Sin & Tonic
Page 31
“Makes sense. And here I was half in love with her.”
“A common reaction. Hey, you’re not going to tell on me, are you?” Poor guy looks legiterally nervous. But it would be pretty hypocritical of me to tattle, considering how much I’ve enjoyed our time together.
“Nah. She’s Irish. Surely we’re related somehow. Family privilege.”
“That’s what I thought!” Dave brightens considerably. “Can I make you one of those shots you like?”
“For fuck sake, Dave. Of course you can, but keep your voice down.” Then I proceed to drink enough not to care that my husband doesn’t bother coming home.
Chapter 7
THE GREAT ESCAPE
He texts me the next morning to come outside. When I step out onto the porch, Phoenix has his mean face on and I’m pretty sure we’re either going to fuck right here or else break up. When he doesn’t stand up to greet me, it’s pretty obvious.
“Okay, but why?” I ask, instead of bothering with pointless pleasantries.
“It’s your sisters,” he tells me. “I really thought I could handle it, but it’s too much for me. There’s just… it’s too much. We can never just be me and you. Ever.”
I’m quiet for a few minutes as a movie-montage of all the flavors of extra my sisters are run through my head. There was the DJ job-theft from the wedding, and we’ve had two arrests and one lawsuit in the month since then. Well—those are the ones he knows about. I didn’t tell him about Darby’s minor brush with a suspended license, because the family lawyer handled that one real quickly.
Beyond that we had the usual assortment of fistfights, late night calls from Ma begging me to mediate before she got another noise complaint, and there was the dine-and-ditch bill he got stuck with after his friend the bartender recognized Kathleen from social media and called him.
I suppose the fact that he’s in the group-text might get a little annoying, and also leave him with a few too many unwanted period stories.
Plus the honeymoon… okay, I do kind of see where he’s coming from.
But also, I’m pissed, because there is literally nothing I can do about my family.
Even though the thought of moving to Belize and pretending I’m an orphan has crossed my mind, too. I’d be bored inside of a week without those lovable assholes. And even though we steal each other’s shit and prank call each other’s bosses and hack each other’s Facebook accounts to post disgusting statuses, we always have each other’s backs. Always.
Apparently, Father Paddy hadn’t put that one into our vows.
“So firstly, fuck you.” Another long pause, something that’s really defined these heart-to-hearts of ours.
“What’s second?”
“Nothing, I just wanted to make sure the first was done with expedience.” I nod firmly at him, but I can feel my hands starting to shake the way they do when the frustration builds too fast for proper rage and tries to escape via tears. I clench them really tight in my lap and pray he doesn’t notice. I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of actually watching my heart break. There’s no pink woodland creature party going on in there anymore.
“Honestly, Bridget, I really thought I could look past this. I didn’t think it would be a dealbreaker.” He glances at me now, and that motherfucker actually means this. He isn’t making the smirky face he normally does when he’s lying about something silly. Which makes it a hundred times worse.
Fuck honesty. It’s worse than responsibility.
“Do you have any thoughts?” he asks.
I most certainly do. But not a one of them is very nice. And for the life of me, I can’t see how any of them matter.
“Nope.”
“That’s… no offense, but that’s not really like you.” Fuck him for knowing me so well, too.
“I mean, you knew exactly what you were getting into when you suggested this wedding. All my sisters were right there. It was literally your idea to make this official. I was fully prepared to drink myself into spinsterhood, perhaps adopt a couple birds. Because do you know what? I like them. That’s right. I like birds. But you wanted this, and you made me fall for you, and now you’ve made a new decision that I am not part of and do you know what the worst part is?” I don’t wait for the response. “Now I will have to tell all my sisters about this. Good luck.”
I turn and walk inside, lock the door.
Remember he has a key, shove the couch in front of the door.
Realize the couch isn’t terribly heavy, pile a few stray side tables in front of it.
It isn’t until my barricade is firmly in place and I’m back up in my room, staring at the bed we shared just last night that I finally think of all the good one-liners I should have used. So typical.
I spend the next three days drinking Jameson out of the last cup he used, until it’s so smeared with my own Chapstick I can’t identify a single place his lips might have touched that mine haven’t erased completely.
After that I cry, mostly.
The sisters? They sure know something’s wrong; I don’t usually fall off the face of the earth unless I’ve accidentally wrecked someone’s car. (Only happened twice, to be fair.) I just can’t bring myself to tell them they are responsible for the end of my marriage through absolutely no fault of theirs.
Well. Perhaps some fault. But all Irish families thrive in chaos, that’s pretty scientific.
And the second they know, he’s a dead man. They won’t even consider feeling bad until they’ve mounted his head on a pole outside of There In Spirits. Frankly, I can’t decide if I’d like that or not. Probably there are pros and also cons.
Pros include looking amazing in black as I would technically be a widow and also no one speaking ill of the dead. Cons are them fucking up that beautiful face of his and the knowledge that it’s like—really over for real for real.
Such a coin toss.
In the meantime, it’s easy enough to ignore my doorbell, social media, phone, and the pebble Eileen is currently tossing at my bedroom window.
Or it was, until she moves to a rock large enough to come sailing right on through the glass. A note is wrapped around it with a rubber band as though this is a shitty movie threat from the 1980’s: let me in or else I come back with the army. The army being seven Riley’s and assorted hangers-on, I decide I’d better let her in.
“You are paying for that window.”
“You are not showering enough.” We stare at each other until she pulls out a fresh bottle of Jameson.
“How did you know?” I ask.
“You live to smugly explain every detail of your life to us. The second you stop, it can only be because your life sucks. And let’s face it, Phoenix was basically the only thing you had going for you. Did you punch him? Because I’ve told you before about punching people. Domestic violence is not something to be done recreationally, Bridget—”
“I didn’t punch him. He just wants a divorce so he can go live a quiet, beige life in the suburbs.”
“Are you being serious right now?” Eileen takes a swig straight from the bottle and passes it over to me. “I’m going to fucking punch him right in that perfect nose.”
“You’re my favorite sister.” We drink together until we both pass out in my bed, cuddled up like puppies. I cannot recommend divorce, but if you must, I highly recommend doing it with Eileen around.
Chapter 8
THE HAPPY ENDING
I t definitely sounds real fancy to tell people we have a family lawyer. That’s definitely why we do it. In all honesty, it’s my cousin Steve-o, and he works for Legal Aid. Sure, his stationary isn’t much to sneeze at—and I’m pretty sure he pays for it himself—but he’s as licensed as anyone else in the great state of Missouri.
So I’ve rerouted Phoenix’s calls to Steve-o’s cell phone, and even the fact that I forgot to give Steve-o himself a heads up on it doesn’t take away from the delight I feel at how that must have gone the first time.
He was p
robably blindsided.
A feeling he taught me all too well.
I’m trying really hard not to be bitter, but Sierra’s behind the bar again. Maggie said she’s sick of talking about me and moved down the bar to sexually harass a group of businessmen. I am not sick of talking about me. Sierra does not appear to be sick of talking about me. Although I do have a sneaking suspicion this might become writing fodder for her at some point. So in answer to her question if I’ve even spoken to my soon-to-be ex since I left him on my porch, here I am.
Bitter.
“I guess I just feel like I deserve this.” I slurp at my Princeton Rub. I’m on my second, which has me pretty deep into Chatty Cathy territory. “I was smarter before I met him. I was going to settle. If I’d gone with a passionless man, we wouldn’t have fought and that guy’d be waiting for me now, at home with a game that isn’t soccer and his hobbies that do not involve harassing the neighborhood birds. It’s the grownup way.”
“Oh, honey. You deserve nothing. But that doesn’t mean you have to settle, either.” Sierra’s on her second drink, too. “Can you ever go back to passionless sex now, for example? Oh, god, don’t cry.”
But it’s too late. I’m sobbing.
“Anyone else I have sex with won’t have his perfect dick!” I manage to get out, as Maggie assures the businessmen she has no clue who the crazy crying woman is who looks just like her. Dave hands me a stack of cocktail napkins and flees. I don’t expect to see him again tonight. Just like I’ll never have the perfect D again. That sets me off all over. Being an adult is just one unending misery, punctuated by shining moments of drunkenness.
“I’m just saying that maybe you should talk to him. Marriages are about compromise, and you didn’t even try to find ways for the two of you to be alone before you threatened to sic all of your sisters on him and locked him out.”
Well, fuck. When she puts it like that.
“Do you want another drink and I’ll braid your hair before I leave?” I nod before that registers.
“Why are you leaving?” This is alarming. I’m not sick of talking about me yet.
“I’m as inspired as I need to be to finish my book. Grindr Payne and Gunchester Wig are finally going to get their happy ending. And so, it’s time for me to go. But much like a bustier, white Morgan Freeman, I’ll always show back up just when you need me.”
There isn’t much for me to say to that. It probably is time for a nice French braid and a good hard think. And she’s right. I need to take some responsibility for this. I’m the oldest sister; I should have set firmer boundaries.
Set any boundaries at all.
I’m going to have to make a grand gesture.
I cannot imagine the divorce judge will be altogether happy when I give a speech in court. Probably even less happy when she sees I’ve recruited Erin to film it. But one can never be certain when one may go viral, and in the social media game, one must always be prepared. I’m still annoyed no one covered my wedding, frankly.
I start writing it in my head. Phoenix, I will begin. I think for a while. Phoenix. Writing speeches is really hard, it turns out. Even though you were wrong af—no, I can’t say ‘af’ in court. Also, I’m supposed to be accepting responsibility.
Phoenix. Fuck my sisters. No, no, no, wrong on several levels. I’m rummaging through my purse for a pen to see if writing it out is any easier when I hear it. The utterly distinctive sound of all my of-age sisters saying ‘potato’ in their different voices, even Erin’s fake brogue. And the last one.
That last potato sounded real familiar. Real familiar.
Thank the Virgin that Dave gave me all these napkins, because I only have about fifteen seconds to wipe the tears and stray mascara off my face before I’ll have to turn around. It’s sure lucky for me Sierra is still finishing my braid, and that gives me a small amount of cover. I blow my nose heartily just as she finishes wrapping the elastic.
Then he’s on the stool next to me, and I can’t help but notice he’s still wearing his wedding ring. It’s more than a little impressive considering that I picked it out for another man A of all, and B of all it was his idea to get a divorce. The shame of every good Catholic. I wouldn’t take back the banging, though.
Besides. I’m still wearing my ring, too.
Then Sierra’s back behind the bar, presenting us with two new drinks.
“Okay, don’t be mad. This one’s called the Reconciliation. I invented it after Phoenix called the bar earlier. It felt appropriate.”
“And Catholic!” I say, taking a large sip.
“Does that taste good, baby?” Phoenix asks, and he isn’t exactly wearing his mean face, it’s more like the really earnest one he had when we broke up but he just called me baby and is that a hint of rainbow I feel?
“It’s fine,” I lie. This might be a trick question. I might be getting blindsided again. But the name of the drink… Which is good. Sierra is my favorite fake bartender wingman.
I can tell when everything’s getting real, because all my sisters grow miraculously quiet. It’s possible this may qualify Phoenix for canonization. Father Paddy would certainly agree.
“Bridget Riley Kelly. You are way too much work for me. Your family is a shitshow. I’m bored to fucking death without you. Can we get remarried?” With that, he pulls out an engagement ring that is certainly worth less than four months of his salary, but is also a thousand percent more perfect for me.
“We decided not to put it in your drink, because that’s the kind of thing that would make you mad,” Sierra stage-whispers. They made the correct decision.
“We never actually got divorced.” I feel like I need to just point that out.
“I know, but that wedding wasn’t really ours. Besides, did you know Sierra is an ordained minister?” That’s all it takes to sell me.
Five minutes to get Dave re-settled behind the bar.
Five minutes to rally the troops.
Five minutes to say our vows.
Fifteen minutes total before I kiss him again and confirm that we are man and wife.
The bar erupts, and even though she’d probably make a killing, Sierra slips out to leave us to it. Not to worry. Erin’s already hopped behind the bar to work the room with her accent. Maggie’s sitting on a businessman. Eileen is holding Darby back before she punches the stranger who just spilled her drink.
“Do you want to get out of here?” Phoenix whispers.
“Desperately.”
There’s an awful lot to recommend about an Irish family, but this might even be better.
About the Author
Kayti McGee is livin’ deliciously in beautiful Kansas City, Missouri. Go Royals! She also writes as the latter half of Laurelin McGee. Like her co-author Laurelin Paige, she is a proud member of Mensa, and the Gaelic League of Detroit. It’s a long story.
Check out her current books at http://kaytimcgee.com, find announcements on Insta @kaytimcgeewrites, and if you want a playlist to read to, Phoenix and Bridget have their very own! Http://open.spotify.com/user/KaytiAnneMcGee/playlist/5imklkt2IMcAT46QoiEGJi
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Contents
Foreword
About the Anthology
Wild Thang- USA Today Bestselling Author, Tessa Layne
Copyright
Wild Thang Recipe
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
All In- USA Today Bestselling Author, Mira Lyn Kelly
Copyright
All In Recipe
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Cha
pter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Epilogue
About the Author
French Kiss- R. L. Kenderson
Copyright
French Kiss Recipe
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Acknowledgments
Also By R.L. Kenderson
About the Authors
Irish Legend- K.C. Enders
Copyright
Irish Legend Recipe
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6