by Ashley Drew
“Wow. I didn’t know that.”
“There’s a lot you don’t know.”
Her comment is a punch to the gut, but she’s absolutely right. It’s been six years. I’m sure there is a great deal I don’t know.
The Jeep’s engine roars when Tess turns on the ignition. I run over to the driver’s side before she backs out of the driveway.
“If you’re free this week, I’d love to catch up with you. Maybe we can grab some coffee?” I propose. An hour or two over coffee won’t change the past six years, but it would be a start in the right direction.
Tess pauses. The look in her eyes tells me she wants to say yes, but the resentment preventing her from giving in so easily is also clearly visible. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
The Jeep disappears around the corner. I’ve been here for less than six hours, and the past six years of my life have already begun to unravel before me.
The clanging of silverware against our plates reverberates across the dining room table as dinner commences sans conversation. Henry and Jamie exchange an occasional glance at one another, eyeing me out of their peripheral vision while I fork aimlessly through my spaghetti and down my Chardonnay more quickly than I probably should. Memories of Nick and I using this table as a fort—tunneling through the space in between our parents’ feet and falling asleep to the chorale of their chitchat—play like a mopey soundtrack in my head.
Henry holds the bread basket out to me. “Would you like some bread, honey?”
It sounds like an indirect suggestion to slow down with the wine and to eat. Considering how quickly the wine has gone to my head, I should take a piece, but I don’t. It’s opposite week, remember?
“I still have some. Thanks,” I reply, tipping back my wine glass and consuming the last drop. I reach across the table for the bottle, inching out of my seat to grab it when I could have easily asked Jamie to pass it to me, but I want to limit any conversation whatsoever, even if it’s only the words, please pass the wine. I pour myself another generous glass.
Henry takes a sip of his. “How’s work?”
“Great,” I answer, my voice clipped, and my eyes quickly turning to him and then darting back to my plate.
“Still bartending at that one place in Midtown?” Jamie asks, taking a bite of his spaghetti.
I hate when people speak with their mouths full, and Jamie certainly isn’t scoring points with me by doing so. I sigh heavily, reluctant to answer the question, but I do. “Yup.”
“You’ve been there a while now, haven’t you?” He follows up with a question.
“Yup,” I respond again, twisting my fork with spaghetti until it holds enough for two bites, only to untwist it until the spaghetti unravels completely.
“And Cooper?” Henry questions. “How is he doing?”
He asks like he’s already met Cooper, and it bugs the shit out of me. “He’s great.”
“How are the wedding preparations going?” Jamie asks, still talking with his mouth full.
I take another big gulp of my wine when I should really be taking a bite of my food. These two continue to question my life without a care in the world, like the past six years never existed, and it’s starting to piss me off. “They’re going great.”
Apparently, everything in my life is great.
In actuality, the only thing making me feel the least bit great is the cool, crisp taste of Chardonnay against my taste buds and its tannins coursing rapidly through my bloodstream, gradually detaching my mind from reality.
We eat in silence for a good ten minutes, before Anabel prances into the dining room. She holds a pitcher of water and walks around the table to refill our glasses.
Henry sops up the last bits of meat sauce with a piece of bread, gliding it across one end of his plate to the other, until the only thing left is the oily orange streak running across it.
“Another helping, Mr. Bennett?” Anabel offers as she starts to clear the table of dirty dishes.
“I’m alright, thank you Anabel,” he says graciously. “As always, you make a mighty fine meat sauce. Any more, and I may have to pull out the ole’ stretch pants.” He pats the protruding mound beneath his grey button-up collar shirt.
Jamie rolls his eyes. “I’m much less worried about that growing belly than I am that heart of yours.”
Something about Jamie’s comment makes me want to dump my plate of spaghetti over his head. He speaks like he had a right to worry about my father when we sat in that hospital room years ago. I jab my fork into the untouched pile of pasta and twirl it roughly several times as tiny droplets of oil from the sauce splatter onto the white tablecloth.
“What a mess I am, eh?” Henry teases. “If it isn’t my heart, then it’s my belly. If it isn’t my belly, then it’s my hair. Ah, to the joys of being in your fifties!” He toasts, raising his wine glass as Anabel returns to the kitchen.
The salt-and-pepper patches on his scalp are the only traces left of his youthful brown coiffure, and fortunately, he has enough common sense not to conform to the standards of the middle-aged comb-over.
Henry takes a sip of his wine. “Your mother told me you’re finally putting those credentials to use and applied for a teaching position,” he acknowledges as he sets his glass down on the table, twirling the stem with his fingers.
Of course she did. This is exactly why I didn’t want him to know. Because I knew he would look at me like that—with adoration in his eyes, with content written across his face. His only child following in his footsteps and becoming a teacher. Like father, like daughter.
“Henry, you didn’t tell me that,” Jamie remarks mid-bite, an annoying grin plastered across his face, like he’s entitled as my ‘kinda step-parent’ to be in-the-know when it comes to me. “That’s great!”
“She always said she wanted to be a teacher. I couldn’t be any prouder.” Turning to Jamie, Henry retells my childhood stories of me converting our living room into a classroom and making Nick and Tess my students. Those two always huffed and puffed whenever I wanted to play teacher, but they always went along with it anyway. The thought makes me smile.
But when I catch Henry beaming at me, my smile quickly dissipates like a water drop on hot pavement, and I release a heavy breath and return a look of disdain. “I didn’t get it,” I lie. “I wasn’t serious about it anyway.”
“Oh, I see.” Henry sighs, the disappointment glossing over his eyes. “When I spoke with Evelyn, she said you were pretty optimistic about getting it.”
“That’s because I’m tired of hearing her tell me that I need to get a grown-up job,” I return, my voice an octave higher. Although Mom has expressed countless times that I should leave the bar, my motivation for wanting the job has nothing to do with her incessant nagging.
“Hey, it might be a good thing she doesn’t go into this field,” Jamie suggests to Henry as he winks at me. “This profession comes with too many hours, lousy paychecks, and kids who are interested more in what they’re going to eat for lunch, rather than the lesson you spent the entire night putting together,” he teases. “Drives me nuts sometimes. Wouldn’t want her to end up like us now, would we?”
It’s Jamie’s declaration of us that does it.
“Who the fuck do you think you are?”
Aaaannnnd…there it goes. Had it not been for the wine, I may have executed it in a less vulgar way, but my mouth seems to have detached itself from my conscience, and is running off like a chicken without its head. Now that I think about it, I don’t quite know how you can say fuck you in a nicer way.
A speechless Henry turns his head in my direction as Jamie’s mouth drops. My eyes narrow in on him as my breathing increases.
“You think just because you’re with my dad and you moved into my house that all of a sudden, we’re the goddamn Brady Bunch, and you have some sort of parental rights to me? Have you forgotten the way you fucked over my family?” I chuckle, almost evil-like. “I hate to break it to you, Jamie, but I haven�
��t forgotten. You don’t get to talk like everything is goddamn sunshine and rainbows between us.” My cheeks warm, and I’m not sure if it’s my anger or the wine, or a combination of the two.
“Corinne!” Henry yells, pounding his balled fist against the table. Jamie continues to look at me, dumbfounded. “What is wrong with you?”
“Me?” I abruptly push away from the table and stand out of my chair, knocking it to the floor. “What is wrong with me? You. You are what is wrong with me, Dad. You’re a liar and a manipulator. You made me believe that we were one big happy family. But I guess you forgot about that.” I press my forefingers to my throbbing temples as the effects of the wine and my growing temper come together in one achingly unified headache.
“We have all had a bit too much to drink tonight,” Jamie remarks in a soft, steady voice, and it’s not the reaction I expect. I notice his use of the word we when he is obviously speaking in reference to me. “Why don’t we all take a minute to relax before we say anything else that we will regret?”
I smile ferociously. “I am more than happy to.”
It’s not long before I’m out the door and crossing the driveway in haste to where my rented BMW is parked. Henry told me to rent a car for the week on his dollar. Well, I figured I’d rake out every penny from him. I get in the car, turn the engine on, and speed down the road, not knowing where I’m headed. It probably isn’t the best idea for me to be driving off in a heated storm, let alone after a few glasses of wine, but I can’t be near that house for another second.
How did I not see this coming? Did I actually think the three of us could sit down to a civilized meal together, after everything that happened? I scold myself as my walls fight to come down. I sniff back tears and fumble for the radio, searching for any loud music before settling on a tune by one of those lame boy bands. An embarrassing choice, but I’ll take it if it’ll drown out my thoughts. I slam my walls up higher and stronger, driving anywhere, as long as it is away from my father and Jamie.
One moment, I’m driving down Glen Canyon Road, the car’s headlights shining brightly on the winding road as the moonlight pierces the darkness and kisses my flustered cheek through the driver’s side window.
And the next, I’m standing under the dim light of an entranceway in a very crowded, very loud, very familiar bar, a very familiar set of olive-green eyes pinning my entire body to that spot.
Apparently, anywhere is the Kelleys’ pub.
It feels like a dream.
I pinch myself to make sure it’s not.
It stings.
And I’m still pinned to that spot.
Nicholas Kelley—pub owner, devoted son, brother, and former best friend in the world—stands motionless behind the bar amidst the Friday night chaos.
And he is looking directly at me.
“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” Tess pleads, though her apology lacks sincerity as she rushes past me behind the bar, pulls her hair tie from her wrist with her teeth, and loops it through her hair into a ponytail.
If she wasn’t my sister and I didn’t love her as much as I do, I’d be looping that hair tie around her neck because she is almost two hours late for her shift.
I guess there’s no one to blame but myself for playing the nepotism card and giving her a job here her senior year of college. I ignore her, trying to keep my cool, and like I thought, it bugs her.
“So you’re just going to ignore me? I told you I’m sorry!”
“How lovely of you to join us tonight, Tess,” my bartender, Andi, remarks as she throws my sister a fake smile while ringing up a customer on the register. “It hasn’t been busy at all!” She rolls her eyes with no attempt at hiding it.
Tess counters back, batting her eyelashes and grinning with a smile so awkward, she almost looks constipated. Her facial expression alone makes me want to laugh out loud, but I don’t, since I’m still seething inside.
“Oh, Andi. Why the sarcastic mood? Is Aunt Flo due for her monthly visit? Or are the hair chemicals and holes in your head finally taking a toll on your brain?”
It never fails with these two. They can’t work a shift together without exchanging at least one low blow or offensive jab. Physically, they’re as different as night and day. While Tess’s wavy auburn hair and beach-tanned skin give her that stereotypical sorority chick look, Andrea, or Andi as she prefers to be called, screams rebel with a cause with her short, pomegranate-red hair, and she has more piercings and holes on her head than a block of Swiss cheese. Personality wise, they couldn’t be more similar, and they often butt heads because of it.
I look out over the massive crowd of inebriated punks and overly done up women, and there are sure as hell a ton of them tonight. I never understood a woman’s need to cake on ten pounds of makeup and prance around with her ass hanging out of her skirt. Some guys are into that shit. But hey, who am I to judge? These people pay my bills.
“I know I was supposed get the Jeep back to you this morning, but if you would listen to me, I have a pretty valid excuse,” Tess continues to plead her case in the middle of pouring shots of tequila for the obnoxious frat guys at the end of the bar.
I pretend not to hear her. When I let her borrow my car last night to meet up with her friend in San Francisco, I should have known that I was being overly generous with my trust, considering the last time I let her borrow it. Not only did she bring it back to me several hours after she promised, but a small, yellow-speckled dent in the rear bumper came back with it. Apparently, the yellow pole at Burger King came out of nowhere.
I take the drink order from the couple standing in front of me. “What can I get ya?”
“I’ll take a vodka on the rocks, and my girl here will take a strawberry daiquiri,” the guy orders.
You’ve got to be shitting me. Of course his girl would want the drink with the most goddamn hassle to make. Is it not obvious to her how busy it is right now? Like she gives a shit anyway. Hell, I should just lie and say the blender is broken and can’t make it. Technically, it is broken, since the power button has to be held down manually, which means I’d have to put all my efforts into this one drink.
“One vodka on the rocks, and one strawberry daiquiri coming up,” I confirm, shaking my head to myself. Pushover.
I begin to pour the daiquiri ingredients into the blender when Tess appears at my side and scoops some ice into a shaker.
“I had every intention of bringing the Jeep back to you this morning. Joey broke up with Devin, and she didn’t want to be alone. I wanted to get her mind off the breakup, and we had one too many drinks. But when I woke up, she was gone. I called her over and over again, and I couldn’t just leave without knowing she was okay. It wasn’t until late this afternoon that she finally showed up. I’m really sorry.”
Of course girl drama would be the source of me being car-less and having to bike it to work today.
I hit the power on the blender, sending a turbulent surge through the center of the crimson colored mixture. The blender’s growls battling the heavy beats of The Doors and the chatter in the bar is enough for my head to explode, yet not enough for Tess to shut up. Holding down the power button, I’m caught in a daze by the funneling motion, and her words are chopped and blended against the rhythm of the machine.
“So that’s why...running late...know I should have...hours ago...would have....fifteen minutes earlier...hadn’t been for Corinne.”
The blender comes to a halt as my finger jerks away from the button. I still.
Come again? My head whips around so fast that I strain a muscle in my neck, but I’m so consumed by what I think my sister just said that my brain ignores the pain even though my body knows it’s there. “What did you just say?”
“I said,” she replies in a mocking tone, “I would have been here fifteen minutes earlier if it hadn’t been for Corinne.”
My body doesn’t move; I’m unresponsive. I try to process Tess’s words, but the damn noise is breaking my concentration. Or maybe it’s
her name that’s breaking it.
“Wait, what do you mean?”
As I attempt to wrap my brain around this, strawberry daiquiri chick appears annoyed, and her boyfriend doesn’t look too happy either, since their drink order has taken a back seat to the conversation with my sister. Thankfully, Tess sees it, too, and jumps in where I left off, finishing and handing them their orders. Maybe she’s not such a bad employee after all.
“What do you mean ‘what do I mean’?” she smirks and rolls her eyes. “You heard me. I went home to grab my work clothes, and Corinne was standing there, in Mom and Dad’s driveway. I would have been here fifteen minutes sooner, but she tried talking to me. The entire situation was weird.”
A bead of sweat trickles down my right temple with the rise of my body heat. I catch my breath at hearing my sister say Corinne’s name. Her name has come up from time to time—when I’d see her father around town or at the pub, or when hanging out and reminiscing with high school friends, or just silently in my mind, which happens more often than it probably should.
Like every day. Every damn day.
But every time it’s come up, she’s always been a few thousand miles away. And now, she’s here.
“Wow, it’s funny how I have your attention now,” Tess smirks. “That girl still has you by the balls.”
Yeah. I really can’t stand my sister sometimes.
“What the fu...just shut...whatever, Tess. You were still two hours late.” It’s all I can think of to say.
“Really? That’s all you’re going to say? No questions? Or whys? Or what did she say? Nothing?”
No. No questions. Because right now, I have no words. It’s like her name has incapacitated my ability to think or speak.
A mob of thirsty customers shoots me dirty looks, and I get back to taking orders. As I start to move around, that ache in my neck creeps up on me, and I bring a hand around to massage it. It looks like a shit ton of Bengay and a dose of Tylenol are in store for me tonight.
“Of course. Why am I not surprised?” Tess mumbles under her breath as I pour shots of vodka. Her eyes move in the direction of the entranceway, but the group of guys lingering in front of me blocks my view of anything past them.