by Xavier Neal
His response is almost instant.
Superman: Enjoy. I’ll save ya a plate.
I smile at the lack of pushback and prepare to put my phone away when another text comes in.
Dawn: Is it Wine Me, Dine Me, Fuck Yeah, 69 Me Friday yet?!
The unexpected text that references our monthly double date in which our husbands’ parents or brothers watch our children forces me to bury my snickers in the back of my throat.
Me: Nope. And out with coworkers, so I’ll text ya when I get home.
Dawn: Have fun!
Still smiling, I shove my phone in my back pocket and mentally note to remind Eddie that’s this weekend.
Crazy how it slipped my mind…
It’s never done that before.
Normally, I count down the days until our double dates. Afterall, what’s better than getting to spend the evening with your husband and your best friend uninterrupted? Both men know better than to ever cancel or attempt to rearrange said date outside of emergencies. The hell they receive is never worth it, but the reward they get for keeping it always is. It’s the one weekend Eddie can get away with the less vanilla sex shit — like using a ball gag on me — thanks to our briefly, childless household.
We enter the building, and the grin on my face expands wide. End of The World is exactly the type of bar I love. It’s a local, hole in the wall joint that brings the feelings of a small-town establishment to the fast-paced life of the big city. Rinky dink hang outs are one of the only things I actually miss about that way of life, and because of where Eddie’s parents and brother live, I get to engage in it whenever I get the whim to ride a mechanical bull, line dance, or go mudding.
One of the two bartenders salutes Langston as a form of hello only seconds prior to filling up three beer glasses. They’re immediately brought over by a busty brunette just as we settle at an empty table near the dart board.
She places them down in front of each of us before she plants a kiss on Langston’s light, caramel-colored cheek. “Let me know if you need anything else, sweetie.”
The woman flounces off to tend to another table in the bustling bar yet has left me slightly puzzled. “Um…” I search for the classier way of voicing my question. “Does she know she’s scratching up the wrong tree?”
Langston lightly chuckles at the same time he reaches for his beer.
“Don’t be mistaken,” my nonchalant continuation keeps his attention, “if I didn’t work with you, I could definitely see the appeal-”
“What type of backwards ass compliment is that?”
Yasmine tilts her dark chocolate face sarcastically his direction. “Guessing she means if we hadn’t seen you pick kale out of your teeth while belting Elton John’s ‘Can You Feel The Love Tonight’, she could call you attractive.”
That definitely did sway the vote.
Not that there’s anything wrong with a man who can sing…Hell, Eddie can and does sing all the time. His choices just typically bounce between country and rock. Then there’s also the fact, he’s never been caught having a full-out concert moment in the bathroom, singing into a toothpick like he’s up for a Tony. It was in that moment I realized the big, burly, bald, half black, half Italian man my husband had been worried would fall in love with me, would be more likely to fall in love with him. It’s not that Langston hides his sexuality or is ashamed. He just doesn’t behave like the other gay men I’ve come across in this world, i.e. he’s not flamboyant. Not to say all gay men have to be. Just the ones I’ve met happen to be.
Langston cockily smirks. “It’s an incredible song.”
“That wasn’t supposed to be the focal point of the sentence,” Yasmine chastises.
He merely chuckles and lifts his glass to his lips.
Their back and forth nature is one that’s easy to slip into. They have a sibling-like bond that reminds me of the one my husband shares with all of his. The joking, jovial connection is something I never got growing up — or even now for that matter. My two sisters seem to believe we’re in some backwoods version of Cinderella to this day. Let’s just forget the small fact that I’m the oldest, and we’re all, unfortunately, blood-related. They believe they’re both pretty and perfect women who married Prince Charmings, ending the fairytale the way they always read it despite what the book or movie told them. Getting away from their toxic, overly stuffy traditions was an obvious blessing, but being welcomed into a family where loving each other isn’t for show was difficult. My jealousy was instant. Annoyance apparent. Confusion on how there was such camaraderie between all of them clear. It’s gotten easier over the years, and as the other Shaws have fallen in love, I’m gaining new “sisters”, which is so nice. I’m finally getting those relationships I’ve always wanted, but in the back of my mind, part of me believes it’s somewhat forced. Like we have to get along even if under normal circumstances we might not. Maybe that’s why I like being a part of this trio. They don’t have to welcome me into their lives like family to work with me, yet they have.
Meaning they want me around.
It’s nice having that outside of the people I’m related to.
It’s not nice wondering if they actually like me because they find me fun to be around or if they’re pretending to like me so that I don’t lead a family coup against them.
Which, on the record, I wouldn’t.
All of the Shaws have somehow managed to nail down incredible women…
Self included in that tally.
“You’re a good lookin’ man,” I casually state to Langston, pulling the conversation back to my original question, “however, you’re only into other men, which is why her thirsty behavior seems like somethin’ you should’ve shut down instead of just lettin’ her skip away on the yellow slut road.”
Yasmine nearly spits out the gulp of beer in her mouth.
Langston slowly shakes his head in disbelief, mirth bouncing around his stare. “I don’t know what’s fucking funnier, you calling her thirsty or implying my dick is a wizard.” He steals a sip. “Though it is.”
At that our boss gags. “She wasn’t calling your cock magical you moron. She was implying the chick looks like a trashy Dorothy with her pigtails and poorly buttoned plaid shirt.”
I choose not to mention I have a shirt similar to it.
It’s strictly worn for date night, make my man drool in public, purposes…
I’d never wear it to work even when I worked in a bar. Primarily because my ass is nicer than my tits and blue jean shorts go quite a ways where I was raised.
“Debbie is an old childhood friend. We went to the same school from the time we were six until she was sixteen. She knew every guy I fooled around with, including the basketball coach. Her mom’s job transferred them to Canada the summer before our junior year, and we pretty much lost touch. She moved back to Highland about a week ago. She needed a job. My brother, Leo, needed to fulfill banging a long-lost crush. Everyone wins.”
“The bartender is your brother?”
“Younger brother,” Langston clarifies.
“We drink here because it’s free,” Yasmine sells him out.
“And because we really like this local beer,” he swiftly adds. “Go ahead. Try it. It’s called Runt’s Beer.”
All of a sudden, my jaw drops. “What did you say?”
“Weird name I know,” Yasmine promptly interjects, “but it’s some of the best shit I’ve ever had. Try it. I swear the shit’s not poison.”
The giggle that escapes me sends concerned expressions to both of their faces.
I allow my smile to widen in pride. “That’s my brother-in-law’s beer.”
“What?” They question in unison.
“My brother in law, Runt…err…Ford owns…well owned…Or still owns…? Whatever, Runt’s Beer was created by him. It was bought out by Wilcox Whiskey to help distribution and expansion, but he still oversees everything that has to do with his company. I’ve been drinkin’ this beer for years.”
“No shit,” Yasmine smirks, handing me a set of darts she collected.
Langston indulges in another gulp. “Small world.”
Too small sometimes.
Even with Highland being as large as it is, paths still cross much too often for my liking.
Not in this case obviously.
I’m glad people are drinking our family’s beer. Ecstatic that it’s being well received by strangers. In fact, I’ll probably call Runt on my way home to brag to him about it.
Now, occasionally walking by Carol Ann, Runt’s ex fiancée, when I make a midday run for coffee?
Loathe.
Childishly bumping into or tripping her?
Love.
“Here’s the deal,” Yasmine begins on what I imagine to be a different topic. “We don’t really play like the actual game. We enjoy a much more low-key approach. Each of us takes a turn throwing a dart, whoever has the most near or on the center of the target wins.” Yasmine motions her hand towards the target. Wanna go first?”
“Depends,” I twirl the yellow tipped dart playfully around my fingertips, “do I have to let you win because you’re my boss?”
“I never do, and she hasn’t fired me yet,” Langston laughs from the table.
“Not for lack of trying,” Yasmine teasingly mumbles.
“No points system?”
“Nah. Just a simple whoever gets the most darts in the middle area wins.”
“Which is usually me, I’d just like to reiterate,” Langston proclaims.
They exchange playful middle fingers while I relocate to the competition area.
Positioning myself behind the line, I twist the object between my index and thumb, taking the time to completely focus my shot. My wrist warms up by pretending to throw the dart, though it only lets go once I’m completely convinced of its landing location. The dart soars through the air to land smack dab in the middle of the board.
My boss pushes up her red-rimmed glasses. “Professional?”
“I’ve gotten that way.”
“Meaning?”
“I’ve spent more than enough nights in bars to get pretty good.”
“Pretty good?” Langston mocks from over our shoulders. “You hit that shit on the first try!”
“Okay,” my snickers grow, “really good.”
Yasmine gives her shaved head an uncomfortable scratch, expels a deep breath, and lets the dart in her possession fly. Unfortunately, it lands on the outer most ring, barely sticking. I’m tempted to question why anyone would want to engage in a game they’re obviously bad at, but I don’t.
“You play about as well as my husband,” I joke before throwing another dart.
She rests her 5’11 frame against the edge of the table Langston is parked behind. “Not his thing?”
“Playing sports of any kind is not his thing.” Reaching for my glass to finally take my first drink, I explain, “As much as he wishes they were, they’re just not. He’s gotta be the clumsiest bastard I know when it comes to anything related to throwing or catching in the sports division of life. All butterfingers. Give him a tool…hammer, wrench, screwdriver, and he’s fucking Bob the Builder. Give him a football, and it’s like he’s playing hot potato. It’s adorably ridiculous. Our six-year-old is more athletic.”
They both laugh at the new information.
Yasmine takes her time returning to a throwing position. “How’d you two meet?”
“Only tell us the story if it’s not fucking boring,” Langston demands. “I have an easily lovestruck little brother for that shit.”
I toss him a curious glance. “How easy?”
His eyes roll of their own accord. “They should make a Disney Princess movie based on him.”
Catching my laughter in the palm of my hand is instant.
“Ignore him, and the fact my dart landed on the floor,” our boss commands.
After having another drink of my beer, I take my turn, mentally scolding myself to tame down the perfect precision.
Beating my new employer is one thing, but flat out embarrassing her is probably too much.
My wrist rolls around in preparation of launching the object. I dial down the strength of the throw, yet somehow still manage to land on the outer bullseye.
Damn it. Why do I feel like my competitive nature won’t let me give anything less than ninety-five percent?
“So,” Yasmine draws out the word, “how’d you two meet?”
“No boring bullshit allowed!”
“Shut up, Langston.” Her snip is proceeded with a wicked smirk. “Or I’ll turn you into a dart board.”
He bobbles his head mockingly and has a swig of his beer.
It’s my turn to lean my 5’7 figure against the edge of the square wooden table. “We met at a Postman concert.”
The bafflement in his voice is more than evident. “Since when do postal workers have concerts?”
“Probably a band, genius.”
“It’s actually a person,” I cautiously correct, not completely certain just how lightly I should be treading. “Brady ‘Postman’ Post. He’s a big country music star.”
“Ah,” they state collectively.
“Take it neither of you are country music fans?”
Yasmine sneers her nose and steps over to shoot her dart. “Would rather go to a concert put on by actual postmen.”
When my attention lands on Langston, he shrugs. “Too honkey tonk wonkey wonk for me to give a fuck about.”
“Got it…” I slowly nod in a playful sense. “Do not even consider sharing my playlist at work.”
“Not if that’s the only thing on it,” my boss states as she lets go of the object.
“Not if that’s the primary thing on it,” my coworker instantly echoes.
“For the record, I like other music too.”
“Do the artists also write ballads of love to their pickup trucks?” Langston continues to chide.
Yasmine’s dart once more falls from the board, and I step up to continue my flawless victory. “I don’t think the Brits drive pickup trucks.” The game piece pierces the center of the target. “Damn sure can’t imagine anyone in Whitesnake or The Rolling Stones rollin’ through town in a jacked-up Chevy.” When I spin back around, I’m surprised to see stunned expressions on their faces. “What?”
“Just…surprised you listen to more than country shit,” Langston casually retorts.
My arms fold defensively across my chest. “You thought I was jus’ one walkin’, talkin’, stereotype?”
“I mean a little,” he answers honestly.
“Thanks,” I harshly snip.
Langston swiftly attempts to explain, “Come on, between the heavy accent-”
“It is not that heavy.”
“-and the whiskey tank tops, what did you expect us to think?”
“Don’t us me,” Yasmine promptly denies, hands surrendering in the air. “Don’t include me in your little prejudgment problem.”
He hits her with a disapproving glare. “Seriously? You didn’t think she was all vanilla no sprinkles when you hired her?”
The outburst isn’t well thought out. “I sprinkle!”
Their heads tilt in confusion.
“Have sprinkles…Am sprinkly?” My head shakes in irritation. “Fuck it, whatever. I am much more than whatever preconceived notions you thought I was. Jus’ so we’re clear, being raised in a small town, havin’ an accent, and appreciatin’ a damn good drink does not make me uneducated, uncivilized, or unqualified to work in that kitchen beside you.” Langston’s mouth twitches to speak yet is cut off once again. “I didn’t judge you or expect you to behave in a certain way because of your sexual preference, the least you could do is extend me the same courtesy in this aspect.”
Horror and remorse fight for the rightful spot on his expression.
Instead of waiting for one to win, I place my remaining darts on the table. “I should probably go.”
“No,” Yasmine
firmly objects. “We invited you out because we wanted to get to know you better and because you’re fun to be around. The fact you can and did stand up for yourself just proves I made the right decision in hiring you. It also proves that Langston can deep throat his own foot.”
The end of the joke causes me to snigger.
“Stick around,” my boss encourages. “Give L over there a chance to apologize for being a dick and to tell us the rest of the story about…Freddie?”