1
CHARLIE
McGrady’s is packedwith patrons in every corner, exactly like I was hoping for. All the better to blend in with, which is essential when you’re playing the bad girl and drinking underage.
Judging by the volume level that’s audible even through the heavy front door, the Saturday night crowd in there is loud, obnoxious, and rowdy. It’s the perfect combination to take my mind off the absolute shitshow that just went down at home. Thank God. All I want right now is to disappear into the background noise of the pub’s clientele. I’m more than ready to forget the bomb my dad just dropped on me.
Fuck him. That’s the only thought that comes to mind. Fuck. Him.
As I stand in line outside the bar, I see a familiar face up ahead and give the bouncer a little wave. I don’t have to worry about the fact that I’m underage at this place; Rob knows me. He’s been quietly letting me in here since I was seventeen. Probably because he knows my whole family, knows that alcohol is already in my blood (the Abbott Winery is our legacy, after all), knows that I work harder than most people twice my age. Not only that, but when I come in for a drink, it’s to relax. Not to get wasted or make a scene. My driver’s license might say I’m eighteen, but my soul is a lot older.
So much older.
Taking care of my two younger sisters, dealing with an alcoholic father and an absent mother who ran out on us years ago, and trying to keep the family business running isn’t your standard young adult M.O., but here I am. I flash Rob a grateful smile as he motions me to the head of the line and gently steers me inside.
Despite growing up at a winery, I’m not a proper drinker, per se…but unlike most people, I enjoy an adult beverage now and again toclearmy head, not muddle it. And while I can sip wine anytime I want to at home, it’s not the same as being out at a bar with a real drink in my hand. Not only that, but I enjoy the burn of liquor. Sipping whisky slowly allows my thoughts to percolate. Maybe it’s the method of bringing the glass to my lips, or the feel of the smoky, velvet liquid coating my tongue. Maybe it’s just the higher ABV. Regardless, it’s a nice change for me. My family lives, breathes, and eats wine. Sometimes I just need to get away from it all.
Casually, I make my way across the room, trying not to attract attention. I’m never in a hurry when I’m drinking to think. Although tonight, I’m drinking to forget—and I don’t care what kind of whisky they have, as long as it serves that purpose.
The line at the bar is ridiculous. I’m not waiting. Weaving my way through the packed bodies, I ignore their protests and push my way to the front. No one is mad enough to do anything about it, so I hold my spot and wave the bartender down.
“An Allagash and a shot of Crown Royal,” I tell him. “You know what, make it two shots.”
I figure I might as well stock up now so I don’t have to rudely push my way back again. The bartender doesn’t even flinch at my order, nor does he look closely enough to realize I should probably be sipping a Dr. Pepper instead of beer and maple-flavored whisky.
The music pumps all around me. A recent Top 40 hit plays over the speakers and half the crowd waiting at the bar hurries to the dance floor in some sort of disjointed flash mob. Realizing I now have lots of space, I find a stool and climb onto it to wait for my drinks.
I’m pretty bold—bolder than my younger sisters, for sure—but it takes a while for me to warm up to the whole dancing-in-public thing. Maybe because I feel like everyone is looking at me when I do, which is probably just anxiety, but even still, I can’t shake the discomfort. One of my friends said she’d meet me here a little later and I know she’ll want to dance, so the booze better do its job before she gets here.
The bartender sets the pint glass on a little napkin in front of me and puts the shots beside it. “Enjoy.”
He tells me the total and I slip him some cash.
Damn straight I’m going to enjoy this. I only graduated from high school a few months ago, and was planning to take a few classes in business and communications at Napa Valley College, but what’s the point now? As of this evening, my life is basically over.
“I’ve made an arrangement for you, Charlie. And you’re going to shut your mouth and hear me out before you start arguing.”
Those were the first words my dad said to me when he got home this afternoon…after he’d cracked open a beer. Never mind that he’d been gone without a trace for three days, leaving me and my sisters to hold everything down at home while he was off doing who knows what. Yet again.
I’d tried to walk away from him, but he’d forced me into his office and closed the door. That’s when I knew that whatever he had to tell me, it was going to be bad.Reallybad. And I wasn’t wrong.
Because the news he’d delivered had basically ended my life as I know it.
Running my finger around the rim of my glass, I drag my gaze over the people letting loose all around me. Did any of them get shocking news today too, and that’s why they’re here? Who else got a fatal blow and needed somewhere to lick their wounds?
It’s just so unfair. I’m in the prime of my life. Young. Healthy. Full of potential, with a good head on my shoulders, and not tied down yet. All that stuff people tell you to enjoy while you have it. But I’m not even going to get the chance. My father traded my youth, my future, my body for his own gain. Of course, he got something big in return. He never does anything unless there are dollar signs in it for him.
God, I’d trade places with anyone in this bar right now. Let someone else be me. Or at least, give me some time to be young and live.
Returning to my beer, I take a small, slow drink. It’s a citrusy, Belgian-style wheat beer, the kind of thing you drink around a campfire with your friends while you burn marshmallows and tell stories about the good old days until you realize it’s three in the morning and the fire’s gone out and you’ve all fallen asleep in your pop-up chairs. At least, that’s what I imagine anyway.
And then someone falls out of their chair and wakes everyone else up, and it’s time to retire to your tents and sleeping bags. The mental picture makes me snicker around another sip.
“I want in on the joke,” someone nearby says with an Irish lilt.
The young male voice is intriguing, but I don’t let it pull me away from my drink as I take another.
“It wasn’t that funny,” I finally respond without looking at him.
