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“Seriously?” I mutter as she just marches away from me, expecting me to do what she demands.
“Birdie, call Tess and meet me at the Dip and Twist,” Wren speaks into her phone as she pauses in the doorway to dig into the pocket of her jean shorts for her golf cart keys. “We need an emergency Sip and Bitch, stat.”
Awww hell…
“Don’t you have a hot, ex-pro baseball player waiting for you at home and a growing teenage boy who needs dinner?” I ask hopefully while she listens to whatever her sister is saying to her on the phone and then looks back over her shoulder at me.
“Shepherd and Owen are at baseball practice, and then he’s taking Owen over to the mainland for tacos, because according to my fifteen-year-old, ‘The tacos on this island aren’t bussin’.’ Whatever the fuck that means. We’ve got all night; don’t you worry about me.”
With that, she goes back to her conversation with Birdie and walks out onto the front porch of the office. With a sigh, I get up from my chair and do what Wren demands.
One does not just deny a Sip and Bitch order, even if one knows all the bitching is going to be about her.
I’ve always been the best at putting a smile on my face, even when everything around me is a dumpster fire. No one wants to see a cheerleader lose her shit on the sidelines. That’s just not good for morale. Looks like I’ve lost my touch, and I haven’t been faking it until I make it very well.
Guess it’s time to end my five-month ban on tequila… and figure out a way to tell my friends the truth without them hating me.
“Fuck you, fuck you, and definitely fuck you.”
For the first time today, my mouth breaks into a real, genuine smile instead of a fake one, when me, Wren, and her sister Birdie all arrive at the Dip and Twist at the same time, greeted by our friend Tess in her usual fashion.
“It’s always a pleasure to see you, Tess.” I laugh as she hands the three of us our boozy slushes when we climb up next to her onto the purple picnic table we carved our names into as kids.
The purple picnic table in a sea of brightly painted picnic tables under a large awning attached to the side of the Dip and Twist building, which the entire island knows to keep open at all times for us, in case the need for a Sip and Bitch should occur. Thankfully, it’s still the offseason and it’s dinnertime, so there’s only one other customer here. The odds are pretty good Tess didn’t have to threaten anyone with bodily injury who might not know the rules of the purple picnic table.
“I hope you’re all happy drinking in front of me while I sit here dying,” Tess complains as we slurp noisily on our slushes that are filled with more booze than fruity syrup and crushed ice, just how we like them.
“You’re not dying; you’re pregnant,” Birdie reminds Tess, brushing her blonde hair out of her eyes before reaching over and resting her hand on Tess’s rapidly growing, six-month baby bump.
“Same thing,” Tess grumbles, smacking Birdie’s hand away to place her own over her belly, giving it a loving rub, regardless of her annoyed words. “Whoever taught my husband how to read should be torched. He won’t let me color my hair, he won’t let me have coffee, and he won’t allow me within fifteen feet of open flames because of smoke inhalation. He’s basically removed all joy from my life. I am the walking dead with my roots showing.”
No one was more surprised than… well, everyone, when strong, independent, hard-ass, “I’m never getting married or having kids” Tess Powell called us the week of Christmas, during a getaway her boyfriend Bodhi took her on to a bed and breakfast in the mountains of West Virginia, to say they were eloping, and they were having a baby. Even though her glare alone during every Sip and Bitch recently could light a small building on fire, I’ve never seen Tess happier or more content. All thanks to a pothead golf caddie who absolutely adores her and worships the ground she walks on.
“All right, who else wants to start bitching, now that we’re sipping?” I ask around the straw still shoved in my mouth, pleased that Tess unknowingly ended my tequila ban for me and didn’t give me the same vodka slush everyone else has.
I just won’t think about the last time I had tequila, now will I? It’s safer for my sanity this way.
My friends all just stare at me while they sip their drinks, aside from Tess, who holds her arm straight out to the side, slowly pouring her bottle of water out and muttering “Fuck this water bullshit” under her breath.
