up an overnight in the Hamptons-had my dad lined up to take the kids and everything. She shot me down-wanted no part of it. Then she b.i.t.c.hed me out for making plans without consulting her."

Jack snorts, "Can't say I'm surprised. No offense, dude, but Alexandra's always been a cold fish."

I don't take exception to his comment because I can see why he'd think like that.

Steven's voice takes on a soft, sad tone. Wistful. "But she's not, though. That's just a front she puts up. The real Alexandra is warm . . . and funny . . . and she'd go to ends of the earth for the people she loves. Up until two weeks ago, that included me. But lately . . . it doesn't. And I don't know why."

I pinch the bridge of my nose and sigh. "You gotta fix this, Steven. You can't do this to me-not now."

He doesn't take it well. "You? What the h.e.l.l does this have to do with you, Drew?"

I point my finger at him accusingly. "You and Alexandra are my gold standard. You're the only reason I'm not s.h.i.tting my pants about marrying Kate next week. Because you're my proof that marriage can actually work."

Steven's brow wrinkles. "Your parents have been married for forty years."

I wave my hand. "They don't count. They're old-no one else will have them."

Matthew asks, "What about me and Dee?"

"I give you another year-tops."

Matthew just shrugs. Because he doesn't give a d.a.m.n what other people think-even me.

Now, Alexandra may be my sister-but Steven is more than a brother-in-law. He's a friend-one of my best. Which makes placing loyalties a sticky situation. So if I have to take sides? I'm going with Mackenzie and Thomas. "And there's no frigging way I'm letting my niece and nephew grow up in a broken home. You gotta talk to her, Steven-work it out."

He pushes his chair back-frustrated. "I've tried! Don't you think I've tried? I've kissed her a.s.s for the last two weeks. . . ."

I close my eyes and hold up my hand. "Please-easy on the mental pictures."

"I've tried everything I can think of . . . but I'm not gonna try anymore. If she wants to work it out, when she wants to talk-she's gonna have to come to me. I'm putting my foot down. I have some pride, you know."

Looks as if I'll be taking matters into my own hands. "I'll have a sit-down with my sister when we get back-find out what the h.e.l.l her deal is."

Steven is vehement. "No, Drew. This is between me and my wife. Stay out of it."

I back off. "All right. Relax-don't have a coronary." But I still plan on talking to Alexandra. If you want something done right, you have to f.u.c.king do it yourself.

We're all silent for a minute.

Steven says, "Look-I don't want this to bring us all down. Just shelve it. For tonight, let's just have a good time-like the old days. The only thing I want to think about is getting hammered and having fun. GTG all the way."

Matthew laughs. Because, like me, he hasn't heard those letters in years. And they bring back some pretty awesome memories.

He fist-taps Steven. "f.u.c.kin' A right-GTG."

Warren asks, "What's GTG?"

I smile. "It was our monogram back in the day."

"What's it stand for?"

I wiggle my eyebrows. "Good-time guys."

Later, going into the fourth round of the water-volleyball tournament, we're in first place. Kicking a.s.s and taking names. With only three more matches until the championships. It's fun. Physical. We exert ourselves but have enough time in between games to kick back, socialize, and down a few drinks.

Steven is currently getting down on the makeshift dance floor to "Blurred Lines." Can you see him over there? Pointing his fingers John Travolta style and thrusting his hips in time to the beat? It's not smooth or cool, but somehow Steven still comes off looking like the f.u.c.king man. The hip-shaking, hand-clapping, giggling girls surrounding him are loving it.

Across the opposite end of the pool is a loud, big-drinking divorce celebration, to which Jack invited himself, and he ended up getting some action in the hot tub from the divorcee herself.

Now he's back at the table with Matthew and me. We've been playing it mellow. Despite a few panty-dropping offers, we've made it clear our interests lie in hanging out-not hooking up. Surprisingly, Warren has turned out to be the heavy hitter in the poontang department.

Well . . . kind of. After our second win, he disappeared with a chick into the cabana. They came out half an hour later, retying their bathing suits. Fifteen minutes ago, he dove back in again-with girl number two.

I'm not impressed because . . . how can I put this without making you want to snip my b.a.l.l.s off with a pair of garden shears? . . . girl number one was . . . of the rotund persuasion. A jolly girl. The kind who has to broadcast an entertaining personality because she's severely lacking in the shape department. Don't get me wrong, big girls have their place in society too. Fat bottomed girls, you make the rockin' world go round, and all that.

And every guy has a type. One man's hog is another man's hottie. I've always preferred my women on the pet.i.te side-they're easier to flip around and maneuver into just the right position. But I don't think Warren has a pa.s.sion for the plumpies. I mean, he held on to Kate for a decade, and she never went through a chubby phase-I've seen pictures.

Plus, Warren's girl number two was totally at the other end of the spectrum. Superskinny, with a rack as flat as a surfboard, and a hook nose that suggested a strong relation to the bald eagle.

Pencil-d.i.c.k himself emerges from the cabana with a satisfied grin. He sits down at the table and takes a long drag from his beer. Matthew, Jack, and I just stare at him.

He looks back and forth between us. "What?"

I jerk my chin toward girl number two as she walks back to her table of equally unattractive friends. Subpars tend to stick together.

"What's with you and the scary sisters?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean your first hookup made Snooki look like Miss America. And that last chick is probably next of kin to the Wicked Witch of the West."

He sneers defensively. "She wasn't that bad."

Matthew and Jack cough. "b.u.t.ter face . . . b.u.t.ter face."

Warren asks, "What's a b.u.t.ter face?"

I roll my eyes at his ignorance. "It means everything is hot-but. Her. Face. Get it? And I think that's pretty generous, considering there's nothing b.o.n.e.r-worthy about a woman with the hips of a ten-year-old boy."

Jack suggests, "Maybe it's a fetish. You like to b.u.mp uglies with the uglies, Billy?"

"No. I don't have a thing for ugly girls."

I beg to differ. Still, I give him the chance to explain himself. "Then why are they the only ones you're hitting on?"

Warren squirms uncomfortably. "They're just . . . easier. I like a sure thing."

Matthew says, "You sold out Giants f.u.c.king Stadium six months ago. For you they should all be sure things."

Warren avoids eye contact and picks at the label on his beer. "I don't know. It's like . . . I was with Kate for a long time . . ."

As if I could f.u.c.king forget.

". . . and I never really had a chance to practice my skills, you know? And chicks in LA? They're b.i.t.c.hes, man-they're hot and they know it. So, it's less intimidating if I stick with the easy scores."

There's a story in the Bible about a guy who was a real mean b.a.s.t.a.r.d. One day he was walking down the road, and G.o.d knocked him on his a.s.s. This blinding light came from the sky, and a booming voice shouted down from the heavens, telling him what he needed to do. How to fix his life.

That's what this moment is like for me. An epiphany. A divine revelation.

If I can find Warren a girl of his own . . . if I can teach him the secrets of scoring quality pieces of a.s.s . . . maybe he'll be so distracted, he'll finally stop sniffing around Kate. And maybe-just maybe-I'll be rid of him. For good.

I have seen the path to the promised land, boys and girls. And it's lined with p.u.s.s.y.

Energized by the prospect of a Warren-less existence, I propose, "I can help you with that, you know."

"With getting girls?"

I nod. "Getting top-notch girls. The kind of females you've only seen in magazines and wet dreams. I can teach you how to make it happen. Once you taste gourmet, you'll never munch junk food again."

Jack tells Warren, "Jump all over this, man. You'd be learning from the best. Evans is the master-before he gets married, they should bronze his d.i.c.k, like DiMaggio's cleats."

Jack's praise is flattering. And a little disturbing.

Still, Warren looks suspicious. "Why would you want to help me?"

I shrug. "I'm a sucker for a lost cause-St. Jude always was my favorite saint. Plus, you're Kate's little buddy. If I help you out, I score points with her. And that's always a good thing."

He seems satisfied with my answer, so I start with the basics. "What's your game?"

"My what?"

"Your game plan. How do you approach these gorgeous LA women? What do you say?"

He scratches his head, like the dumbf.u.c.k monkey he is. "Well, sometimes I'll rush over, looking surprised, and I'll say, 'Are you all right? Did you hurt yourself? That fall from heaven was far.'"

The guys and I start laughing straightaway. But Warren doesn't. Then we stop.

I ask, "I'm sorry-were you serious?"

He looks away, slightly p.i.s.sed. "Forget this."

I implore him, "No, we won't laugh anymore. I want to help. What else?"

He debates answering for a second. "Sometimes I tell a joke."

Matthew looks perplexed. "A joke?"

"Yeah-you know-'This guy walks into a bar . . .' s.h.i.t like that."

I nod slowly. "Right. I can see why you think that would work . . . because every woman wants to screw Bozo the Clown."

Then we start laughing again.

Warren growls, "f.u.c.k you guys. I'm out of here." He starts to get up.

"Wait-don't go. Come on, man, we're just busting your b.a.l.l.s."

Reluctantly Warren sits back down.

I begin my tutorial. "First mistake-you're trying too hard. Women can smell desperation like a dog smells fear. And to them, it reeks like s.h.i.t. You have to be calm. Confident. Like . . . when we were kids, Matthew's uncle used to take us camping. At the campground there was a lake with all these sunnies swimming around, that all the kids would try to catch. There was this one annoying little p.r.i.c.k who wanted to catch the most fish-so he brought a net. He'd slam it into the water over and over, but he never caught any fish. He just scared them away. I, on the other hand, would bring a little bag of bread crumbs. I'd drop in just a few at a time-a small taste. Then I'd sit back and wait. After a minute or two, all the fish would come to me. You see what I'm saying?"