Blame It on the Bet

by L. E. Rico

  “Yes,” I breathe. “Yes, that’s it. Exactly. But how…”

  “How do you let someone in?”

  I don’t reply. I’m too desperate to hear the answer to this colossal cluster of a conundrum that I’ve made for myself.

  “You have to dismantle the wall,” she says softly. “You have to roll the dice that the person you’re allowing to access your heart is someone who truly cares for you. Someone who won’t hurt you.”

  “No…I…”

  “Bryan, listen to me. You’ll get hurt again at some point in your life. We all do. That’s the price of living. But what’s the point of living if you don’t at least try? You’re not a child anymore. You’re a grown man. A strong, confident man with a strong, confident heart. And you will survive whatever life throws at you. If you let life in, Bryan. Do you think you can do that?”

  I have no damn idea.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Hennessy

  “So, what’s the latest with you and Truitt?” Jameson asks as she flits around her big, white country kitchen making us some tea.

  “Are we not saying his name now?”

  My sister nods in the direction of Jackson, who’s playing with his toy cars on the kitchen floor.

  “No, we’re not. Because every time his name comes up, that one yells you-know-what.”

  “What is it with this kid and the curse words?” I marvel. “I’ve never seen a child with such an aptitude for profanity.”

  “I know, right?” she mutters, pouring boiling water into mugs and setting them on the island. “Some kids start reading before they’re two. Others can play the piano, or hit a golf ball. Not mine. He’ll probably have mastered every obscene word in several languages by the time he gets to preschool.”

  “Ah, well, they like for kids to be bilingual,” I tease and am rewarded with the smack of a tea towel on my arm.

  Once she sits down, we make up our respective cups, and I reach for an especially delectable looking piece of shortbread she’s plated and set out for us.

  “All right, already,” she coaxes. “You still haven’t told me what happened after you guys left yesterday afternoon.”

  I shrug as I nibble.

  “Well, let’s see…I offered him something to eat at the apartment, since we were still hungry after the great potato massacre in your dining room. So I had Donovan bring up a shepherd’s pie and salad. We cracked open a bottle of wine. It was really…nice.”

  “Hmmm, sounds nice.”

  “It was nice,” I agree. “I can’t even remember the last time I thought about strangling him.”

  “That is progress,” Jameson agrees, picking up her own cookie and starting to chew.

  “Of course, there was the kiss. That made things a little…weird,” I mention casually.

  In a rare moment of lost-decorum, my very classy sister proceeds to spray crumbs from her mouth all over the island. And me.

  “What? Kiss? Tell, tell, tell!” Jameson shrieks, making Jackson look up curiously from where he’s rolling his big red plastic car on the carpet. She slams a hand over her mouth but can’t contain the shocked laughter behind it.

  She grabs my other hand and pulls me out of the kitchen and into the hallway, away from the little guy’s big ears.

  “Okay, let me see if I’ve got this straight. Bryan went back to the apartment with you. You talked the friendly talk, and he…he kissed you? Are you sure?”

  “Am I sure he kissed me?” I echo. “Yes, James, I’m pretty sure. Either that or he slipped, and his tongue just happened to fall into my mouth.”

  “Oh my God!” she squeaks, now jumping up and down and clapping her hands like an excited schoolgirl. Suddenly she stops and puts her hands on my shoulders. “Henny, be honest with me. Were you…you know…naked?”

  “I was not naked,” I insist, but she waves it away, preferring, I’m sure, to put her own sordid slant on the story. “Were you on the way to naked?”

  “Jameson, quit it,” I hiss and give her arm a playful slap. “No one was naked. No one was on the way to naked.”

  “Oh,” she says, disappointment filling her features. “I suppose there’s always next time.”

  “Next time? What next time? I can’t kiss him again.”

  “I thought you said he kissed you.”

  “He did kiss me. But maybe I kissed him back…you know, just a little.”

  “Hey, is that like being a little bit pregnant?” Jameson asks.

  “Hey, how about less snark and more support,” I suggest, elbowing her in the ribs. She rolls her eyes and sticks her head into the kitchen to check on Jackson.

  “Come here,” she whispers back at me, waving her hand.

  I move to stand behind her, looking over her shoulder to where the pudgy little boy has sprawled out on his blanket on the kitchen floor, sound asleep and clutching his toy car.

  “Ouch. Isn’t that floor a little hard under the blanket?”

  She shakes her head. “Nah, my boy can sleep anywhere, anytime. He gets that from his father.”

  I’m thinking that this is certainly one of the more harmless traits he can pick up from his father, but decide it would be unwise to point that out to my sister right now.

  “I love that child so much it makes my heart hurt,” she says. And when she turns back around to face me, there are tears in her eyes. “Am I doing the right thing, Henny? Thinking about leaving Win? He’s Jackson’s father…”

  I consider what Bryan said to me in the car about the reasons why men cheat.

  “Hey, James…is it possible that Win’s depressed?”

  She shoots me a look filled with so much surprise that I realize she’s also had this thought.

  “Maybe,” she whispers. “I’ve tried to get him to go to counseling again. Alone, together—whatever he wants—but no go. I think he’s afraid that it might hurt his reputation if it got out. But yeah, I’ve had that thought before. Thing is, if he refuses to get help, then he’s not leaving me with any alternatives. I have to do what’s best for Jackson. I mean, he’s young enough now that he doesn’t have any sense of discord, but it’s just a matter of time before that starts to filter down into his sunny little world.”

  I put my arms around my sister and pull her to me tightly.

  “James?”

  “Hmmm?”

  “I still get goose bumps every time I think about it.”

  “About what?”

  “The kiss.”

  “Oh,” she says with an understanding chuckle. “Must’ve been some smooch, then.”

  “Best damn kiss of my life,” I whisper. “And all I can think about is how nice it would be to get another one of them.”

  She pushes away from me just a bit so we can look at one another’s faces. Her pretty, full mouth quirks up in amusement on one side, and her green eyes glitter.

  “Well, then, I guess we’d best figure out how to get you another one. And a naked one at that!”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Bryan

  Truittism No.13: It’s all fun and games until it’s not a game anymore.

  “I don’t know, Father. I’m thinking this may not have been a good idea,” I mutter as he drags me through the packed pub by my forearm.

  We’re nearly a week out from “The Kiss,” and for the first time ever, I’m nervous. Like a geeky guy who wants to date the prom queen kind of nervous. It was a great kiss. Amazing, in fact. I’m just a little…unsure of how to proceed.

  What’s wrong with me? I’ve had more casual relationships than I can count. But now that I’m interested in something more…

  I blame the damned pie. If Janet Lahti hadn’t made me eat that stupid apple walnut berry thing, I wouldn’t have been overwhelmed by that tremendous sense of well-being and comfort. Well-being and comfort just make me feel out of sorts and anxious.

  Go figure.

  I’m such an idiot. And I guess I’m not the only one who thinks so, based on the look I’m gett
ing from Hennessy O’Halloran. I guess I should’ve sent flowers after I kissed her. Or, at the very least, a text.

  “Nonsense, Bryan, nonsense!” Father Romance reassures me. “You’re as welcome to compete in the pub quiz as anyone else.”

  With the clock ticking down faster and faster, this pub quiz is one of the last tricks the O’Halloran sisters have up their sleeves. And, it has to be said, they’ve made impressive progress toward their goal. The crowd tonight is even bigger than the one that was here for the chili cook-off, and combined with the profits from the dart league, their recent theme nights for ladies, students, and the LGBT crowd, I’m guessing they’ve pushed past the fifty-thousand-dollar mark. Still, fifty-thousand only gets them halfway there.

  I’ve only agreed to be a last-minute participant in this thing because the good father here told me he was fighting off a migraine and that he was afraid he wouldn’t make it through the night. Funny thing, though. Since he brought me across the street and into the pub, he’s looking like he feels a whole lot better.

  “How’s that headache, Father?” I ask pointedly and watch with amusement as his brows draw in and his mouth droops.

  “Oh, it’s a killer, Bryan. And it’s so frustrating, you know, because I have relapsing-remitting migraines. Have you heard of that?”

  I shake my head. It could be a real thing, but my BS meter is squawking so loud I can hardly hear myself think. And how do you tell a man of God that you think he’s full of crap, anyway? That’s probably just what he’s counting on as Hennessy stalks toward us, looking incredibly sexy in a University of Minnesota sweat shirt, ball cap, and jeans. Jesus, I never expected to find myself hot and bothered by a girl wearing a picture of Goldy Gopher on her chest.

  “And what’s going on over here?” she asks when she’s reached where I’m seated in Father Romance’s spot.

  “Hennessy, I was just coming to find you,” he starts to explain. “I’m afraid I’m a bit under the weather, and I’ve asked Bryan here to take my place on the church team.”

  “Under the weather?” she scoffs. “Please, Father, I just saw you knock back a pint of Guinness and plate of Buffalo wings at the bar.”

  “Yes, exactly, Henny. My stomach is in a bit of an uproar,” he’s quick to agree, rubbing his priestly tum-tum.

  “Father, didn’t you just say it was a headache?” I remind him.

  “Yes, that’s right. A migraine brought on by the wings, no doubt.”

  “Uh-huh,” Hennessy says, hands on her deliciously curvy hips. I’m wishing I’d taken the time to put my hands on them when I had the chance. “What?” she asks, suddenly looking in my direction.

  “Uh, sorry, what what?” I counter, scrambling to figure out what she’s talking about.

  “What are you looking at?”

  Oh, that’s what she’s talking about. Squash, squash, squash that grin.

  “Nothing…your sweat shirt. I like the gopher.”

  “Mmmm-hmmm,” she says skeptically, not buying the gopher line for a second.

  “I think I’ll just go get myself a little rye to settle the tummy,” Father Romance says, slipping away, leaving me with the woman whose face I devoured right upstairs from where I’m sitting now.

  “So,” I begin slowly.

  “So…” she echoes, moving closer to my chair so no one will overhear us.

  “How’ve you been?” I ask, though the dark circles under her eyes give me a clue.

  “You really care?”

  “I do.”

  “Then maybe you should’ve called to see. Or, better yet, walked the fifty feet from your office to the pub.”

  “I know. I’m sorry,” I say, hoping my earnest face is earnest enough.

  At last, she cracks a smile, unable to resist my charm another second. “I’m sorry, I didn’t really know what to say after…”

  “The kiss,” I finish.

  “Yeah, that,” she affirms, her cheeks suddenly flushing a lovely shade of pink.

  “That’s okay. Maybe it was just one of those things,” I offer. “But, then again, maybe it wasn’t.”

  She rolls her eyes at me in annoyance. “We should talk sometime soon, okay?”

  “I’d like that,” I agree.

  “Okay, then. I’ve got a quiz to run,” she says, straightening and turning to leave my table. When she’s a few feet away, she stops and turns back to me. “Good luck, Bryan,” she says.

  I get the distinct impression she’s not just talking about the quiz.

  …

  After nearly two hours, our team is in a three-way tie with the Senior Citizens Association team and the team from the university. I take a long pull on my beer—I’d stopped counting how many I’d had after five. And the shot of vodka. And whatever that weird, cotton-candy flavored drink was. Needless to say, I’m a little fuzzy on the details as we roll into the final question. Behind me, Jameson and Bailey are roaming from table to table, on the lookout for contraband cell phones and cheat sheets.

  “All right, then, last question,” warns Julie Freddino, the Knitty Kitty lady and celebrity quizmaster. “Got your thinking caps on? Or, was that drinking caps?” She grins slyly, and a raucous cheer goes up. As for herself, Miss Freddino is wearing a pussy hat, a knit hat with cat ears poking up from the top, over her long purple hair.

  “Here we go. Remember, no shouting out answers to the competitors, please,” she reminds the spectators after an unfortunate incident involving an imitation of the state bird that got the Mayhem Teachers team disqualified. “Your final question, for the win. Which animal is it illegal to tease in the state of Minnesota?”

  Holy. Crap. I actually, honestly know the answer to this question, even as my teammates are scratching their heads. I ring the bell in the middle of the table, and all eyes swing in my direction. Cat Lady makes her way to me with the microphone.

  “You think you know the answer, Mr. L.A.?” she asks me with a hint of disdain on the two letters.

  “Yes…?”

  “You don’t sound so sure about that. Have you consulted your teammates?”

  I look around the table. The five of them are staring at me.

  “Noooo,” I admit.

  She quirks a steeply arched eyebrow at me.

  “Well, for your sake, I hope you’re right. Because if you’re wrong, you’re about to get them knocked out of the running,” she reminds me. “And you know what that means…” She uses a black-nailed finger to simulate someone slitting my throat.

  “No pressure though, right?” I quip, sounding more shaky than confident.

  “Well, Mr. Smarty Pants L.A. guy, what say you to the question ‘which animal is it illegal to tease in the state of Minnesota?’”

  “The skunk,” I announce loud and clear.

  There’s a murmur through the pub as some people nod while others shake their heads. The seniors’ team looks smug, as if they’ve already won.

  Cat Lady looks at her card, looks back at me then grabs my hand, raising it in the air as if I’ve just gone ten rounds with Muhammad Ali. “Ladies and gentlemen, we have a winner! The team from the Basilica of St. Mary of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary of Mayhem!”

  I accept the hearty back-pats from my elated teammates and catch a wink and a thumbs-up from Father Romance. A deafening din of cheers and hoots and hollers rises up from the jam-packed, liquored-up crowd in O’Halloran’s Pub. It’s so loud I can’t hear myself think. But I can feel the tap on my shoulder and I spin around, expecting another congratulatory comment from the crowd.

  I feel the fist across my face and spin around, not expecting to hit the floor as hard as I do.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Hennessy

  One minute everyone is cheering for Bryan and his team, and the next, Old Terry Trudeau is pushing his way through the mob to get to their table. I knew we should’ve cut him off after his fifth drink. This is the third fight those damn Aquatinis have caused since Walker rolled them out. Too
much booze. And sugar. And blue. Especially for an octogenarian.

  “I cannot believe I got my clock cleaned by an old man,” Bryan grumbles petulantly.

  “Well, in all fairness, Terry is a Korean War vet, and he’s still in great shape.”

  “Yeah, I noticed,” he mutters and rubs his jaw. “But how on earth was I supposed to know they used to call him Skunk back in school? Jeez, you’d think the guy would’ve gotten over it by now.”

  I chuckle as I dab some hydrogen peroxide onto his split lip with a Q-Tip. He hisses when it starts to foam around his cut.

  “Oh, don’t be a baby now.” I laugh, leaning closer so I can blow on the wound, and notice that there’s something in the way he’s looking at me.

  “What?”

  He shakes his head. “I don’t…I mean… Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?”

  I straighten up and stare down at him staring up at me. Who does this guy think he’s trying to fool?

  “Oh, come on,” I say with some impatience. “You live in a place where beautiful is the rock-bottom standard. If you think you’re going to win me over with a little sweet talk—”

  “What? No! I mean, yes, there are a lot of beautiful people where I live. But not like you, Hennessy. Not one of them is like you…”

  “Please.” I roll my eyes and start to turn away, but he grabs my forearm, forcing me to face him again. This time, he’s the one who’s looking impatient.

  “You’re not hearing me,” he asserts. “I think that you are stunning. And sexy. And so damn smart I can’t stand it. And I haven’t been able to stop thinking about kissing you since the day I came to town.”

  Before I can tell him I think he’s full of it, he grabs me around the waist and pulls me into his lap on the kitchen chair.

  “Hey!” I object and laugh at the same time. And then his mouth is on mine. He winces a little, and I can taste the peroxide I just put on his lip. Still, that doesn’t stop him from devouring me, his tongue working its way between my lips to caress mine. I feel his hands on my back and my shoulders, and despite the thousand and one reservations I have, I find myself drawing in closer to him, wrapping my arms around his broad chest.