Page 19 of A Fine Line
Bud. I hated when they called me that. I was the youngest in a family of five. Bud, sport, kid, all of those implied that I was less than them, whether they meant it or not, I knew it.
“Perfect. Fantastic. Marvelous.” I chewed down on my third (fourth?) cookie. “I would like a drink. Possibly more than I need air. And I need air a lot too. I survive on that stuff.”
My brother nodded, tapped his hand on his wives thigh, and slid off his chair. Reaching the bar, he pulled out a clean pint glass and sat it down on the counter. “What sounds good? On me this time. We’ve got a local IPA that’s really-”
“What gets me feeling the best the fastest?”
“Umm…well, the heavier liquor-”
“Heavy sounds great.”
Luke’s eyes widened a bit but he put the pint down and grabbed a shot glass instead.
I didn’t love to get drunk- mostly because the sounds around me were always amplified and I usually said things I didn’t mean- although I kind of did, I just didn’t want everyone knowing it. And I hated the way it made my stomach feel like a giant rock is just chilling around in there.
But today called for one. Because ever since I signed up for this stupid competition that was supposed to save me, I had been haunted by desserts. Literally, last night I had a dream that the burned creme brulee from moms house came to life, broke into my house, and burned everything I had to the ground in a revengeful triumph. Even during the day I wasn’t safe from the thoughts of constantly wondering what’s wrong with me, why can something so outwardly simple become so impossibly difficult for me? A rhetorical question, really. I knew exactly why.
“Are you sure you’re all good?” Luke leaned in to me, where Layla couldn’t hear us as she typed away on her laptop a few seats down.
I nodded and grabbed my tiny clear shot from him. Not big enough. I smelled it, cringed, and downed the shot in one swallow. My tongue shriveled up inside my mouth but I forced my face to take a somewhat normal expression. It didn’t work, my lips were puckered and my eyebrows were inching closer together.
Why did he give me something so heavy? This asshole.
“Do you want to talk about anything?” He asked.
I opened my mouth and wondered just how much this tiny clear liquid was going to extract from my brain. Yes, I wanted toshout. I want to talk about how everyone treats me like a delicate little butterfly. When, at my very worst, I was at least a month.
And I have this giant freaking weight on my shoulders telling me I’m lazy or doing everything wrong and even if I know deep down that’s not true, it doesn’t take the weight off. And if I so happen to let it slip out than everyone will switch from me being a butterfly to me being…I don’t know, something more delicate than a butterfly. That’s for sure.
Plus, I signed up for this ridiculous competition to impress my family only to find out wait a minute, you actually aren’t good enough. Not on your own. Oh, and your socks don’t match because every time you buy a new set and wash them half of them get sucked down some magical sock tube into the world’s unknown so one of your feet is just plain black and the other is red with tiny tacos on them. And another thing-
“Crew?” Luke tapped his knuckle onto the bar top. “Your mind looks…busy.”
“It’s like an interstate going on in here. And I can’t find the exit.”
“Do you think you’re stressed because of work?” He asked and I actually guffawed- loud enough to make Layla physically jump in her seat.
I was most definitely stressed because of work. And life. And a certain red head who won’t leave my freaking brain alone.
“Maybe.”
My chest was starting to get that fuzzy warm feeling that I did enjoy when I had a couple drinks. “Hey, can I get two more of those not-waters?”
“Not…waters?” His head tilted to the side, but then straightened up when I pointed to my tiny shot glass. “Oh, the rum. Yeah, I’ll grab one that’s easier on your stomach.”
“Not easier, I don’t need easy.”
His movements, grabbing a bottle of basic Malibu, paused entirely. “Are you sure?”
“Very sure. I am a big boy, I can handle myself just fine.” My tone was turning short, defensive in a snap, and I couldn’t stop it if I wanted to.
Luke shrugged one shoulder. “You’re right, my bad.” But he didn’t look like it was his bad. He looked like a toddler just said they’re old enough for aftershave and the parent says ‘oh, yes you are’ and gives them a bottle of just plain water in hopes they’ll settle down.
Regardless, Luke poured me one more shot. I downed it. And he poured another. With the third one the burn was a lot lighter and the fuzziness was a lot…fuzzier. Like my insides were turning into a comfy velvet couch at an attorney’s office.
BANG. A loud noise came from behind the swinging doors that led into the back of the bar where all the kegs and other bar business type things sat.
I looked down at my empty shot glass. Man, this stuff worked fast. I was already hearing things.