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“It’s not about the money comment. It’s about the fact that you’ve been off work for what, twenty minutes, and you’re settling in for a big old nasty night of feeling bitter, and I don’t feel like watching it.”
That made me snort. “I have plans at eight, just so you know. I wasn’t planning on getting sloppy.”
“No one plans on getting sloppy.”
Then he didn’t know me as well as he claimed to. “This is crap. I’m not leaving.”
“Get out or I’m calling the cops.” Darryl looked stubborn, stone-faced.
Rage filled my gut. My lungs. He was my cousin. My family. I didn’t do anything wrong. It felt like a betrayal. Just a kick in the fucking teeth. This was my sanctuary. My happy place. He couldn’t ruin this for me.
“Are you serious?” I asked, my voice deadly calm. Quiet.
He nodded. “Look, man, it’s for your own good.”
I stood up and threw a ten-dollar bill in the general direction of the bar top. It fluttered to the floor instead and I didn’t bother to pick it up. Then for whatever reason I grabbed my empty glass and took it with me.
“You’re stealing the glass?” he asked, sounding pissed off.
No. Because stealing a glass was stupid. I had no idea why I did that. I just wanted to make some kind of statement. But his words reminded me that it was a stupid gesture and the glass was going to stay empty, whether I took it with me or not. So I acted like I was taking the final sip from it and then set it down on a table on my way out.
I took a deep breath and headed down the sidewalk. That wasn’t the only bar. Darryl knew me. Other bartenders knew me too, but they appreciated that I drank like a fish and tipped well. I wouldn’t get that judgment bullshit from them.
Mina was one of those bartenders. She thought I was hot. I thought she was hot. We had even hooked up, twice, to mutual satisfaction. But then she had started dating someone and seemed happy and we were back to bartender and customer. But she still liked to flirt, just a little, and she wouldn’t give me a hard time.
“Dude, you stink,” she said. “Fresh off the boat, huh?”
There was a particular odor that clung to me during and after work. It was a briny, salty scent, most of it from the splash of the bay waters and from hooking the bait. I had taken off my waders but there was a real possibility I still smelled. I was used to it. “No, I woke up like this.” I sat down and added, “Make it a double.”
She had on a tank top and denim shorts that barely covered her ass. Normally, when she moved around the bar and bent over to grab beers from the tub, I checked out her ass. I stared at her tits in appreciation when she handed me my drink. Today I had no such inclination. I had another body crowding my thoughts. Another girl.
“So what’s new?” I asked her.
“Not much here. How about you?” Mina gave me a grin. “Causing trouble?”
“Nope.” I conveniently ignored being thrown out of the Moose. “I’ve been a saint.” You could even say I was taking on the role of mentor. That thought made me smile grimly. My mood was spiraling into dark and dangerous places. Down the rabbit hole of would have, could have, should have.
“Glad to hear it.” She put my drink on a cocktail napkin. “Cheers, my friend.”
“Cheers.”
An hour later I was well and truly buzzed, and I knew I should eat something but once I start drinking, food becomes unimportant to me. Unappealing. So I just drink more. When I stood up I was aware of my current state. I wasn’t so far gone that I was sloppy. But I was flying high, feeling powerful. In charge. Feeling righteous.
Which was why I was stupid enough to decide to take a walk to my mom’s house. I had promised her I would see her. Obviously, she wasn’t going to want to see me loaded, but I figured I wasn’t loaded. Just pleasantly buzzed. That’s all.
The house I grew up in was a ramshackle farmhouse on a small lot. No driveway. If my mother ever listed it for sale, the agent would have to write something like, “Needs TLC,” or “Is waiting for your design touch.” It was seventies paneling, a wood-burning stove, ancient carpet, and a fake rustic vibe in the kitchen. I was thirteen before I figured out the exposed brick chimney in the kitchen was actually sheets of plastic designed to look like brick. That was an ancient decorating mind fuck. Who did that?
As a kid, I didn’t think anything of what the house looked like. It was similar to my friends’ houses and my mother had always cooked and cleaned and kept a decent home for us. I remembered my dad popping in and out, but oddly enough when he showed up, it was never a contentious thing. My mother would welcome him home and he was a fun guy. Boisterous, charming, a good-time boy without a care in the world. At seven I hadn’t seen the problem with that. Now I resented his inability to put his family first.
The yard had bushes that had grown to the sloped roofline and scraggly grass. There was no garage, only a shed that looked like it had shifted so dramatically on its footings that the door most likely didn’t open anymore. I wouldn’t know. I didn’t come here often. The swing set in the yard kept me away.
“Hey, Mom, what’s up?” I said after she opened the door to my knock.
Initially, she smiled but then when I came forward into the house she gave me that look. Of concern. “Are you drunk?”
“Nope.” I kissed her forehead. “Just had a drink after work, but I’m far from drunk. It’s good to see you.”
She clucked and sighed, but she didn’t say anything further. “It’s good to see you too.”
