by S. E. Hall
“I did, and everyone seemed wonderful. Thank you for having me,” she answers in an even sweeter voice than the last time I heard it.
Platters start being passed around, some people talking, some digging right in, but I’m not too distracted by everything to miss the hushed war Skylar and Judd appear to be having across the table.
And why I’m even surprised at what my older sister does next, I don’t know. Complete waste of energy.
“JT,” she slams down her fork and glares at me, “why the hell are you mad at my husband?”
“Ask him, later,” I lowly grate past a jaw clenched in aggravation.
“I already did and he won’t tell me. So you better, like, now!” She speaks louder than acceptable for a ‘small traces of a hangover’ brunch, with our parents no less.
“He may jump when you say ‘now,’ but I don’t. I’ll tell ya if he won’t, but when I said later, I meant it. So drop it and eat.” I give her a deadly stare that she knows means I’m done.
My father clears his throat and calmly, pure deception, rests his elbows on the table and steeples his fingers under his chin. “Ryder, Bellamy, I’d like to apologize to you both for the juvenile behavior of my adult children. And if you’re done eating, I ask that my family be given some privacy. Again, I apologize.”
“Don’t bother, we'll leave,” Skylar barks and starts to stand.
“Sit. Down.” My dad warns in a chilling tone. “And change your attitude real quick, young lady.”
Ryder jumps up. “Thank you for having me, letting me stay over and the delicious meal, but I need to head out. Bellamy, want a ride home?”
“Yes, please.” She quickly rises. “Like Ryder said, thank you for everything. I’ll…uh…see you later, Brynn.” She starts for the stairs and tells Ryder to give her a second to grab her bag.
“I am family,” Presley laughs as she too gets up, “but I don’t want to stay for this. Thanks Uncle Dane, Aunt Laney. See ya, Children of Wrath.”
It’s eerily silent as we wait for them to all leave. The minute the door shuts behind them, my dad heaves out a loud, angry sigh and relaxes back in his chair. Again—deception—he’s keeping us off guard with conflicting voices and gestures.
“Babe,” my mom’s drawl is filled with worry as she reaches for his arm.
He looks at her, arching one brow, waiting for the argument or plea she has planned.
She internally debates for a bit, fiddling with her napkin, then speaks. “Nope, you’re right. They acted like asses, have at ‘em.”
Seven
JT
“DAD, LIKE YOU said, we’re adults. We’ll work it out between us. No need for a scolding from you,” I explain respectfully in between taking huge bites faster than a man fresh out of prison.
I’m ready to get the hell out of here…and I’ll risk choking to make it happen.
“Usually I’d agree with you, son. But not today. Because today, my meal was interrupted and three guests in my home ran out of it as if on fire due to the way you adults were working it out yourselves. So surely you understand why I now consider myself involved.”
“Brynn and I can be excused then, right? ‘Cause we handled ours. Only one who showed their ass was Skylar,” I clip back…and realize my fatal mistake.
“Brynn?” Dad’s voice drops way lower than any notes on a scale and his brows bend to meet in the middle. “What’s Brynn got to do with anything?”
My father loves all his children, as does my mom, but it’s a well-known fact we just accept and don’t talk about—Brynny is his baby girl and besides his wife, she is the one you do not want to fuck with…if you know what’s good for you.
“Good question,” Skylar snidely butts in, also a very dumb move. “How is Brynn involved? What the hell am I missing here, people? JT is stuffing food in his face trying to leave as fast as he can, he left the party early last night sulking, he’s mad at Judd and something happened with Brynn? That about cover all the mysteries?” She slams both hands on the table.
“Laney,” Dad grunts, rubbing his forehead. “Would you like first crack at reeling in your children before I lose it on them?”
Yes, excellent plan. Because the other unspoken ‘known’ in this family? I’m my mom’s favorite, mostly because my dad is by far the toughest on me. Skylar has Aunt Bennett and Aunt Whitley’s favor—but I don’t see either of them here. What a shame for the shit-stirrer.
“Yeah, I’ll give it a shot,” Mom sighs and sets down her fork. “Sky honey, I love you, but two things. First, you need to time your outbursts better. We do not air private family matters in front of guests, making them feel uncomfortable. Understood?”
“Yes Ma’am,” she utters quietly.
“Good. And secondly, you really should let JT and Judd work things out on their own. They’re grown men and they’ve been friends, family, their whole lives. Judd, do you need Sky to fight your battles?”
“No Ma’am. And I could’ve sworn I said those exact words to her.” Judd gives his wife a pointed look.
“I know you were just trying to help,” Mom continues, smiling at Sky, ““but…don’t. Men lack the inherent need to talk everything out like women. Leave them to their ways. Now, JT, Brynn, why are you two having problems?”
“We’re not,” my sister fields this one. “We didn’t see eye to eye on something, but we talked and worked it out. Everything is fine.”
“You mean you’re fine.” Mom’s eyes narrow as she, like always, nails it right on the head. “Tell me if I get something wrong Brynn, but I know my son, and here’s what I think happened. JT gave in and let things go your way because you’re his little sister and he’d do anything to make you happy. But he’s miserable with the outcome, which is why he left the party early and looks like he lost his best friend now. How’d I do?”
Mom really does rock. That smug, over-the-top smile on her face is priceless.
“J,” Brynn turns to me, her voice wobbling under the weight of tears building in her sweet eyes. “Is she right? You said more than once you were sure.”
Could I be surrounded by any more ‘dramatize everything’ women? Jesus.
Judd clears his throat, the noise snaring my gaze, which was his intent. “I’m pretty sure I know what went down and I didn’t help any with what I said, did I? Made you doubt yourself and influenced your decision.”
I don’t respond. Don’t need to. Don’t want to.
“J, you gotta know, I just spouted off without thinking, had a buzz, whatever. You’re my brother man, I’d put your character up against anyone in the world. I didn’t mean anything by it and I’m damn sorry.”
“‘Preciate that. We’re cool,” I tell him and nod my head once. “Last time we talk about it though.”
“Of course,” he agrees.
“Will someone please tell me what the fuck we’re actually talking about?” Skylar’s dam bursts and she shouts, unable to stand being left out of the loop for another second.
“Laney, your daughter just said ‘fuck’ at my table,” Dad spaces his deceptively calm, clipped words evenly.
“I’m aware, honey. I can hear.”
“Just checking.”
“Skylar, you and Judd go on home before your father has an aneurysm. Judd, please fill your wife in on things before she has an aneurysm. We love you both, you know that.” Mom stands and holds out her arms, them each hugging her and Judd shaking Dad’s hand.
“Sorry, Daddy.” Skylar hugs him too. “Love you.”
“I know, sweetie. I love you too. Just not your behavior.”
They grab their stuff and leave…and then there were two.
“I’ve gotta get going,” I announce and stand. “It’s been real, thanks for breakfast.”
Mom steps in front of me, wrapping me in a hug. “You’re sad, baby. Wanna talk, just me and you?”
I pull back and kiss her cheek. “I’m solid Mom, promise. But thank you.”
“JT?” Brynn almos
t whispers and I turn to her.
“We’re fine. Told you that, meant it. Love you.”
AFTER THE BREAKFASt from Hell, I drive to my apartment that I share with one of my buddies, Sutton Ellis. His motorcycle’s in the driveway, beside a two-door, blue number I don’t recognize, but would bet my dick belongs to a girl.
Because, as seems to be the new trend, it’s got fancy script initials on the back windshield. The “monogram fad” girls are obsessed with these days. They put it on everything. I don’t quite get it. Are they afraid they won’t recognize which car, cup, coat, you name it…is theirs without it?
I’m almost to the door when a hot brunette walks out with “just fucked” hair and smudged makeup. And I shit you not—she’s wearing a t-shirt with a monogrammed pocket. I simply shake my head, holding back my ridiculing laugh that’s dying to burst out.
“Hi,” she chirps. “You must be JT, the roommate.”
I so badly want to say “oh thank God, I’m at the right place. I wasn’t sure without my initials on the front door,” but I refrain. Sutton might want to have this one back over sometime, so I play nice.
“That would be me.”
“I’m Brandie. With an ‘ie’, not a ‘y’. I gotta get to work, but nice to meet you,” she waves and scampers to her car.
Lucky for me she cleared up the ‘ie’ versus ‘y’ debacle, I would’ve been plagued with wonder the rest of the day.
“You too,” I reply as though I actually mean it.
“Yo,” Sutton looks up from his video game when I walk in. “How was the party?”
“It was a party.” I flop down on the couch. “How was Brandie with an ‘ie’?”
He laughs. “She actually told you that shit?”
“That she did.”
“She was decent. Sweet girl, very open to instruction, but not much upstairs. Tried to have a conversation with her this morning to be nice, since she made breakfast. And you know, because I’m a gentleman.”
I snort at that.
He either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, and continues. “She couldn’t work the toaster, and when I said the silverware was in the drawer to her right, she opened the cabinet…to her left. Not sure which part scared me worse.”
“She was cute,” I offer.
“Not cute enough. Need some smarts too. I can find cute any day of the week. Speaking of which, bunch of us are going to the Rooster’s Nest tonight; that band Fahrenheit is playing. Need my wingman.”
“Roosters don’t have fucking nests,” I deadpan.
“Got it, just like I had it the last time you said it,” he laughs.
“Well, if you’re looking for a smart girl, maybe you should try looking in a place named something smart. Just a thought.”
Bugs me every damn time—Rooster’s Nest. What dumbass names their bar that? Oh, I know who…but wouldn’t ever comment aloud. I like my dick attached to my body far too much.
But Fahrenheit is a great band, made up of five local college guys that I’ve seen a play a couple of times. Always a great show, so I agree to go with him.
And tonight, I don’t care if they’re smart. I fully intend to make nice with the first co-ed I meet who takes my mind off Bellamy.
“Hey,” Sutton hollers as I walk down the hall to my room. “Nine o’clock. You wanna do a cab?”
“No, I’ll DD.” I want to stay sober so I don’t wake up with anyone I didn’t intend to.
“Fuck that. I’m not taking a boring, sober, wingman. You’re drinking. I’ll call and set up the cab.”
“Whatever,” I agree just to shut him up, still planning to stay sober and drive my own car. “I’m gonna grab a shower then sleep for a while. Wake me up by eight.”
“Yep,” he agrees and I shut the bathroom door.
I turn on the water and while I wait for it to really heat up, I like my showers hot, I send Brynn a text to check on her.
Me: The parentals set you down and grill you?
If they did question her, they must be done because she answers right away.
Brynn: They didn’t mention it again. Shocked. Think Mom pretty much put everything she wanted to say out there. I know you said we’re good, but are we really? What Mom said…is she right? Please tell me, JT.
Me: Yes, about some of it. I would do anything for you, but I’m not miserable. That's a stretch. I met her twice. Think I’ll recover.
Brynn: Okay, as long as you say so. But I’m starting to feel really guilty. I was being unfair. I’m really sorry about that.
Me: Yeah, you were, but you realize it and have now apologized. You’re forgiven, forget the whole thing. My decision was all my own, swear. I could’ve fought you on it, I am choosing not to. Now stop worrying, I gotta go. Big plans tonight, which will have her well forgotten.
Brynn: Have fun, be safe. Love you…very much.
Me: Love you too.
I strip and hop in the shower, praying that was the last conversation I ever have to have on the subject. I took my dog out of the fight, it’s done, over. And it’ll be a helluva lot easier to live with that decision if everyone will kindly shut the hell up about it.
Eight
Bellamy
“I DON’T THINK we should go in,” I second-guess as we stand outside the bar.
“Why not?” Marshall, a classmate from last year and self-elected study partner this upcoming semester, asks.
“Because the intellectual level of our future generations is already declining rapidly. By walking into a place called “Rooster’s Nest,” which is neither an actual thing nor an overly clever play on words, we’re encouraging that everyone just accept stupidity.”
“Bellamy, we’re here for a Sociology assignment, not Political Science. Save all that fancy thinking for your paper.”
My point exactly. Nothing I said was political. We’re all so screwed—go ahead and wave goodbye to Social Security now, ‘cause it’s not looking good, people.
There—that was political.
“Let’s go,” Marshall grabs my hand and pulls me forward so the bouncer can check my I.D. and stamp my hand ‘under 21.’ And with that, we enter the supposed nest of a rooster.
I’m in a seedy bar, under aged, on a weekend night. But in my defense, it’s for school. I’d protest the curriculum when classes start, but it didn’t technically say “must visit a bar.” The assignment is to dissect, examine and compare the similarities and differences of social interaction between men and women, ages 21-35, in five different settings: Formal, Structural, Free Social, Planned Social and Private.
I’d seen the course syllabus when I went to pick up my packet and decided to get a jump start on it while I still had some free time in my schedule to explore such settings. Now I’m rethinking the whole class.
I don’t know how I’m going to accomplish the “private” portion—again, words mean something—shout out the answer if you know what private means…but tonight, we’re covering Free Social.
That’s a bar, no brainer. And Marshall likes the band playing tonight. So when he invited me, I accepted.
“You want a drink?” he shouts over the house music after we’ve gotten ourselves a table.
I hold up my stamped hand and smile cheekily.
“That might as well say ‘drink up,’” he laughs. “I’ll go to the bar and order it, then bring it back. Simple,” he shrugs.
In my defense, again, the assignment did advise to adopt the mindset and social exceptions of your subject matter, so I’ll have one. To lower my inhibitions…which is precisely why it’s easy to approach the opposite sex in a bar—lowered inhibitions.
Honestly, I could write this portion of the paper without ever leaving my couch, but observation is a part of the grade and a cheater I am not.
“Okay, I’ll have one drink,” I raise a single finger in case he didn’t hear me.
“Hell yeah! What do you want?”
I hitch a shoulder. “Surprise me.”
I get a
sked to dance twice while I wait for Marshall to return, politely declining both, but taking notes on their approach, exact verbiage and my best guess on their level of intoxication.
At this rate of research, I’ll be home in no time.
“Ladies and gentlemen, if there’s any of those in here,” an older man, covered in tattoos and having forgotten the shirt under his black leather vest, speaks into the microphone on stage. “I wanna thank ya’ll for coming out tonight. As you know, we’ve got the hottest new band in the area here,” he pauses while the crowd goes wild with whistles and ear-piercing screams. “And they tell me they’re ready to come out and rock the panties off every lady in the house! So watch your wives men, ‘cause I give you…Fahrenheit!”
All the lights go out and soon the slow beat of a drum starts to thump through the darkness. Then there’s a sudden flash and the stage comes alive in multi-color. Five guys, maybe a couple years older than me I’d guess, are in place and break into their first song.
“They’re kick ass, right?” Marshall yells, back with our drinks.
“Seem to be so far,” I also have to yell my reply before taking a sip of whatever it is he brought me. I cough, my eyes watering instantly, and yell again. “What is this?” I point at the glass of poison.
“Jack and Coke.”
Funny, I didn’t think I looked like a “whiskey girl.” Pina Colada maybe, when I’m at my friskiest…but Jack?
In an attempt to fit in, I bob my head a little to the beat and rest the straw in my mouth, not actually consuming a drop. I have research to do, so I sit back and people watch—I’m not here just for the hell of it. However, my study partner seems to be, which is becoming very apparent as he tosses back two shots and leans over to tell me he’s going into the crowd.
In hindsight, I realize I probably should’ve insisted on the “buddy system.” Too late now, there are so many bodies packed in front of the stage I’ve already lost sight of him.
