by Tara Sivec
Before I knew it, I was all alone in the barn, lying on my back in a pile of hay, making snow angels and singing The Brady Bunch theme song at the top of my lungs.
“How much have you had to drink?”
I jerked upright in the hay when I heard Clint’s voice, immediately regretting that decision when everything started to spin. I smacked my hand against my forehead and closed my eyes, groaning loudly when it felt like there were a million tiny elves in my head, pounding their tiny hammers against my skull.
“I don’t know. How much do I have to drink to make you go away?” I asked, dropping my hand from my head and squinting up at him out of one eye.
Aside from myself and Ember, who were the guests of honor, everyone else at this party was dressed in jeans and cowboy boots and other casual attire. Of course Clint had to be the only one who showed up in black dress pants, a white button-down, and a black tie. And of course he didn’t look like an idiot. He looked hot. He looked older and more mature than all the other idiots my age, who were probably puking in the fields right now, or out finding some cows to tip. He looked like he was getting ready to conduct a board meeting. He looked like a hot CEO of a company, ready to pound some skulls and demand to know why stocks were down the last quarter, and the only thing that would put him in a good mood was when the meeting was adjourned and he got to bend his secretary—who happened to look just like me—over the conference room table.
Ember and I may or may not have gotten access to an online porn site recently where we’d watched an office-themed porn. We made fun of the whole thing, but I’d had a lot of dirty dreams since we watched it that all involved Clint.
If I squinted harder, I could almost pretend like we were in a conference room and he was pounding his fist on the table, demanding a cup of coffee. And then the smell of horse shit permeated the air and completely ruined that fantasy. Along with Clint opening his mouth again.
“Are you having a stroke? What’s wrong with your eyes?”
“Shut up and let me die in peace,” I muttered, dropping my head to stare down at my hands in my lap.
He flopped down on the hay next to me and gently bumped his shoulder into mine. I let out a sigh and turned my head to look at him, suddenly aware of how close our faces were.
He stared into my eyes and didn’t say a word. Goose bumps broke out all over my bare arms, but I didn’t want to move to rub them away and ruin whatever was happening.
“Aren’t you going to say something insulting about my dress?” I whispered.
His eyes trailed down to my lips and I licked them nervously. I watched Clint’s Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed a few times, never taking his eyes off my mouth.
“Maybe I’m tired of the insults,” he muttered softly.
His eyes came back up to meet mine, and I don’t even know who started moving first. All of a sudden, our noses were touching and his mouth was a centimeter away from mine. My heart was pounding in my chest, and I hoped to God he couldn’t hear it. I’d been fantasizing about this moment for far too long. I briefly wondered if I was so drunk that I was imagining things. But I could feel his breath against my lips, and when his hand came up between us to rest against the side of my cheek, I could feel the warmth of his palm.
“I must be an idiot,” Clint whispered so softly that I almost didn’t hear him.
I closed my eyes and held my breath, waiting for his lips to press against mine.
“Brooklyn! Let’s go! We got a huge cardboard cutout of the Statue of Liberty for everyone to take a picture in front of! New York or bust, motherfucker!”
Clint’s hand suddenly dropped from my cheek when fucking Danny Meyers shouted into the barn. When I opened my eyes, Clint was already standing up and moving away from me.
He didn’t even look back at me when he walked away. He shoved his hands into the pockets of those stupid black dress pants and just left me there.
I curse at myself and wipe a tear off my cheek as I turn onto the road that will take me to my dad’s house. Why in the hell am I even taking this stupid trip down memory lane right now? It’s gotta be because of exhaustion after dealing with Mia all day. I’m tired and sticky, and I just want to wash all this shit off my face and go to bed. I spent a lot of years thinking about that almost-kiss, but I thought I’d blocked it from my memory. Of course it came back in high definition and now won’t stop playing on a loop in my head since I’m forced to be around Clint again after all this time. At first, I used to analyze that whole “I must be an idiot” thing he said to me, and thought for sure he meant he was an idiot for not trying to kiss me sooner. Since we never spoke again after that night and I moved away, I came to realize that he was most likely calling himself an idiot for his momentary lapse in judgement, trying to kiss a drunk girl he couldn’t stand.
I’m so annoyed with myself for thinking about this crap that I don’t realize there’s a sheriff behind me, until the flashing blue-and-red lights reflect off my rearview mirror and the blare of the siren makes me jump and almost swerve off the road.
I quickly slow down my dad’s truck and pull off onto the berm, shutting off the engine. I groan when I flip down the visor and check my reflection in the mirror.
Why didn’t I at least wash this stupid bright blue eye shadow off my eyes that goes from my eyelids all the way up past my eyebrows before I left the farm?
I roll down the truck window just as the man in uniform gets up to my door.
“Care to tell me why you were driving so fast, ma’am?”
The man bends down so he can look into the truck and his eyes widen as he does a double take.
“Brooklyn Manning?”
Jesus. What are the odds that I just had a stupid high school flashback that involved this idiot, and now here he is?
“Danny Meyers,” I say, putting on the fakest smile in the world.
“Well, shit! I forgot someone said you were back in town. I saw your dad’s truck and I thought maybe someone had stolen it, on account that he’s not supposed to be driving and all just yet. You look… great,” he says, staring at my hideous makeup and equally hideous hair, his words just as fake as my smile.
A part of me wants to tell him I don’t normally look like this, but I don’t really give a shit at this point. Danny isn’t exactly going to be on the cover of GQ anytime soon with that enormous beer belly threatening to pop the buttons on his uniform, and his receding hairline. Ember will definitely enjoy it when I tell her that his entire body smells like onions now, and not just his jizz.
“How’s the Big Apple? You gonna stick around long, or are you heading back soon? We should get together, have some drinks, talk about old times,” he tells me, the smell of onions wafting through the car with every word he speaks and making me want to put my hand over my nose.
“New York is great! Can’t wait to get back!” I reply, my voice sounding entirely too happy and chipper. “I should probably get—”
“Oh, yeah, yeah. You probably need to get home to your dad. Make sure you give him my best. When he’s feeling better, tell him I’ll buy him a beer up at the VFW. I’ll give you a White Timber High alumni pass tonight and just let you go with a warning, as long as you promise to watch your speed. Go Wildcats!” he shouts, holding his hand up in the open window for a high-five.
I awkwardly smack my hand against his and start to roll my window back up, when Danny presses his hand down on top of the moving window to stop me.
“Hey, remember that time during the homecoming game when you tripped and bit it at the fifty-yard line? God, that was hilarious!” he says, throwing his head back and laughing.
Oh, screw you, Clint Hastings. Screw you and my stupid teenage crush.
Chapter 8
Maple Inn Life
I’m already so frazzled after my interaction with Danny and my stupid trip down memory lane that pulling into my dad’s driveway and seeing seven cars parked in the yard, as well as a White Timber ambulance in front of the garage,
threatens to chuck me right over the edge into full-blown crazy town.
I don’t even take the keys out of the ignition; I just fly out of the truck, race up the front porch steps, and start shouting my dad’s name as soon as I run through the door. My feet come to an abrupt halt when I get to the doorway of the living room, and my panic quickly morphs into disbelief at what I’m seeing. And smelling.
“Dad, what the hell?” I shout, throwing my hands up in the air and letting them smack back down against my thighs.
His living room has been converted into a poker den of corruption. The furniture has been shoved back against the walls, and there are four card tables set up in the middle of the room, piled high with beer cans and junk food. There’s a cloud of cigar smoke hovering above everyone’s heads seated at the tables, so thick I can’t even see the ceiling.
I didn’t really give a shit about seeing Danny Meyers a few minutes ago in my current state of looking like I was an extra in a bad ’80s music video, but as I look around the room, I see at least six more of my former classmates. It’s like a goddamn White Timber High reunion, where everyone looks great, and has aged well, and has great jobs, and perfect lives, and then I walk in, the music comes to a screeching stop, and everyone tries not to make eye contact with the loser who never amounted to anything.
I was the fucking prom queen! I’ve been living it up in New York working for the largest fashion magazine in the world! I am not a loser!
Ignoring the shocked stares from my former classmates and a few of my dad’s friends, I march over to the table where he’s sitting and stand next to him with my hands on my hips.
“What are you eating?”
He doesn’t even look up at me. He just takes another huge, messy bite of the sandwich in his hand.
“A BLT,” he grumbles, tiny pieces of toast and bacon flying out of his mouth when he speaks.
“Really? Because that just looks like an entire pound of bacon in between two pieces of bread.”
He shrugs his shoulders as he finishes off the last bite, wiping his hands on the front of his shirt.
“Fine, so I’m eating a BLT, minus the LT.”
Picking up the glass next to his plate, I bring it up to my nose and gag a little when I take a whiff.
“Tequila? Seriously? Dad! You just had open heart surgery!”
“I saw an article last month where daily consumption of tequila in moderation can help with your dad’s Crohn’s disease. It’s been doing wonders for—”
I let out a low growl as I glare at Carson Anderson, the guy I went to prom with my senior year, who’s sitting at the table behind my dad.
“So, how’ve you been, Brooklyn? You look… great,” he says, his head cocking to the side as he studies my rat’s nest of hair.
I am so tired of people telling me I look great with that damn pause in the middle. I’d have much more respect for them if they told me I looked like straight up asshole. At least Clint was honest when he saw me earlier.
Ughh, stop trying to make Clint seem like he isn’t a douchebag! He’s the king of douchebags!
“Why is there an ambulance outside? Are you okay?” I question my dad, trying not to roll my eyes when he licks his finger and starts picking up all the tiny pieces of bacon on the table that escaped his sandwich, and then sticks his finger back in his mouth.
“Oh, that’s mine! I’m off duty. Is that a fancy New York City hairdo? It looks… great on you,” Landon Walker, the captain of the football team, whose only claim to fame in high school was being able to belch the alphabet after drinking a case of beer, tells me.
Seriously? This guy is judging me?
Yep, this is it. I have officially reached my breaking point.
Without another word, I stomp out of the room and down the hall, escaping into the bathroom. I take five minutes to wash all this shit off my face, pull the ponytail out of my hair, and brush it until there are no more knots, and it’s hanging in loose waves down my back. After that, I rush across the hall to my old bedroom, stripping out of my tee and athletic pants as I go. Ripping the first thing I see off of a hanger in my closet—a lavender strapless romper—I step into it and pull it up my body, sliding on a pair of tan, high-heeled wedges I got for a steal at Barneys.
Marching back out of the room, I walk right past the living room without even looking in to see what other stupid choices my dad is making.
“Hey! Where ya going?” my dad shouts as I throw open the front door. “Can you pick up some more tequila while you’re out? The top shelf stuff, not that rot gut shit!”
I don’t even answer him, slamming the door closed behind me as I go. As soon as I get into his truck, I grab my purse from where I left it on the front seat and pull out my cell phone. Scrolling to the contact I just added earlier this afternoon, I hit the Call button, and Ember picks up on the first ring.
“Question. Do you have an awesome husband who will keep an eye on your kid at a moment’s notice, so you can go to a bar and get trashed? Asking for a friend,” I add, starting up the truck and backing out of the driveway as I hold the phone between my cheek and shoulder.
“As a matter of fact, I do. On a scale of one to ten, how trashed are we talking?” Ember asks.
“Eighty-seven.”
“Shit. That’s defcon, emergency level drinking. I’m in. I haven’t had a night out in months. I’ll meet you at the Maple Inn.”
Ember doesn’t even say goodbye; she just hangs up on me in the middle of shouting to her husband that she’s going out and he’s in charge.
God, I missed her.
The Maple Inn isn’t actually an Inn. I have no idea why it’s called this, since it’s just a tiny dive bar, and the only bar aside from the VFW in White Timber. Since you have to be a veteran with a VFW membership to drink there, the Maple Inn is our one and only option. It’s located on Main Street along with every other business in town, stuck between the public library and The Timber Diner. It’s roughly eight-hundred square feet, with dirty and stained black and white tile on the floor, just enough room for ten barstools along the bar, and a bench seat that runs the entire length of the wall next to the bar, with four tables and two chairs at each one.
There are two guys at the bar who look like they’ve been sitting there since before I was born, and a couple making out at one of the tables, completely oblivious to everything around them.
Since I left town before I turned twenty-one, this is the first time I’ve ever stepped foot in this place. I’m severely overdressed, just like I always seem to be, but I don’t give a shit. I don’t recognize anyone here, so it’s perfect. Flopping down on a barstool, a woman who could have given me a run for my money in the bad ’80s music video competition, comes over and stands in front of me on the other side of the bar. Her permed, bleach blonde hair has been teased and sprayed so much that a hurricane wouldn’t be able to move one single strand. She’s wearing stonewashed jeans that look like they’ve been painted on, a white T-shirt, and a matching stonewashed jean vest. I almost want to look at the calendar on my phone just to double check what year it is.
“What can I getcha?” she asks in a bored voice, wiping down a section of the bar between us with a dirty, white rag.
“You wouldn’t be able to make a lemon drop martini, would you?” I ask hopefully.
She sighs loudly, crossing her arms in front of her as she looks me up at down.
“Let me guess. Allen Manning’s kid. The fancy New Yorker with a stick up her ass.”
Seriously? I don’t need this shit right now.
“Can you make a lemon drop or not? This stick up my ass is getting pretty painful, and I could use some liquor to ease the pain,” I reply sarcastically.
She glares at me for a few more seconds, and then finally drops her arms, resting her hands on top of the bar.
“I don’t know. What’s in it?”
“Vodka, Triple Sec, and lemon juice, with sugar on the rim.”
My mouth waters a
s I rattle off the ingredients. Even after high school, I still never became much of a drinker. A glass or two of champagne or a lemon drop was about all I could handle when I was out at events. I didn’t want to be a drunk, slurring idiot when I was technically working, and I never really grew to like the taste of alcohol. I just always felt like I fit in more if I had a drink in my hand. But right now, I kind of want to take a bath in vodka and just drink the tub empty with a straw.
The woman lets out another annoyed sigh, tossing her rag onto the bar and turning around to look at the wall of liquor behind her. I don’t really feel all that confident when she grabs a bottle from the shelf and has to blow dust off of it before she removes the lid, but I’m committed to getting drunk at this point, and I’m just going to ignore the fact that the bottle of Triple Sec she’s pouring into a glass might have been on that shelf long past its expiration date. I also decide not to point out that a lemon drop should be shaken, and the ingredients shouldn’t just be dumped into a glass, but I don’t want this woman to kick me out of the only bar in town, so I keep my mouth shut.
I have to bite down on my lips when she slides the glass across the bar and then tosses a few sugar packets next to them.
“I don’t have time for all that fancy sugar-rim shit,” she mutters, before moving down to the other end of the bar to fill up a beer glass from the tap.
Grabbing the glass, I take a huge sip of the drink, immediately regretting that decision. My eyes water, I start coughing uncontrollably, and I have to pound on my chest with my fist before I can breathe again.
I feel a hand smack against my back a few times, and turn my head to find Ember smiling at me.
“Let me guess, you ordered some fancy shit that Sheila didn’t know how to make?” she asks, taking the seat next to me and waving at the bartender. “I’ll take a beer whenever you get a minute, Sheila.”