A Toast to the Good Times (4 page)

I toss a couple of ice cubes into the glass, squeeze the juice from a lime, and chuck the spent shell in with the ice. I reach behind me, grab the vodka without even having to look, and give a generous pour. I top it off with ginger beer and don’t waste any time throwing the drink back.

It’s been ages since I’ve had a Moscow Mule. My dad used to give me shit about drinking them, saying it was a sissy-vodka drink, that real men drink scotch, neat. He’d make it sound like I was drinking the equivalent of a watermelon breezer, or some other
frou-frou
drink that a wasted girl would parade around her sorority house with. But the mixture of vodka drenched in the ginger beer slinks down my throat like warm velvet.

Soft and smooth like Mila’s lips.

I slam the glass down onto the wooden bar top and start on a refill.

The last time I was drinking to forget, was the night I met Mila.

It was cold as shit that night. According to all of the weather guys, we were in the icy center of one of the coldest winters Boston had dealt with in at least nine years.
Which might explain why Heather felt compelled to warm herself up with
Tyler
while I was out looking at the bar,
stupidly
still excited by all the potential the place held.

On the way back to my place, I had stopped at some cozy little bakery that Heather loved and grabbed us some hot cocoa and muffins, like a total romantic tool. I thought we could curl up in our tiny apartment, and I could tell her all about the place where I’d just plunked down every cent I had to my name in hopes that I could make it into a bar I could be proud of.

Instead, when I walked in, I found Heather grinding and moaning on top of my
Santa
-hat-wearing asshole of a best friend.

Merry Christmas to me, right?

I dropped the stupid cocoa in the doorway and high-tailed it outta there so furious and heart-sick and betrayed, I could barely see where I was going.

I wandered forever, not about to go back to the apartment and see if either one of those assholes was still there. And I couldn’t exactly go back to New Jersey since I’d pretty much fucked over my entire family, wound up in jail, and spent every penny I inherited on my brand new bar.

I had nowhere to go and the weather was getting worse by the second.

And to top it off, I stormed out of my apartment straight into the bitter cold of a Boston winter. The fucking wind was like a sucker kick to the gut.

Jesus, the wind that night practically blew me into that shitty little bar all on its own. Not that I fought very hard against the pull and warm familiarity of my go-to comfort escape place.

Bars always felt like home to me. They were in my blood. From the tiny gin joint that my grandfather owned, and then passed down to my dad, to the falling-down monstrosity I bought because I thought it would help me stake my claim and establish my name, I had and always would have a bone-deep connection with the tiny world that existed around a glass of liquor in the warm, dry comfort of a bar.

Or maybe it wasn’t
a
bar. Maybe it was
our
bar, the family bar that was about to go bankrupt. Or at least, that was what was going on the last time I thought to ask about it. Before I blew a gaping hole in all my family’s financial and emotional expectations.

Because I was supposed to save it.

I
could have
saved it.

But I didn’t.

Instead, I bolted as soon as my inheritance check cleared the bank. I was a punk ass kid who selfishly wanted to open my own place.

Maybe it was karma biting my ass when I found Heather and
Tyler
together.

Whatever the reason, I found my way to that tiny, sad pub after I left the scene of their double betrayal and settled in for a long night of
P
icklebacks
. What I really wanted to do was pour the whiskey straight into my brain and burn the image of the two of them right out of my grey matter. I was only on my second shot when Mila came stumbling in.

“It’s cold as a witch’s tit in a brass bra out there!” She shot me a cheerful smile and pulled out the stool next to me. She collapsed onto it, letting several plastic shopping bags containing gift-wrapped packages slide off her arms. Her leather messenger bag hit the floor with a
thunk
and hardback books spilled out all over the place. “Do you mind if I sit here for a while? Just until the wind dies down?” Mila asked the bartender.

“I don’t care how long you sit, as long as you’re buying drinks. And tipping.” He gave her a quick wink, but I knew he was serious. Even in near-blizzard conditions, he wasn’t going to let her take up space at his bar for free.

“Sure. Okay. That’s not a problem.” Her dark hair pooled around her face as she dug through her purse. “Oh. Uh-oh. Um, my wallet...”

I glanced up and caught the bartender rolling his eyes.

“No sweat, I got it,” I said. Mila’s cheeks turned even pinker than they had been from the biting cold.

“No, that’s okay. It’s here somewhere.” She continued to dig through her purse.

“Really, I insist. What’ll you have?”

Mila bit her lip, and I could practically see the wheels spinning.

“What are you having?” She motioned to the pair of shots sitting in front of me.

“Pickelback.” I narrowed my eyes at her, taking in the mussed hair, the makeup-free face and the "I Read Banned Books" shirt peeking
out
from the folds of her thick wool coat, and the way she looked totally out of her element in this seedy little bar. “You look more like an amaretto sour type of girl. Or, maybe a pink paradise?”

Despite my misery, I couldn’t help the smirk I flashed while I gave her my professional opinion.

“I’ll have a Tom Collins,” she said, negating my smirk with the slow rise of one eyebrow. And I nearly fell off of my stool. She just ordered my grandfather’s drink.
 
“Thanks,” she added. “I can totally pay you back, if you give me your address. I promise I’ll send you a check or something.”

“It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it. I’m Landry.” I extended my hand, and she shook it lightly.

Her smile was warm, slow, and sweet with just a tiny punch of sass. I really thought I had her pegged with her drink of choice, but I was obviously not on my A-game when it came to figuring girls out recently.

My surprise over Heather’s back-stabbing proved that.

“Mila. And thank you. Again.”

I wrapped my lips around the shot of whiskey and threw it back, then followed it with the shot of pickle juice.

“That’s pretty disgusting.” She wrinkled her nose, and I fought the urge to grimace over the
after bite
of the pickle brine.

I shrugged and moved a few inches closer to her.

Not because I was attracted to her in a sexual way.

More because something about her felt instantly comfortable. Like I’d known her my whole life. Like I could tell her about my every fuck-up and she’d listen without judging. I smiled her way, glad to meet her, glad to be drinking next to someone who, for whatever reason, made this shitty day a little bit better.

“It gets the job done. And a Tom Collins is an old man’s drink. Since we’re keeping score.”

She giggled and the noise sounded out of place in my current state of misery. The bartender came back and set her tall glass down in front of her and two more shots in front of me.

“So, what are we drinking to?” She looked up from under her thick, dark bangs.

“To all the people I want to forget.”

Pathetic? Possibly.

Honest? Absofuckinglutely.

“That’s not very
Christmassy
.” Mila raised both eyebrows and pursed her lips at me.

I shrugged, trying so hard to stay glum, but the way she was looking at me pulled a smile from somewhere deep and dark and cheerless. I raised my drink to hers.

“Cheers,” I said, tapping my shot glass to her drink with a clink.

“Cheers.”

Mila smiled that seductively sad, empathetic smile that, by the end of the night, had me pouring my heart out, asking her to be my roommate, and actually believing in Christmas miracles.

Because somehow, for some reason I couldn’t put my finger on, that cool-as-shit, albeit nerdy-as-hell, girl just walked into my life and gave me hope that, deep down, I
 
might actually be okay.

And I was. For a long ass time.

Mila and I moved in together and had this rad, platonic, easy, uncomplicated thing going. I opened the shit-hole bar with my money alone, cutting corners where I needed, and making a shoestring stretch to its last thread when I had to. And it didn’t matter how hard it all was, because I was actually doing it. I was officially not as big a fuckup as I thought I might be.

And then, tonight, I’d gone and fucked it all up.

For what?

A fucking kiss?

If I was that hard up, I could’ve just taken the redhead home. Why did I have to cross the line with Mila?

***

I’m on my third lime-soaked Mule when my phone vibrates on the other side of the bar. I slide off of the stool and stumble across the room, which slants a little too much to the left. I have to grab onto the bar top for stability. I stare at the screen of my iPhone, but everything is too hazy, and I can’t make out the name.

“Hello?” I slur.

“Landry? Oh, thank god you answered!” The female voice squeals a little too loud for my alcohol-soaked eardrums.

             
“Paisley?” I haven’t talked to anyone from home, not even Paisley, my favorite sibling, in over a year. Not since I left town and never took a single look back.
             
“What’s up, old man? I know, I know. You probably forgot you even had a sister.” She tries to come off as casual and sarcastic, but, even though I’m drunk as shit, I can hear the hurt jangling in her voice.
             
“Is everything okay?” I grip the phone tighter, while guilt and worry tangle low in my gut.

Paisley was always a little less stable than my brother and me. She always needed a little more attention. And I was usually the one person she’d turn to when things got rough.

I’d pulled the rug out from under her when I left. And now, even though her voice sounds cheerful enough, I have a feeling something’s not quite right.

             
“Sort of. I mean...I don’t know. I just...” she fumbles over her words and I don’t have the patience to sit and drag it out of her.

My guilt and shame makes my words lash out harsher than I intend them to. “Paisley, just talk. What’s going on?”

             
She pulls a long breath in and lets it whoosh out before she rushes her plea. “I really need you to come home. Like, now, Landry.”
             
“What’s going on?” The beginnings of a liquor-soaked headache are taking shape in my skull. This one’s gonna be a brain-bruiser, and I pull out the tomato juice so I can get started on a counteractive Bloody Mary before I’m completely useless.
             
“I just really need you here. Tonight. Please.” The last word is a tiny poisoned dagger stabbed in my ribs.
             
I break off a stem of celery and mix my red drink, my little sister’s voice needling at my
shriveled
-up heart.

“Paisley, there’s no way I can drive out there tonight.” I could barely make it across the room to answer my phone, so driving is pretty much out of the question.

             
“So take the train,” she suggests. I rub my hand across the scruff of my cheek and let out a loud sigh. She must sense my annoyance, because she throws in a pathetic little, “Please.”
             
I owe her this. It’s one tiny request. She’s my sister. I shouldn’t make her beg me to come home or confess before I make the trip. I should be unconditionally there for her. I was once.

But things have changed since then.

A ton has changed.

“What’s this about? I haven’t been home in over a year. I’m probably not even welcome there.” The
probably
is bullshit. I’m
definitely
not welcome in my parents’ home, and I can’t really blame them.

             
“I’ll work on mom and dad,” Paisley pleads.
             
“I can’t, I have work.”

It’s
a
dick
move
, but it will be better this way. And maybe she could come here. I’ll let her know that she’s welcome, that she can stay as long as she needs to. I’m about to offer when she brings up the holiday refrain I’m starting to hate more than I can possibly express.

             
“Landry, it’s Christmas. You can close the bar on Christmas for Christ’s sake. Oh, I guess I’m not supposed to say Christ like that, right? Whatever. It’s Christmas, no one will be there anyway.” Her voice is a mix of clawing desperation and teetering anger.
             
“You’d be surprised.”
             
I press my palm to my forehead, which is starting to throb already. It’s been a long night. I need to go to bed. But I can’t go back to my place. Mila might still be there. And even if she’s not, just seeing all her crap is just going to remind me of what a total
douche
-
nozzle
I am and how badly I screwed things up.
             
“I have something to tell everyone, and I’d really, really like you to be there,” Paisley finally says with a sigh.
             
I understand that sigh. She wanted me to come home for her, not because of some bombshell she’s gonna reveal. My selfishness is starting to irritate even me. I hate myself a little bit more with every passing second.
             
“Are you pregnant?” I ask.
             
“No way!” Paisley snorts and I can’t help but smile. And the way I suddenly miss her and Henry aches like a broken beer bottle to the gut.
             
Maybe Christmas is the time for miracles and all that.
             
“I’ll see what time the train to the city leaves. Can you pick me up in Dover?”
             
Paisley squeaks with delight on the other end of the line, and I already know I’m making a catastrophic Christmas mistake.