by T. Torrest
I never thanked her.
Of course she would be led to believe I didn’t give a shit. Of course she would come up with her cockamamie conclusion that it was some type of fear-of-success thing. Since I never offered any gratitude, she mistook it for lack of enthusiasm. I needed to fix that.
She stood in a determined stance, jutting out her stubborn chin, waiting on my response.
So, I gave her one.
“I couldn’t be any happier about what you’ve done with this place, Ave. And I’m in this, I swear. I can’t wait to see how far we can take it. I’m grateful as all hell for all your hard work.” I ran a hand through my hair and met her eyes. “I should have thanked you long before now, and I’m sorry that I didn’t. Thank you.”
Her shoulders relaxed as she let out a sigh. “I’m enjoying the work, Zac. Truly. And it’s nice to know it wasn’t done in vain.”
She started to move toward me, coming in for a hug. I froze as her arms wrapped around my neck as I just barely allowed my hands to rest on her back.
Too dangerous.
I should have never kissed her; it was my mistake. An exhilarating, heartbreaking mistake.
Stepping out of her grasp, I aimed my comment to the floor. “I’m also sorry about before. I won’t let it happen again.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Hockey season had started again.
It used to be my favorite time of year, but over the past half-decade, all it did was serve as a reminder of my failed plans. This year, though, I didn’t sink into my annual melancholy. I was excited for my Devils to kick some ass. I was glad they were coming back to the ice as champs.
My rookie year was like that. We’d taken The Cup that summer; I started playing with them in the fall. There was a certain arrogance the players displayed, which would have been off-putting if it hadn’t been so rightly earned.
You’d think that coming off a championship season would only keep the winning streak going. But what normally happened is that players from a winning team were suddenly in high demand, and it made more financial sense for a franchise to bring in some new blood at a cheaper price rather than try and match the offers for their top performers… making a defense of a previous championship a near impossibility.
Some of the same players stuck around, most of the same coaches. But the momentum was gone by the time a new season rolled around.
It was that situation that usually brought some new faces to the ice. Just-drafted rookies and guys who had spent most of the previous games riding the pines. Players who were still hungry enough to want to claim a win for their own.
A player like Pat Giordano, who was currently filling in my old spot on the front lines.
Giordano was a kickass athlete, and I didn’t know whether it made me feel better or worse to see my doppelganger dominating the game. He was already proving himself a formidable force to be reckoned with on the ice, and a frequent visitor to the penalty box when he was kicked off of it.
Like I said, the guy reminded me of me.
We had the game playing on every TV and customers drinking at every stool. Lately, a crowded bar was a common occurrence, but seeing as it was Halloween, it was a funnier-than-usual one tonight.
A bunch of the guys were wearing costumes—Hell, I’d even thrown on a fedora—but Joey Bricks’ was the best. He was dressed up as a red-and-green-faced superfan, channeling Puddy from The Face Painter episode of Seinfeld. It was fucking hysterical. Every time anyone looked his way, he’d put on his game face and scream, “The Devilllls! We’re number one! We beat anybody!” then stick out his tongue Gene-Simmons-style and put up the horns.
Had me laughing every time.
A bunch of kids came in trick-or-treating, which was nice, but really kind of screwed up. That had never happened before. We used to only get the random teenager every year who’d sneak in on a dare from his buddies. But tonight, they were filing in pretty regularly.
I was grateful that I’d picked up a few bags of candy for my customers, who griped that I was now giving it all away to the kids.
I recognized a few of the little leaguers who came in with their parents, and every time I announced their presence, the guys all passed the hat. The kids made out like bandits, and their parents all thanked me and shook my hand. It was fairly awesome to finally be considered a part of this community, whom I’d started to realize weren’t the snobby, uptight people I’d originally believed them to be. The ones I’d gotten to know were pretty damn cool.
The ones I didn’t know made a huge point to introduce themselves. They raved about the Norman Days party the month before, letting me know what a good time they’d had.
“Heck. It’s a party every weekend. You should come in more often,” I’d say.
It was the same line I offered to anyone who inquired about the place over the past weeks, and more often than not, the simple invitation was all it took. Because come they did. The past month had seen a steady stream of new customers, and I couldn’t have been happier about it.
After the latest group of kids left the bar, I’d had it up to here with my customers’ grumbling. I mean, Jesus. I could just get them some replacement candy tomorrow.
“Chill out, assholes,” I finally said. “I’ll buy the house a round if you’ll all just shut up already.” I gave a ring to the triangle which had everyone cheering and appropriately won over.
But apparently, I’d reprogrammed them all too well. Like a Pavlovian response, once that bell was rung, a few guys started cheering, “Give-a-way! Give-a-way!”
Crap. I’d done this to myself. The random giveaways had become a regular feature at The Westlake, and it seemed I couldn’t go more than a few days without being called out for slacking.
“Alright, alright, fine,” I laughed out.
I rifled through my prize box until I came across a gift certificate for Give Me Candy. I figured it would shut everyone up if they could buy their own damn chocolate bars.
“Okay. Now for a question,” I said as I jumped up onto the bar. Scratching the back of my hair as I thought, I searched my memory for something to ask. I’d signed up for a daily email service that sent me trivia every day just for such occasions, figuring I sure as hell could use the help. “Got it. Okay, for a twenty-five dollar gift card to Give Me Candy, who can tell me whose face is on the five-thousand dollar bill?”
At first, a few of the guys thought it was a trick question, but once I assured them the bill actually existed, they started yelling out names of presidents with abandon.
Jerry Winters took a shot in the dark when he shouted, “James Madison!”
“Hold up, we have a winner! Mr. Liverwurst is correct!”
There were grumbles and cheers as I hopped off the bar and handed him the gift card. “Here’s your prize. Thanks for playing.”
“Well, thank you, Maniac,” he said proudly. “Looks like someone’s got something for you.”
Jerry nodded his head in the direction of the kitchen. Avery was standing there with a sheet cake, surrounded by my mother, brothers, and the entire kitchen staff. As they marched over toward me, the whole place broke into “Happy Birthday.”
Felix took the cake from Avery, placing it on the end of the bar with a “Happy birthday, Meester Zaaa-aaac!” as I stood there with my arms crossed, trying to hide my smile.
“You thought we forgot, didn’t you?” my mother asked, all cat-who-ate-the-canary.
“I thought it was a little weird that you didn’t say anything when you called before.”
“Like I could forget my baby’s birthday.”
There was a collective “Awww” from my customers, every last one of them busting my chops.
Mom shuffled a hand at me. “Well, go on. Blow out your candles!”
I started to bend over the flames when Avery added, “Don’t forget to make a wish.”
I paused in my action and looked at her. She was wearing a long blond wig and dressed in a pink, velour sweatsuit, he
r makeup completely overdone. She had the hourglass figure of Anna Nicole Smith, only without all the extra girth. She looked like the Anna Nicole from her modeling days.
In other words, hot.
My eyes lowered down her body and back up to her face in a half-lidded stare, envisioning every dirty thing I wished I could do to her. Our kiss from the other day had been playing across my mind almost every minute since it happened. We’d come to an unspoken agreement not to discuss it, but I had to imagine she found it just as hard to forget as me. I’d been really good about remaining hands off since then, but fuck it. It was my birthday. I could fantasize if I wanted to. “Hmmm. Just one?” I asked. Without breaking contact with her eyes, I blew out the candles.
Avery’s mouth dropped open slightly, and a beautiful pink flush colored her cheeks. She started pulling off the candles and dumping them in a nearby ashtray, and I could see that her hands were shaking. Heh heh.
She actually stuttered when she said, “O-okay. I need to bring this in the back to cut it up.”
She went to grab the cake, but thankfully, my mother stepped in. “Why don’t you let Felix take care of that. I don’t think you should be handling any knives right now.” She gave a knowing pat to Avery’s shoulder and then made off with my cake.
Avery sank down onto my stool at the end of the bar, letting out with a huge sigh. “Even your mother knows when you’re being a cad.”
“She should,” I smiled back. “She raised four of them.”
* * *
While everyone was busy loading up on my birthday cake, my family and I took over a quiet, unoccupied corner of the square bar so I could open my presents. It wouldn’t be quiet for long. In about an hour, this entire place was going to be packed. It was Friday night, after all.
“Here you go, dickwad,” Bash said as he placed two wrapped boxes on the bar.
“Sebastian!” my mother admonished. “Don’t call your baby brother a dickwad.”
We all stopped dead in our tracks at that, staring at our mother in a disbelieving pause. We weren’t used to hearing her talk like that.
Wyatt broke the silence when he busted out with, “Yeah, Bash. Finn’s the dickwad.”
We all lost our minds cracking up as Mom put her arms around Finn and laughed, “Oh, you know that’s not true, sweetheart,” giving him a big kiss on his head. She was still chuckling as she explained, “The bottom box is from me; the littler one on top is from your brothers.”
“And Avery,” Wyatt added.
Avery went in on a present with my brothers? I lowered an eyebrow at her. “Really?”
She swallowed her mouthful of cake and tried to sound impassive as she explained, “I only put in the phone call to the right people. It was your brothers’ idea.”
“Well, now I’m intrigued.”
I tore off the wrapping and opened the box to find… “Holy shit!” I pulled out the Wayne Gretsky sweater and held it up in front of me. “No fucking way!”
My mother bypassed the reprimand and just shot me a scowl.
“Sorry, Mom, but… holy shit!”
My brothers laughed as Avery said, “It’s signed. Look.” She bent the front corner of the jersey up to show me, and I immediately turned it over in my hand so I could check it out. My fingers ran over the signature, right there in front of my face. I couldn’t even find the words.
“Thank you, guys!” I flipped the thing over my shoulder and gave each of them a hug. Then I grabbed Avery’s face between my hands and kissed her cheek. “This is the coolest thing ever. How did you…?”
“Well, you may not be too happy to hear it, but my father was the one with the necessary connections.”
I didn’t even care that such awesomeness had come by way of a man I loathed. “Wow. Please be sure to thank him for me.”
Avery’s lips pursed together. She seemed happy that I was okay with it. How could I not be? “Will do,” she answered.
“I’m going to get it framed. I’ll hang it up right there on the wall next to mine.”
“That’s a little blasphemous, don’t ya think?” asked Finn, like a complete wiseass.
Before I could shoot him down properly, my mother piped in on a wary grin. “Shoot. That’s a nice gift. I hope you like mine as much.”
“Well, let’s find out!” I said through a chuckle. I was in unusually good spirits on my twenty-eighth birthday. Normally, I couldn’t care less about it.
The box was about the same size as my cake, and because of that, I didn’t have any clue as to what else could be inside. But I couldn’t imagine my mother had wrapped up a cake, for godsakes.
I unwrapped it carefully just in case. Lifting the lid, I peeked inside. My head and shoulders immediately dropped, and I closed my eyes to stop the threatening tears. Once I could unclamp my jaw, I said, “Wow, Mom.”
I pulled the large, wooden sign out of the box, holding it up by its gold chain. The surface was stained in a dark brown, and the words were carved into its grain, but painted with a metallic gold:
The Rudy McAllister
Memorial Billiard Room
My brothers went uncharacteristically silent at the sight, and Avery clamped a hand over her mouth. Mom tried to sound unaffected, but there were tears in her eyes as she explained, “You’re doing such a good thing with that pool room. I just thought it was deserving of something that showed its significance.”
“It’s perfect, Mom. Thank you.” I put an arm around her and gave her a huge squeeze. “I’m going to hang it up right now.”
I shook my head to get my brain straight and then held up the sign, announcing, “Hey, check it out, guys!”
They all turned on their stools and expressed their approval, some even going so far as to offer applause. I dragged a bar stool over to the pool room’s entrance and stepped up to reach the hooks over the door. I straightened the sign, gave my fingers a kiss, and tapped it before climbing down, watching as it slowed its swinging, settling into its new home.
Perfect.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Thanksgiving was always spent with family at the restaurant. Since we always closed for holidays, it normally allowed for a nice, private tradition.
But this year, Felix and Horatio were joining us. They weren’t able to get back home to visit as they usually did over Thanksgiving week, and had I known ahead of time, I would have bought the damn plane tickets myself.
We knew it must’ve sucked for them living so far away from their family, so we invited them to come and join ours for the day.
My mother kept shuffling them out of the kitchen, insisting that she didn’t need any help putting our holiday dinner together.
Felix was none too pleased about the situation. “Your mother kick me out of my kitchen!”
Wyatt clapped a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. “I know. Sorry, dude. She always wants complete control on Thanksgiving.”
“She told me I need to get out or I won’ get any supper!”
Finn piped up from behind the bar, “You’d better listen to her, Felix. She means it. That is not your kitchen today.”
He waved his hand in dismissal, letting out with a grumpy, “Bah!”
I had Finn grab him a beer and told him to enjoy the day off. I don’t think Felix knew what a ‘day off’ was.
Horatio was certainly enjoying himself. He was lounged out on one of the three sofas that we’d hauled into the bar from the restaurant’s waiting lounge. We did that every year so we could pass out while we watched the football games.
Bash started twirling the remote around his fingers. “Hey, Zac. You sure you want to watch football? There’s a Jeff Dunham special on instead.”
I knew there was no way he’d turn off the game, but fuck him for even bringing it up. “Fuck you, Bash. Don’t even joke about it.”
He had his finger poised over the button, threatening to change the channel. “Aww, you sure? I hear he’s got some new puppets.”
“Bash… I’m t
his close to kicking your ass right now. Cut it out.”
My dick of an older brother gave a chuckle and put down the remote.
Okay. Let me explain.
The thing is, I do not like ventriloquist dummies.
When I was little, I had a Charlie McCarthy, and Bash convinced me that it came alive every night while I slept. I’d wake up every morning and find him in my chair at the breakfast table, or sitting on the toilet. It freaked me out, but I had to pretend like it didn’t bother me, otherwise Bash would use it against me my whole life. You know, kind of like how he was doing now. So, one night, I snuck up into the attic and hid Charlie in the rafters, figuring my days of torture were over.
And then, a few days later, I woke up to find him hanging from a noose in my bedroom. I sat up in bed and screamed my head off.
Bash had his bike taken away for a week, but the trauma for me lasted a lifetime.
So, yeah. I don’t like ventriloquist dummies.
I hadn’t had to confront my old childhood phobia until this new ass clown Dunham came on the scene with his stupid, fucking “comedy” show. Bash had found out about the guy when he caught a special on Comedy Central over the summer, and had been torturing me with its existence ever since.
“Hey,” he called out, changing the subject. “Anyone up for a game of pool?”
I immediately got to my feet and shot back, “Oh, you are so on, you tubby bastard.”
Bash hauled himself off the couch. “Okay, yeah, I’ll kick your ass in a minute. Lemme just get another drink first.”
He walked away as I stood there, taunting, “What the fuck? You don’t come into my dojo, drop a challenge, and leave, old man.”
Wyatt just about spit his beer through his nose.
* * *
Once the Christmas season rolled around, Avery came up with the idea to do a Giving Tree. We dragged the fake tree out of storage and set it up in the corner of the bar, decorating it with about twenty hanging tags of kids’ names she’d gotten from the nearby women’s shelter.
