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I sigh, moving to the side of the truck he’s shouting at me out of. “What the hell, Garrett? You gave me a damn heart attack.” At his obnoxious snort, I frown. He’s a child living in a man’s body. “And why are you driving? How are you going to get home from the bar?”
He shrugs. “Figured my good little sis will come snatch me up and bring me home to the old double wide when I’m ready.”
“Hey, Cass, lookin’ good. You doin’ anything later?” Alex, my ex-boyfriend, grins smugly. Sending me a suggestive wink that makes me internally gag.
Unfortunately, in a small town, you don’t get away from your exes. They just pile up in town, forever to harass you and be there when you don’t want them to be.
Exhibit A: Alex is good friends with Garrett. It’s been a few years since Alex and I dated, and clearly, the guy can’t take a hint. Even though I’m pretty sure he’s dating Marissa Finley from two trailers down in the park. He better watch his friendly ‘winking.’ Marissa will castrate him faster than he canwinka second time.
Ignoring Alex, I focus on my brother. “Which bar?”
He smiles, gesturing over his shoulder down the street. “Tavern Nine. They’ve even got a live band tonight. Should be a good time. Hey, why don’t you ask Madison to come? I haven’t seen her around in a while.”
I scrunch my nose. “Madison and I aren’t talking. She’s hooking up with Colt.”
Madison is—or was, my best friend. And like small-town drama tends to go, she’s dating my most recent ex, Colt. The jerk. If I think Butch is an asshole, Colt takes the cake. Worst mistake of my life and a waste of three months. Why Madison is with him is a mind-blowing question I’ll never get the answer to.
Garrett whistles lowly. “Damn, Cass, I didn’t know. When’d that happen?”
I shrug. “A few months ago. You’d know if you were home any. Which, by the way, I need lot-rent for this month. You stiffed me last month, dick.”
“Uh…” he trails off, “I’ll hit you later. And hey, I’ll save you a seat tonight, might even buy you a margarita.”
Some brother he is. “Fuck you, Garrett.” I turn back to my car.
He beeps again, making me jump,again. I scowl at him as they laugh and pull off down the street. Taking out my phone, I shoot off a text to a few girlfriends to see if they heard about this margarita night.
I don’t even know why I’m entertaining the idea. It might be because I have tomorrow off, but there’s been plenty of nights where I could’ve gone out and I didn’t. Don’t get me wrong, I like to go out with my friends every now and then. I don’t even mind traveling solo most nights since I always end up running into someone I know. But that’s the problem, Ialwaysrun into someone I know. Between Alex, Colt, and a few other losers who I—for some reason—gave a chance to, I can’t seem to get one good night out.
My phone dings like crazy with messages confirming margarita night at Tavern Nine, all of them mentioning something about theydidn’t think I’d want to come. Guess I deserve that one.
I sigh to myself, starting my car and heading to the trusty-rusty trailer located in Whitetail Park, where everyone in town has a little bit of family living.
Parking in front of the single-wide I share with my brother—the same one our father left us when he died. It’s a simple two-bedroom, one-bathroom trailer with a small kitchen-dining-living room space all crammed into one. It’s not in bad condition. My father put a good amount of work in to keep it up to date, and I do my best to do the same.
But sometimes it’s a lot…even for me.
Getting out, I spot a very excited little sausage waiting for me on the porch with a wagging tail and a little pot belly. Smiling, I walk up the few front porch steps. “There’s my chubby baby Frankie,” I coo. “Did you miss Mama?”
Frankie flips over and yelps, immediately wanting belly scratches.
Frankie was my dad’s beloved short-haired, red classic dachshund. He might have been originally my mother’s, but it soon became apparent who he favored. And that’ll happen when you feed a wiener dog a ton of scraps and snacks right from the table and recliner every night.
Frankie’s coming up on nine years old, and being overweight—well, morbidly obese according to the vet—he’s become diabetic, and needs daily insulin shots alongside a diet hehates. Which is probably why I’ve caught him on the counter eating bread and cookies several times.
I still have no idea how he gets up there.
Unhooking him from his line, I let him inside with me. We go through our nightly routine of dinner, walkies, shower, and snuggles. I sigh heavily as I sit on the couch with Frankie’s fat booty plopped in my lap. “What do you think, Frankie, should I go out for margaritas tonight?”
Frankie looks up at me with a huff, going back to the old westerns on TV he used to watch with my father on Saturday nights. I swear he knows when it’s a Saturday. If you don’t put it on for him, he cries and cries until you do.
He really is a big baby.
Reluctantly—and for the first time in easily a year—I decide I should. I mean, thereisa special on margaritas. If anything, the bar will be filled with ladies, right?
Right.
Grabbing Frankie’s couch blanket, I wrap him up and put him in his favorite spot. I turn the TV volume down some and leave it on for him while I’m out. I change quickly into—what used to be—my find-a-man dress. It’s currently all I have that’s cute and not in the wash. Slipping into the simple, black cocktail dress with skinny straps. It cuts off just below my ass and sinches to my waist just right.
