by Banks, R. R.
“Why don't you just send a car service?”
“Because, I'd rather have family pick her up, man,” he says. “I'd want her to feel welcome.”
“I don't even know what she looks like, Chris,” I argue.
“Just – hold up a sign with her name on it,” he replies. “She'll find you.”
I run a hand through my hair and suppress a sigh. “Really? You're going to make me be that guy?” I ask. “The guy with a sign at the airport?”
“I’ll owe you one.”
“Sucker, you owe me quite a few already,” I say and laugh.
I look up as a large breaker crashes on the shore with a thunderous sound. The white, foamy water sprays high into the dark night air.
“Well, then… I'll owe you one more,” he says.
“Fine. Sure,” I reply. “Send me her flight information and I'll pick her up.”
“Great. I appreciate it, little brother.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I mutter and disconnect the call.
I drain the last of my wine as I stare out at the ocean, thinking about some of the things Nate said earlier.
Ordinarily, not having a steady girlfriend doesn't bother me. I manage to keep myself busy enough that I never really notice, let alone dwell on it. I have to admit that this time of year – the holidays – is when I feel it the most. Especially when I’m at home and my family pesters me about finding a nice girl to settle down and make babies with.
“Yeah, this is going to be a lot of fun,” I groan as I head back inside.
Chapter Two
“Four tall Buds, four shots of tequila,” I call to the bartender, Jeremy, as I rapidly tap the order into the computer.
He gives me a thumbs up and starts pouring the assorted drinks for me. Monday nights are slammed during football season – great for tips, not so great for stress levels. It's hard to act cheery when a bunch of drunk cretins are trying to get in your pants every time you acknowledge their existence.
Of course, the uniforms here at Tucker's Sports Bar and Grill don’t help anything. The shorts leave very little to the imagination and the required football jerseys would fit a Barbie doll better than my curvy frame. But then, that's kind of the point of a sports bar – girls, wings, and beers.
Not that I'm cynical or anything.
“Drinks up, Sash,” Jeremy shouts.
I hustle over and load the drinks on my tray as the crowd behind me erupts with cheers and boos. I don't understand football and probably never will. Sports aren’t really my thing. The concept of grown men in pads and helmets running into each other at full speed just doesn't appeal to me.
As an aspiring novice writer, I've always been more of the bookish type. Books have always been a way to escape. When times were tough growing up, my books would transport me to another time and place. They let me break the shackles of my horrible life for a while.
When I was growing up, science fiction and fantasy were my go-to refuge. As I've gotten older, my tastes have grown and expanded. These days, I tend to read anything from romance to political non-fiction and everything in between. I'm a voracious reader and convinced that, when I die – probably alone with fifty cats – they'll find my body under a pile of books in my house.
I carry my tray over to the table and set it down, passing out the beers and shots. Three of the patrons are engrossed in the game and don't even seem to notice me – so far, so good. The fourth one, a slob with a wild mass of unruly dark hair, and a large beer gut, leers at me – not good.
“Thanks, baby,” he sneers.
I bristle at him calling me baby – I hate demeaning pet names. Always have, always will. But I suck it up and give him a fake smile – I've been warned about my temper a few times already and need to keep it in check tonight.
“Can I get you guys anything else?” I ask, desperately hoping one of the other guys will notice and rein their friend in.
They don’t, and he continues to leer at me, running his tongue around his lips in what should be a seductive gesture, but just looks grotesque. It brings to mind the scene from Star Wars with Jabba the Hutt and his big, slimy tongue.
Cute.
“How about your number, sweet thing?” he says.
Ugh. Time to walk away.
I turn to head back to the bar, but the creep grabs my arm and turns me back toward him. His eyes are glassy and dull. The other patrons burst into screams of joy and anger – and I realize no one is paying attention to us. Jeremy’s tied up with the customers at the bar and the other servers are busy hustling from table to table.
The man leans close, his fetid breath washing over me. I try to pull away from him, but he holds me fast. I can't move. Panic surges within me and the knots in my stomach constrict painfully.
“You really should be nicer to me, sweet thing,” he hisses. “My tips pay your bills.”
I try to fight back the fear rising inside of me and stay calm. Letting out a long breath, I stare into his bloodshot, unfocused eyes.
“Yeah well, maybe so. That doesn't give you the right to put your hands on me,” I snap. “Let go of my arm. Now.”
He doesn't though. He only squeezes it tighter, making me wince from the pain. I look around, but no one is paying attention. No one cares. I may as well be totally alone.
“I said let go of my arm. Last chance.”
“Yeah? Or what?” he mocks. “What are you gonna do if I don't?”
He never has a chance to see it coming. The crack of my tray against his skull reverberates around the table – and his howl of pain echoes even louder around the bar. His friends all turn and stare, shocked expressions on their faces. The man lets go of my arm, rubbing the spot where I'd smacked him with my tray and scowling.
“You bitch,” he growls.
The bouncers are there in less than twenty seconds. They take the guy’s arms and drag him off the stool and toward the front door. All eyes in the bar follow the drunk asshole as he's hauled out, cursing and spitting the entire way, calling me a string of foul names – some I've never heard before. Bonus points for creativity, at least.
Once he's gone, the bar returns to normal as everybody refocuses their attention back to the game. His three buddies are glowering at me like I’m the one who did something wrong.
Assholes.
Without a word, I yank the sleeve of my jersey up to show them the bright red fingerprints their friend left on my skin. They suddenly look away from me, not wanting to meet my eyes.
I flinch when a hand suddenly falls on my shoulder. When I look up, I find myself staring up at the face of Ricky, the bar manager. He puts on a plastic smile as he turns to face the three men left at the table.
“Listen, so sorry about that,” he simpers. “I’ll buy you a round and let you enjoy the rest of the game.”
Ricky quickly guides me off the floor and into the back room. When the door swings shut behind us, he rounds on me, absolute fury on his face.
“What in the hell are you doing, Sasha?” he practically screams. “You just assaulted a customer. Do you even know the liability you just exposed the bar to?”
The anger flares in me like a starburst and I yell back. “Are you kidding me right now?!”
“Sasha, you just hit a paying customer with a server’s tray.”
“Yeah, a man who was physically assaulting me,” I roar.
He looks at me with a raised eyebrow. “In the middle of a crowded bar?”
I glare at him as I raise my sleeve again, showing him the marks the asshole left behind. “Yeah, in the middle of a crowded fucking bar, Ricky.”
Like the three guys at the table, he instantly looks away. He clears his throat and runs his hand nervously through his hair.
“Sasha, I've talked to you about your temper a number of times,” he says, his voice softer. “And now that you’ve exposed us to a possible lawsuit –”
“Yeah, keep talking, Ricky,” I snap. “You're exposing the bar to a massive lawsuit right now
by knowing that one of your waitresses was assaulted, and you did nothing about it. Even worse, you’re thinking about firing her because of it. That'd be a really bad look for this place. So, you better think about the next words that come out of your mouth very, very carefully.”
He bites back the reply about to fall out of his mouth and reconsiders his words. Ricky clears his throat again, knowing that I likely have a case against him and the owner of the bar for allowing harassment and assault to occur. Repeatedly. This isn't the first time I've been manhandled by some drunk moron. This is just the first time I've fought back with physical force instead of my usual sarcasm and cutting wit.
“No, you're right,” Ricky says, his voice unsteady. “Absolutely right. I'm sorry you had to experience that.”
“Right. Sure you are.”
“Listen, why don't you take the rest of the night off?” he offers. “I'll have Elena cover your tables, and you’ll still get your cut of tips and pay for the night.”
“Sure,” I say. “I need you to do something for me first, though.”
“Anything,” he says quickly.
I step over to him and pull my phone out of my pocket. I open the camera app and hand it to him. He looks at me, confused.
“I want a picture to commemorate the moment,” I say. “This is the first time you've ever given me the night off.”
He grins stupidly and holds the camera up. I slide the sleeve of my jersey up again, making sure the marks that asshole left – which are sure to become bruises – are plainly visible. Ricky, clearly wanting to defuse the situation and hustle me out of there for the night, hurriedly snaps the picture.
I don't trust Ricky. I wouldn't put it past him to concoct a lame story to justify firing me. At least this way – with photographic evidence – he can't deny that he knew about the guy manhandling me out on the floor. I don't necessarily want to file a lawsuit – mostly because I really need this job. My other part time gig covers the rent while this job lets me do nifty things like eat and have electricity turned on at home.
“Thanks, Ricky,” I say and bounce out of the bar, eager to get home.
* * *
“I haven't decided yet, Sarah,” I moan.
“You'd better decide real quick,” my sister fires back. “And you'd better get your butt up here.”
I'm sitting on the couch in the living room of the small apartment I share with my best friend, Rosie. A bowl of mint chip ice cream is balanced in my lap and soft jazz plays over the stereo. My plan was to come home, grab a shower, and have a bowl of ice cream because – well, why not? – and then sit down at my computer and get to work. Getting off work early means I have a few extra hours – hours I can use to write and still get a decent night's sleep.
Sarah, my little sister, had other plans for me. When she called, I had just stepped out of the shower, thrown on a pair of pajamas, and sat down with a big bowl of my favorite ice cream.
We go through this every year. Around Thanksgiving is when she pesters and badgers me while I come up with the best possible excuse to avoid any and all family obligations. Truth be told, my childhood wasn’t the best – especially around the holidays – and I don't like being reminded of those dark times.
Oh, Mom and I have repaired our relationship – for the most part. I've forgiven her for staying with him all of those years. But that doesn't mean I’m comfortable in that house. Not even years after our father's death. I just don't like being there. It's filled with too many memories and too many ghosts – ones I'd rather see buried forever.
My sister is only three years my junior but was somehow spared most of my father’s abuse, so she doesn't understand. Sarah never knew the hell he put Mom and I through. I don’t plan on ever telling anything about what I endured. She doesn't need to know – and I have no desire to reopen old wounds.
That doesn't stop me from becoming irritated when she lectures me about my life choices. Just because she almost has her degree, Sarah seems to feel morally superior. Like she can somehow dictate my life to me.
What she doesn’t understand is that I never had the luxury of being able to focus on school or my future when we were younger. I was trying too hard to hide my own shame and deal with all the emotional baggage that comes along with physical abuse – all on my own. Which isn't easy for a young girl to deal with.
I try to keep my bitterness in check – after all, I can't exactly fault her for what she doesn't know.
“Besides,” she continues. “What is there to think about, anyway? It's Thanksgiving. We're your family. You should be here.”
“I just – I can’t. I have some things going on right now, Sarah,” I lie.
“There isn’t anything more important than spending the holidays with your family, Sasha,” she says, disappointment coloring her voice. “We have to cherish them while they're here. I don’t know how you didn’t learn that after Daddy passed.”
Actually, “Daddy” dying took an enormous burden off my shoulders. It freed me. I no longer had to worry about him or my mom or Sarah. All I had to worry about – for the first time in my life – was me.
As soon as I turned eighteen, I packed up my car and moved to L.A. to jumpstart my life. I had no idea what I was doing, I just knew I had to get out of Cedar Grove. It was crazy – the craziest thing I've ever done. I had no plan. No job. Barely any money. And no idea what I was going to do once I got here, but I went through with it anyway. I couldn’t be happier that I did.
I’ve been making it work for the last six years. It's not always pretty and things are tight – I'm not exactly thriving. But, I'm not homeless either. I have food in my refrigerator and a bed to lay my head on at night. I'd call that a win. And one of these days, I'm going to catch a break. I'm going to land an agent and my works will be printed and read around the globe.
I just need to keep working hard and the doors will open wide. Someday.
There's a rustling on the other end of the line and then I hear my mom speak. “What is this I'm hearing about you not coming to Thanksgiving, Sasha?”
I roll my eyes and do my best to suppress the sigh that's dying to burst out of my mouth.
Putting our mom on the phone is a real cheap shot, Sarah.
“I just have a lot going on, Mom,” I say. “I don’t think I can make it this year.”
“Too much going on that you can’t spend any time with your family?” she asks, her tone disapproving.
“It's only Thanksgiving, Mom,” I say. “All we do is sit around and stuff our faces.”
“It's an important family tradition, Sasha.”
Important family tradition. Right. I can't even count the number of Thanksgivings when our tradition included whatever fast food joint we were able to find open, or just macaroni and cheese or whatever cheap, easy meal we had on hand. And Christmas? Don't even get me started.
For the last couple of years, the holidays have morphed into important family bonding times – and I suspect that Sarah has a lot to do with that.
“Is there a man in your life, Sasha?” Mom asks. “Are you spending Thanksgiving with a boyfriend?”
My first instinct is to deny it. Even if I did have a boyfriend, discussing my relationship is the last thing I'd ever want to do with my mother – or sister, for that matter. I keep most of my life private for a reason. My family judges me enough as it is. I can't even imagine how badly they'd pick apart someone I was dating.
A thought suddenly shoots through my mind at a rapid-fire pace – Mom is giving me an out. I would be a fool not to take it.
“Yeah, actually,” I fib. “My boyfriend and I had planned to spend the day together.”
“Why haven’t you told us about this man in your life, Sasha?” my mom asks, her tone colored by hurt.
“It's – complicated, Mom,” I answer.
Yeah, it's complicated because it's entirely fictitious. Not that I'm going to tell her that.
“Then bring him with you, Sasha.”
&nbs
p; “What? That’s not gonna happen,” I reply. “We're – not at that point of our relationship yet.”
She sighs loudly. “Sasha, you know I don't know how many holidays I have left with you girls,” she says, a tremble in her voice. “I want to make the most of it. I want to spend as much time as I can with you two. And I definitely want to meet the man in your life.”
Here we go. Pack your bags, we're going on a guilt trip. While it's true that my mother is ill – and has been for some time – according to her own doctors, none of her illnesses are considered terminal. Her doctors agree that she'll be blessing us with her presence for a long, long time.
Not that you can convince her of that. If you listen to her, she's going to keel over and drop-dead tomorrow. My mother lives out her childhood dreams of being an actress every damn day – and she's gotten good at it. Sarah is pretty much wrapped around her finger at this point.
I’m probably just jaded and cynical. When my mom plays the, “I'm sick and dying” card, I can't help but roll my eyes. Still, I'm not a completely cold-hearted bitch. Her guilt trips are usually effective on me. I don't know why. I know she's not going to die anytime soon, but when I hear her talking about “not being around forever,” it still tugs at my heartstrings.
“Please come to Thanksgiving,” she begs. “It would mean a lot to me.”
She lets out a rattling cough and groans miserably. I hear Sarah in the background trying to soothe her pain. Like I said, my mom is quite the actress.
If only there were more roles for women her age. Tragic, really.
There's a rustle on the phone again and Sarah comes back on the line. “See what you're doing to her?” she asks. “She has to go lay down now because you're causing her so much stress.”
“You do realize she's just putting on a show for you, right?” I ask.
“That is a cruel, callous thing to say, Sasha. Even for you,” she spits. “Which is saying a lot.”
I sigh. “When are you going to read the actual reports from the doctors, Sarah?” I ask. “When are you going –”
