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“Really, dad?” Deacon pipes up as soon asAlexandrahas left the room. “You can’t find a woman not on your payroll to slobber on?”
Our dad shrugs. “Don’t pretend you’re going to act any different when you’re my age.”
But among the endless other things our father doesn’t know about his sons, this one is the most significant. He doesn’t realize that we’ve worked our whole lives not wanting to be like him. And certainly not like our mother either, who has never stood upfor herself or us, terrified of losing her comfortable lifestyle more than her dignity. Thank god my brothers and I have each other in this life because I’m not sure that we would have been able to navigate this hellhole alone.
I’m always relieved to leave our family dinners and move to our favorite neighborhood bar, The Whiskey Drop. We’ve been coming here since we got fake IDs on Canal Street and ironically, it always feels more like coming home than our childhood home does. We always sit at the bar so we can chat with Meg, our favorite septuagenarian who has known us since we were little shits that couldn’t handle our liquor. We’re still little shits, but at least we can handle our liquor now.
“So, who’s the lucky lady?” Meg asks Deacon, who is looking at his phone.
He looks up at Meg with a sigh. “How can you tell?”
“You’ve checked that damn phone so much that you didn’t even notice my new hair color.” Meg cocks an accusatory eyebrow at him. And it’s true. Deacon is always the first to lavish Meg with compliments every time we show up and it’s some new bright color of the rainbow I’ve seen on human hair before. But Deacon was probably too busy noticing Emilynottexting us back to say anything.
“Meg-a-millions,” Deacon’s voice is thick with praise now. “You’re right. I can’t believe I missed it. What is that color? Lovely lavender? Luscious lilac?”
I grin, watching Meg eat the attention up.
“Pussycat Plum, actually.” She coifs her hair for extra dramatic effect. “Now that that’s settled, what’s eating you up? Not a great Valentine’s Day I take it?”
“Fucking amazing.” Ben sounds euphoric and then deflates all within the span of a second. “And then shitty.”
“For all three of you?” Meg looks suspiciously at us while she tops off Ben’s whiskey. “How does the math on that work?”
“You probably don’t want to know, Meg.” I offer her an out.
“I’ve been a bartender in Manhattan for fifty years. You think I haven’t seen it all?”
I don’t doubt it.
“We’re all into the same woman.” I shoot back the rest of my whiskey. “We have been for a long time now. And she seems to be into us but won’t just…” I stop because I don’t know what her damn hold-up is. Sure, logically I can think of a million reasons, but nothing that matters in the scheme of things. But I guess to her, it does.
“Just fucking give in.” Deacon finishes my sentence. “She won’t just fucking give in.”
“You know, I think probably more than half our female regulars started showing up because of you three? Sure, they stay now because of the amazing bartender, but the chance to be with any three of you made some of these women try whiskey for the first time.” Meg takes a look around the bar and then back at us. “So, what’s wrong with this woman? Is she married or something? That’s the trick to finally getting you three, being impossible to have?”
I laugh and shake my head. “She’s single. That might be the problem. She’s absolutely determined to navigate this world alone.”
“Building her own empire,” Deacon adds. “She’s got big plans. And I respect it, but I would also pass out with excitement if she ever finally asked us for help. Or at least told us more about her plans than her vague answers about female pleasure while she blushes. News flash, Em, we could help with female pleasure!” Deacon’s voice pleads passionately with an imaginary Emily.
Ben slams his drink down on the table after taking a big gulp. “One time,” he starts, “her phone died, and she needed to call her friend. The rational thing would have been to ask to use one of our phones. Instead, she disappeared from our study session in a sleet storm to find the nearest phone booth. Phone booths don’t even work in New York City anymore. That’s how damn stubborn she is about drawing a line with us.”
“And the craziest part?” I chime in, laughing. “She fucking found one. The city is supposed to have replaced all of the phone booths, but it wasn’t even surprising to us that she, of all people, managed to find the last phone booth in all of Manhattan.”
I bring my head up to check if Meg is even still listening when I notice she’s doubled over in laughter. Her belly laughs start coming out in high-pitched waves and the other people at the bar turn their heads to see what all the fuss is about. Hell, we’re looking at her to see what all the fuss is about.
She stands up straight and wipes a tear from her eye. “Oh,” she says, attempting to collect herself. “I’m sorry. I’m just laughing at the universe. Because wow, you managed to find the one person in this whole world who just might be able to handle the three of you.” She laughs again to herself. “Most women would crumple up dealing with you three. You’re a lot. A lot of looks, a lot of personality, and a lot of power. But this one, bring her round here soon. Because she’s a keeper.”
She pours whiskey straight into our glasses. “Cheers to her giving you hell. And may you enjoy it.”
And we can’t argue with that, because yes, she gives us hell. But also hell yes, we enjoy it.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Emily
How long can you ignore your group project members without affecting the quality of the work? Well, it turns out that the answer is longer than I thought. It’s been six days of not responding to their texts and calls unless you count the notes in our online shared documents. I’m the editor for our current paper that’s due in two days, so I can’t really avoid that reality. But we’ve still been extremely productive without our in-person meetings. Too bad I didn’t know this earlier. It would have saved me a lot of trouble.
Of course, it’s just like them to continue doing their work perfectly despite all the bat-shit craziness going on. I could almost resent them for it if it didn’t mean getting perfect grades.
