A Toast to the Good Times

by Liz Reinhardt

  “Landry, kid, there’s a lot you don’t know or understand.”

  Rusty slurps at his peach drink through his straw, his lips damp and shaky. I can’t help but feel sorry for the guy, sitting in this place, drinking what might be the worst drink on the planet as some sort of sad tribute to his late wife.

  This is, hands down, the most depressing holiday ever.

  “Care to educate me?” I ask, letting my eyes take in other details that make me grimace; cobwebs in corners, the burnt out lights in the exit sign, the grimy mats behind the bar.

  “What are you so upset about?”

  Rusty presses his bushy eyebrows low over his bloodshot eyes, and I take a minute to appreciate how weird it is that a man this gnarled and ugly is drinking a beverage usually reserved for hot young coeds. And then I feel like a jerkoff for making fun of his tribute drink, even if it’s only in my head.

  I raise my shoulders and let them fall again. “I’m not upset, Rust. I’m just sick and tired of being made to feel like the asshole of the family because I didn’t want to hand over the cash my dad needs to save this dump.”

  Rusty inhales deeply, then holds it for a long time, before letting the breath out. It’s almost torturous sitting there, waiting for his reaction.

  “Do you know why Murphy’s almost went under?”

  “Because my Dad can’t manage a business.”

  I state it matter-of-factly, though I really have no clue how things got so bad, so fast with this place. We always had a nice home, with food on the table and clothes on our backs, and then, out of nowhere, things were tight and Dad was about to lose the family business. I never really stopped to wonder where the hell the money went or why.

  Rusty shakes his head back and forth and stares into the bright peach liquid in his cup.

  “When Karen was diagnosed with leukemia, it was at the worst possible time. Not that there’s ever a good time, you know, but for us, it was really bad. Financially, I mean.”

  I can feel the acid rising in my throat, choking me up. I’m not completely heartless. Losing Granddad was the hardest thing I’d ever been through. I can’t imagine being in Rusty’s shoes and losing the person I’d shared a bed with for twenty years.

  “I’d just gone back to work after being off for almost a year after I had my back surgery, and we’d used up all our savings. Karen never thought twice about it, even though she was a hard ass about budgeting. She just wanted me to rest and not stress about hurrying back to work. She was always the healthy one, you know? Eating that organic stuff and running in the mornings. I should have been the one to get a sickness, not her.”

  The tips of my ears are getting hot like they always do when I’m nervous. And all I want to do is beg Rusty not to say what I think he’s going to.

  “I had to keep working fulltime to keep benefits for Karen. She had to be able to keep her same doctors, that was important. But some days, after a round of chemo, I had to take off work to take care of her, and I’d lose pay. It was hard, Landry. Those doctor visits and co-pays and tests and drug costs…it was just too much for us. And I never wanted Karen to know we were struggling as bad as we were, because that saint of a woman let us blow through our life savings because I had a backache for Christ’s sake.”

  Don’t say it, Rusty.

  “And that’s when your dad stepped in. Tommy and I have been friends since we weren’t even tall enough to see over this bar, you know that,” he says. He pats his palm on the wooden top of the bar as I grip it to steady myself. “He saw how badly we were struggling and offered to help. ‘Course, my pride stopped me from letting him do it at first, but after a while, I didn’t have any other choice. Landry, I would have done anything, anything, if it meant getting Karen the care she needed. And your dad was our saving grace for a long time. He kept us afloat so I could make sure I could be at all of her doctors’ appointments, your mama sent over meals for us to enjoy together so I didn’t have to take time away from Karen to cook. And even when we knew she wasn’t going to make it, your parents made sure that we had the best last months of her life together we could have asked for.”

  His voice hitches and his fingers go tight around his glass.

  I have no words.

  Rusty sniffles hard and wipes a quick, impatient hand over his eyes, before he clears his throat and holds his glass up to me.

  “So, before you go swearing off family and writing off your dad because he doesn’t have the best looking bar stools, you ask yourself what’s really important in life. And that’s the end of this sad old drunk’s lecture. To friends who always have your back, even when you’re lying in the mud and don’t expect to ever get the hell back up. Cheers.”

  I tap my glass to his and shoot the last fiery gulp of my drink while he swallows the sticky sweet remains of his.

  I’m thinking of Rusty and Karen, who used to sit by him in the bar some Friday nights when he stopped in to have a drink before they went on a date. How she looked at that old bastard like the world revolved around his drunken ass, how she laughed at his lame jokes, and how they were always just decent and cool to each other, like two friends who also happened to be crazy in love.

  I tighten my hand on my glass and hold a blink for a few long seconds to help wrap my head around a loss that jarringly sweet and sad.

  Mila’s face flashes in front of my eyes.

  Then the red dress.

  And the kiss.

  What the fuck? Where did that all come from?

  “Rusty—”

  He waves off my words before I can even form them in my own head. I don’t argue, because I don’t know what to say. I came here to drink away feeling like the world’s biggest prick, and this… I don’t even know how to process all of this.

  My dad almost let his business go under to throw a lifeline to a friend. And, in my mind-blowing selfishness, I walked away and left him struggling.

  All of them struggling.

  I never even bothered to ask about them. I never took the time to know what the hell was going on.

  “I think I should go.” My head is spinning, and this time I doubt it has much to do with the series of drinks I just tossed into my near-empty guts, not that they helped. I pull out my wallet and toss a twenty onto the bar top. “It’s on me.”

  When Rusty nods in thanks, I can tell his eyes are watering.

  I pause before pulling my hood over my head in preparation for the freezing walk home.

  “You have plans tomorrow, Rust?”

  “This is it.” He gestures to the sad, falling-down bar, and, though I didn’t think it was possible for this place to get any more depressing, Rusty’s taken it to a whole new level.

  “You want to swing by the house and have dinner with me and the family later on? We always eat around six.”

  He nods slowly, looking into that glass like it might bring back a little of the woman he’s missing so hard, it’s breaking him apart.

  “I’ll think about it. Thanks, Landry.”

  When I push through the door and the blustery wind hits me, it freezes the tears I’ve been fighting and stops them from falling. And I get why Rusty is in there drinking his wife’s favorite frou-frou drink.

  What I don’t get is why didn’t Dad tell me all of this? Or Mom? How did they let me go on not fully understanding what was important?

  I blink hard against the roaring wind that’s picking up, probably preparing to dump a blizzard load of snow on our heads.

  And then Mila’s in front of me again.

  Except this time, the red dress is replaced by a thick red jacket and furry boots.

  And this time, she’s really here.

  Chapter 10

  “Hi. Um, so you were here after all. Your mom said you’d probably be here—”

  “You talked to my mom?” I watch the look of horror break over her face.

  “Wow. Yes. I mean, I know…what this must sound like. Look like. Like some twisted version of Single White Female.
Or Fatal Attraction. Maybe Swim Fan. Or something stalkery and…not good.”

  She pushes her dark bangs off of her forehead with her hand and shakes her mittened hands, then bites her lips. “It’s just, um, I watched a lot of romantic comedies on Netflix after you left. Which makes no sense, because once Firefly was done, I totally expected to watch Dr. Who for umpteen hours, but I accidentally pressed the down arrow on the controller, and, before I knew it, it was just all these adorable women finding men over radio shows or meeting up because their book stores closed or bumping into guys who weren’t Greek even though they are and, bam, fireworks…and the message seemed to be to just go and see the guy you lo— care about. The guy you care about. And that message is probably one of those ‘only in the movies’ things. Am I right?”

  I have no idea how to respond to this word tirade. She looks tired. She looks sad and embarrassed.

  And she looks hot.

  I thought it was just the damn red dress, but that isn’t it, apparently, because she looks so good right now in her big coat and furry boots and one of those ridiculous French hats that girls love to wear but are so weird and look kind of like little cupcakes on their heads.

  “So you came to see me?”

  I smile at her, because she’s goddamn adorable and, in a town of people who pity, hate, or are disappointed in me, she’s that one sole person who honestly looks happy and eager to be around my sad sack ass.

  “I did. I did, and I know it’s weird, so say the word and I’m outta here. Gone with the wind. Totally gone. Yep.”

  Her cheeks are way too red for wind-chap; she’s blushing like crazy. Over me.

  “No way.” I feel like a douche-hole for not knowing all of the things to say right now to make this less awkward, and I think of Toni and how I was too late to make things right with her and how I had to watch her feel all that pent-up anger from her time with me and there was nothing I could do.

  But she gave me advice.

  She told me what kind of girl to look for.

  And I have a feeling I might be looking right at her.

  I clear my throat and make my move.

  “Hey, listen. I know it’s not high society Boston partying stuff, but my family will be watching A Christmas Story and arguing and getting into popcorn fights. It’s so lame. Seriously, my brother and sister may be the two most irritating people in the world. And you’d have to swear not to tell them about us watching it in the apartment, because it’s like this sacred Murphy tradition to only watch that movie on this holiest of all holy nights and all that. But if you wanna come by—”

  “Yes!” She shuts her eyes and screws her mouth up. “That was probably super way too eager, right? I’m a dork? You can say it. You really can.”

  “You are. You really are.” I put one hand under her chin and move my thumb along her jaw, remembering everything about the other night and wanting it all over again. And so much more. “But I can’t stop thinking about you.”

  She licks her lips and swallows, her eyes round and so perfectly green, they look like a cat’s eyes in some Halloween decoration.

  “I, um, can’t stop thinking about you, either.” She slides her mittened hands up my coat, and I have the feeling things are about to get hotter fast when the screech of tires makes us both look into the street.

  “Landry!” Henry leans across the seat of his old Volvo wagon and grins wide and loopy at Mila out the open passenger window.

  I notice that she smiles shyly back. My hands fist, and I consider smacking one upside Henry’s thick skull.

  “What do you want?” I demand.

  “Mom asked me to go find you. She says we need to all be home, pronto and no excuses.” He turns his attention back to Mila. “So, are you a friend of Landry’s? My meathead brother doesn’t have very good manners, so let me introduce myself. I’m Henry Murphy and you are…?”

  “Mila. Mila Eby.” She walks over to the car and pulls off one mitten that has a little puppet face with googly eyes glued on, so she can shake Henry’s hand.

  He holds onto her way longer than he needs to for a damn handshake.

  “Alright, Henry! Stop being a creeper and let her go,” I snap, putting an arm around Mila’s waist possessively.

  She looks back over her shoulder at me and frowns. “We were just saying hello.”

  “My brother never knows when to back down,” I growl. I yell to Henry, “Tell Mom I’m coming right home.”

  “She’ll go apeshit if you don’t invite Mila,” Henry says, horning in on the invitation I just extended her. I’m starting to feel pretty Cain and Abel with this kid. “Mila, you gotta come back with us. Our mom makes this crazy cocoa with cinnamon and just a tiny bit of peppermint. It’s freaking amazing. You gotta have some.”

  “I know I said I would, but I’m not sure it’s such a good idea. Um, isn’t this family time for all of you? I’d really be intruding, and it would just be rude, right?” she asks, looking back at me with her eyebrows low over her eyes.

  “Nah,” I say at the same time Henry’s yelling, “Not at all!”

  I glare at him and he glares right back, then says to Mila, “Trust me, when the Murphy’s are all together for too long, things get way too intense. We need some company around to keep us on our best behavior, you know what I mean?”

  She giggles.

  At my brother.

  He makes her promise she’ll come by, offers her a ride, and pulls away only after she points out that her car is right there on the street and assures him she’ll be okay driving the couple of blocks back to our house.

  And this conversation goes on between them as if I’m not standing in plain damn sight.

  “Do you need a ride home, Landry?” Mila asks, opening the driver’s side door of her Civic and waving to Henry.

  I half feel like I need to walk off some of my stabbing aggravation, but I don’t want to leave Mila’s side.

  “Thanks.” I get into the car next to her and point her in the general direction of the crazy ass house where my family is waiting to show off like a pack of frenzied hyenas.

  I can’t wait to join the fun.

  “Your brother seems so nice,” Mila says, her eyes on the road, her voice a little hitched.

  I feel a low growl vibrate deep in my throat. Henry is an alright-looking kid, I guess. He’s gotten more attractive to the ladies now that he’s put on some muscle mass and stopped dressing like Shaggy from Scooby Doo. I realize girls are checking him out, and that he might even be some competition for me. And he can have any other barfly looking for a good time or random pretty girl who wants to cozy up for a night or two. I couldn’t care less.

  Mila is off limits.

  “My brother is an ass. And he’s kind of a player. Don’t get too involved with him, okay? Left on this next street.”

  I lean back in the passenger seat, wishing like all hell I’d been able to drive my car so I didn’t have to be a passenger every single time I wanted to go somewhere in this freezing cold, one-horse town.

  “I can totally handle myself,” Mila says flatly, her mouth puckered down in this little frown that looks pretty alien on her usually smiley face.

  “I didn’t say that. Although, now that you bring it up, you really can’t. It’s the third house on the right. The one with the freaky Santa in the upstairs window.” She pulls up, and I prepare to get out, but Mila is gripping the steering wheel with intent, liked she’s glued to the interior of the car.

  “What is it?” I ask, reaching over to tug on her sparkly silver scarf.

  She stops looking straight out the window and turns to look at me. “I’ve been handling myself for years, Landry. Without your help, thank you very much.”

  She’s not usually pissy with me at all, and it throws me. “Sorry. It’s just that Henry can be a little bit of a jerkoff, and I don’t want to see you get hurt, okay?”

  She lets out a short, hard laugh. “You don’t want to see me get hurt?”

  “Why
do you say that like it’s some crazy, unbelievable thing?”

  The question rips out on a surprisingly defensive note, because I feel pretty defensive.

  I’ve always looked after Mila. When she crushed on that asshole with the girlfriend, I was the one who told the guy to back off when he made a dozen too many drunken calls to her cell one long night. I took drinks away from her at the bar before she could accept the probably-laced gift of some random douchebag date rapist. I watched lots of sci-fi with her when her high school boyfriend posted pictures of his shot-gun wedding to some idiot girl they had both hated back when they were dating.

  “Landry, the one and only person who has any ability to hurt me is you.”

  Suddenly her whole cramped-in-the-car tactic switches up, and she leaps out of the door and walks toward my house.

  I throw my door open and run after her, slipping on a patch of black ice when I reach out to grab her shoulder. Mila turns around as my feet slide out from under me, and she rushes to grab me and keep me upright, but her panicked movements bring us both down in a heap. My shoulder takes the brunt of the fall, and Mila squashed on top of me, scrambles to face me, pressing my face between her hands and looking me over with insane worry.

  “Are you okay? Are you alright?” She takes my shoulders in her tiny hands and shakes me hard, back and forth.

  “I’m fine. Jesus, stop shaking me like that.” I move my head from side to side just to make sure my neck is okay, and I sit up on one elbow, Mila’s bony ass digging into my thigh. “The only thing that really got bruised is my ego, I guess.”

  Her worried look melts away and she smiles a smile that grows wide just before it breaks into a series of self-satisfied snorts and laughs.

  “What’s so damn funny?” I sigh.

  “The idea of your ego bruised.” She puts her hands up over her mouth and giggles. “Can you imagine the amount of pressure that must have been exerted to bruise your ego of iron?”

  “Are you saying I’m full of myself? Because I’m not.” I feel an instant prickle of douchebaggery once the words are out of my mouth.

  And I realize, with a healthy dose of irony, how full of myself it is to even think that way. Which makes me smile. And then laugh.