Sunshine & Whiskey

by R. L. Griffin

  “Stop it, you’re ruining him for me.” Laura pouts.

  “But then he redeems himself with Lincoln Lawyer and Dallas Buyer’s Club.”

  “He’s the sexiest man on earth.”

  “See how even the sexiest man on earth has flaws,” I comment.

  Laura’s eyes cut to me in an unspoken accusation.

  “What?” I ask.

  “You know what.”

  “I’m just saying. Laura, you haven’t been in love in over seven years. You compare everyone one to…”

  “Don’t,” she interrupts me.

  “You should just move past that. Allow yourself to fall in love. It’s okay.”

  “Megan, I love you and this is something you just will never understand, okay.”

  I don’t say anything because she’s right in a way, but in another way I have lost love that I thought would last forever.

  “I have tried,” she mutters.

  “You should probably try harder.”

  We get settled in the room and it’s amazing. Each room is different. This one has an entire wall full of book shelves complete with books.

  “They have one day laundry service,” I comment as I’m thumbing through the hotel pamphlet.

  “Oh good. I need clean underwear.”

  “So you brought ten pairs of underwear?”

  “No, but I had to go commando last night.” She grinds her hips at me.

  “TMI.” I shake my head. “You’re crazy.”

  “You picked me as your best friend, what does that say about you?” Laura is pulling out her dirty clothes and throwing them in a pile on the floor.

  “Let’s go grab some Tex-Mex. According to Trip Advisor, there’s a good place with margaritas a few blocks away.” I alternate swinging my legs as I sit on the edge of the bed.

  “Oh good, more alcohol so my gut can get bigger.”

  “It’ll be an early night because we’ll need to get up and be moving so we can get to the concert.” Because this journey includes live music at each stop, Laura was able to find one for our impromptu trip to Austin and it’s sort of an epic concert too. I get up, open my suitcase and throw my clothes in the pile with hers. “Did you arrange a car to take us? I’m not driving.”

  “Yeah, got it.” She walks over to the phone, picks it up, and slumps onto the other queen bed. “We have clothes to be laundered. Yes. Thank you.”

  “I’m going to go wash the sweat off me,” I say as I pull out clothes for dinner.

  “Okay, I’m going to call my parents. I’ll shower after you.”

  When I close the bathroom door Laura is pulling her hair out of her ponytail and lying back on the bed with her phone to her ear.

  The bathroom is amazing. There is a glass walk-in shower and I can’t figure out the knobs. I turn one and a jet sprays my face. “Fuck,” I mutter, turning it off quickly while wiping my eyes.

  Okay, a shower shouldn’t be this complicated. There are about eight different knobs with no instructions on how to work them.

  I strip down and get in the shower and turn all the knobs there are and immediately I’m hit with jets on every part of my body. It feels like I’m washing off three layers of my skin, but I need it. Being in a convertible for eight hours made me stink, there really is no delicate way of putting it. I don’t get ladies who pretend that women don’t sweat and smell as bad as men. They either never do anything to break a sweat or they’re just liars.

  I begin humming. It’s a song I haven’t heard in years and it makes me smile. “Candy coated rain drops,” I croon. In this shower my voice sounds like I could be on the radio. I continue to sing and use the soap they provide over my tanned skin. Okay, maybe it’s not so much tanned as it is filled with freckles.

  I used to hate my freckles, but somewhere along the way I decided to embrace them. They set me apart, I certainly don’t look like everyone else. I step out of the shower and my hair reaches down my back. I look sun kissed and the wrinkle that had been threatening my forehead three weeks ago is non-existent. The lottery agrees with me.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Who Does That?

  I love outdoor concerts. There’s something about sitting in the sun with the mass of humanity who are just as moved by music as you are. Everyone is sweating together, drinking together, getting high together. You can’t help it if you’re sitting in the middle of an open field with people smoking up all around. It makes for a fun time.

  “This band is awesome,” Laura yells over the bass and the drums.

  I nod.

  “Royal Blood, have you heard of them?”

  I shake my head in response.

  After the set ends, I lie back on our blanket and stare into the cloudless sky. Laura does the same thing, and she takes a picture of us and posts it online.

  “This is so surreal,” I comment while she taps away at her phone.

  “It really is. Not too many people in their twenties would be able to take a summer long vacation.”

  I nod and continue to stare into the azure of the infinite possibility in front of me.

  “Thank you for bringing me with you Megan. I really appreciate it. I know you’re spending an assload of money on this trip.”

  I grab her hand. “I wouldn’t have wanted to do it with anyone else.”

  “I’ve missed you.” Her phone buzzes and she looks at it smiling. “I’m glad we have this time together. It has been weird not being around you all the time in New York. We were going to rule the world.”

  “Weren’t we?” I squeeze her hand, let go and sit up. “I have to pee.”

  “Oh damn girl, don’t break the seal.” She’s tapping away and then puts her phone down her shirt.

  “Did you really just send someone a picture you took down your shirt?” I look down at the three massive cups that once held beer.

  “Adam likes my tits.”

  “Now you’re sexting Adam?”

  She shrugs.

  I turn and walk a few steps before she yells.

  “Good luck and ‘may the odds be eva in your favor.’”

  I shake my head and walk toward the area where the port-a-potties are located. When I get to the area where people are congregating I sigh. I think I may be getting too old for port-a-potties.

  I stand in a line that’s about ten people deep. There are at least twenty different port-a-potties lined up at the back of the field, each has the same amount of people in line. I chastise myself for waiting until I need to go to stand in line. I’m squeezing my legs together as hard as I can so I don’t pee.

  “Hey,” the girl behind me says.

  “Hey,” I return.

  “You have gorgeous hair.” She runs her hand through my hair and then leans forward to smell it.

  “Thanks.” I move up, slightly uncomfortable. Her fingers that were in my hair trail down my back until she gets to my shorts. “That’s enough.”

  “Sorry,” she says, not sounding sorry at all. “Your skin is so white and soft.”

  “Stick your hand down your pants. I’m sure it’s just as white and soft.”

  This shuts her up.

  I have one more person to go now, and I put my small bag over my shoulder so I can be ready for the toilet. When the dude in front of me comes out and holds the door open I smile politely and lock the door as soon as I get in. It stinks like vomit and shit have been microwaved and stored in this plastic room for days. I try not to breathe or touch anything other than my shorts. I squat and let out a moan as I release the pee I’d been holding. There is an utter bliss for that moment when you don’t have to hold it anymore. Then I feel hot liquid running down my leg. I pop up instantly from my squat and look behind me. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

  The man who graciously held the door open for me shut the lid on the toilet so I pissed all over my legs, shorts, and shoes. I have piss all down my legs, but I still have to pee more. That’s right. I’m mortified. I lift the lid and squat again all the while
contemplating crawling in the shitty, vomity hole and dying. I finish and then shimmy up my piss-soaked black shorts and zip them. I walk out of the port-a-potty. Humiliated. I just pissed myself and now I’m wearing my own piss.

  I’m wearing my own piss.

  I walk slowly back to our blanket. Laura looks up from her phone. “What happened to you?”

  “I peed.” Doesn’t that just sum it all up?

  “It looks like you fell in.”

  “I sort of did.”

  She pulls her glasses off and looks at me. “Don’t sit on the blanket if you fell in the porta-let.”

  I sit down.

  “I’m serious, why are your shorts wet?”

  “You don’t want to know.” I take a gulp of the new beer I purchased for her. Then hand it to her.

  She stares at me.

  “Fine.” I sigh. “I peed all down my legs.”

  “Excuse me?”

  I take another gulp, this time of my own beer. “The mother fucker in front of me put the seat down on the fucking port-a-potty. I mean, who does that? And I didn’t realize it so I squatted, peed, and it went everywhere,” I say this as fast as I can.

  “What?” Her face is scarlet and her shoulders are bouncing up and down.

  “You heard me.”

  “You have piss all over you?” Now she’s all out laughing. There’s the snort.

  “Well, I did. I bought two bottles of water and washed it off, but yeah, that happened.”

  “How…” Snort. Laugh.

  “Fuck off.” It’s not funny yet. Maybe in an hour.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Fish Taco

  The next day we’re sitting at The Oasis and overlooking Lake Travis. It’s an amazing sunset, where the sky looks as if it has caught on fire. My mind wanders a bit as I take a sip of my “Perfect Meltdown” margarita. The sky is still a blue that would rival any Caribbean ocean, but there is a golden spill coming from behind the clouds hiding the sun. I sigh and think of the last three years of my life. It’s a blur of work, exhaustion, and resignation. Doesn’t sound too great does it?

  When I left New York, I vowed I would make partner before any of my law school friends. I promised myself to work my ass off to make it happen, that’s how I distracted myself enough to function after losing what is probably the love of my life. I did it. I was close to making partner. I probably solidified it with my last deposition. Now I’m here on the fourth floor balcony of a restaurant watching the sunset with one of my best friends with no future or goal to strive for. I sort of don’t know what to do with that.

  “Where are you?” Laura asks as she takes out her camera and posts a picture of the sunset to Instagram. We agreed that is all she is able to do regarding social media.

  “Just wondering how the hell I got here.”

  “Well, we drove through Nashville, New Orleans…” She stops talking when she looks at my face. “Life’s pretty interesting huh?”

  “I guess. I just keep thinking, now what? I’ve never not had something I was working toward. In high school it was college, in college it was law school. In law school it was getting a kick ass job at a big firm.”

  “That one didn’t work out too well,” she reminds me.

  “Yeah, I think that’s where my life sort of went off the rails.”

  “Well, you moved and got a kick ass job at a firm.”

  “Yeah, but it wasn’t at the firm I had my mind on since I started law school.”

  “Sometimes things don’t work out like we planned,” she agrees.

  “I guess you learned that lesson early on.”

  She nods. Laura doesn’t really have sympathy for me when it comes to getting over things and moving on. She had to move through a tougher situation and well...it’s her story to tell I guess, but you know what I mean. People who have dealt with horrific circumstances really don’t empathize with people complaining about what they perceive to be little shit.

  “Was there a time when you questioned everything?” I know the answer to this question.

  “I still question things.”

  “Does it ever stop?” I take a sip of my drink and look at her. Really look at her and realize quite suddenly she looks like an adult. That may seem like a stupid thing to think, but growing up with someone you just see them at the age you met and knew them the best. For us, it was college and graduate school, not this attempting to be adults phase that we’ve been doing separately for the last few years. She’s starting to get little lines at the corners of her eyes. They aren’t bad, but they’re there and I can’t remember ever noticing them before.

  “It doesn’t unless you make it stop. I haven’t been able to do that yet, it’s less than last year and the year before that, but it’s still there.”

  “What have you decided about a job?”

  “I haven’t.” She pushes her sunglasses up on her nose and takes a sip of her drink. “I think these margaritas are fabulous.”

  “We need to start thinking about what we’re going to do once we get to California.”

  “Right.” She clears her throat. “So I was thinking I can start investing all your money.”

  I nod.

  “Then I was thinking what about a company that invests in other companies?”

  “What do you mean?” I don’t do numbers, I went to law school.

  “I mean like investing in small companies or people making products that you love and you invest to help get them started or get them to a certain point. They pay you back or you have ownership in the company itself.”

  I stare at her.

  “Remember we watched that show the other night?”

  I nod again.

  “It’d be like that. We’d have a website and have people send proposals and then we’d pick and choose who we want to invest in.”

  “That sounds interesting,” I agree. “I’ll probably take the bar in California if I plan on staying. I may get there and hate it, though so...maybe I’ll move to Hawaii and live on the beach and learn to surf.”

  “Do that, then I can come stay with you on vacations.”

  “You’re going back to New York?”

  “Yeah, I’ve sent my resume to a few people. It’s a rough time to be out of a job.”

  “Will you stay for a bit and help me get whatever we come up with started? I’ll pay you.”

  “Of course you will. I’m big time.”

  “Right.” I laugh. “This place is pretty insane.” The sun is dipping into the water like it just wants to get its toes wet.

  “It really is.”

  The server appears and puts our food down in front of us. “Thank you,” I say and make a face at my salad.

  “I can’t believe you ordered a salad.”

  “I know, I hate salad, but I hate cellulite more, and it’s become clear that a road trip is not good for my ass.”

  Laura chuckles. “I mean look at that salad though.” Laura is pointing her fork at my plate.

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  “Guacamole, sour cream, cheese, meat. You might as well rub fat on your ass.”

  “Fuck you, fish taco.” I point my fork at her like I will stab her with it.

  We look at each other and both our mouths drop open. I call her that because she’s eating fish tacos, but I’m pretty sure I just came up with my favorite expression ever.

  “No.” She’s shaking her head and laughing.

  I nod and stick a forkful of fattening ass salad in my mouth.

  “No, you cannot use that expression.”

  “Oh, I will.”

  “I swear if you start calling me fish taco I will unfriend you and tell everyone you pissed yourself.”

  “You wouldn’t dare!” I rebut.

  “Oh, I’d totally tell every hot guy we talk to from here on out how you sat at that concert for three more hours in your own piss.”

  “What about just taco? I can reserve fuck you fish taco for extreme circumstances.�
��

  “There are no extreme circumstances that would warrant that.”

  “I’m sure there will be,” I reason.

  “Sometimes I don’t know why we’re friends,” she says, still laughing.

  “We’re friends because I was the only one who liked you your freshman year of college.”

  “You’re such a liar.”

  “Do you remember when I made you go to that 80’s fraternity party with me and you cussed every person out who talked to you? Every single person.”

  “It was the dumbest party ever. The 80’s were stupid.”

  “Remember when Beth tried to hit on Jacob?” I ask.

  Laura’s smile fades a little.

  “Remember when I punched her in the face and yelled…”

  “‘Welcome to Fight Club, bitch!’” We both say together.

  “Do you remember those white pants you used to wear?” she asks.

  I nod.

  “I hated those.”

  “I hated them too. I just wore them to get on your nerves.”

  “Shut the fuck up,” she says so loudly the table behind us scowls.

  “Yep, they made my fish taco feel funny.”

  We both burst into hysterics.

  “Did your ham sammich hang out?” she asks and I almost spit food all over her.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Attorney-Client Privilege

  The ride to Denver is long and annoying. I sigh as I put the top up on Thor while I sit at the third gas station we’ve stopped at for Laura to use the bathroom. Unfortunately, fish tacos did not sit well. My phone rings.

  “Hey Justin.”

  “Hey.” I hear a weird noise, and I pull my phone away from my ear.

  “Megan. You are not going to believe this, but a chicken food place based in Atlanta contacted me and wants you to do a commercial for them. The Lottery wants you as well.”

  Once again I pull the phone from my ear and look at it, this time in disbelief. “What?”

  “They both want you and Laura. They both love your story.”

  “My story?” My mind is turning over and over, trying to figure out what he is talking about. “What about my story? How do they know my story?”

  “Oh,” his voice sounds defeated. “Do you not go on the Internet at all?”