Whiskey Trick

by Ringbloom, Ryan

  If there was any feeling in my body, I’m sure it would be pain, but I’ve gone completely numb.

  The coffee gurgles the last few drops into the waiting pot. Robotically, I pour her a cup, adding one sugar and a splash of half and half into a travel mug. I grab two aspirin and place them in her hand before giving her the cup of coffee.

  “Get your things. I’ll grab mine, and we can leave,” I say and leave the room, zombie-ing my way up the stairs.

  Alone in my room, I close the door and slam my fist through the drywall.

  My hand hurts. My knuckles bleed.

  But I still feel nothing.

  No More Tricks

  Between Tina’s dark hair, dark glasses, dark coat, and my own dark glasses, dark gloves, and dark mood, we look as if we are on our way to a funeral. And in a way we are. The death of us.

  It’s a silent ride home except for the music spilling through my speakers. The next song comes on. The singer belts out the word love and I click forward. The next song, and the next, get forwarded as well until I land on something with no hint of romance—or any positivity, for that matter. Depressing lyrics hinting at suicidal thoughts. There. That seems more appropriate.

  My torn knuckles throb under my leather driving gloves. It’s the distraction I need. A different focus of pain then the one seated next to me.

  We pull off the Turnpike. In less than five minutes, she’ll be home.

  “I’m sorry if I snapped at you this morning,” she says. First words the entire way home. “I don’t want you to think it has anything to do with what happened last night. Everything last night was great. Very. Great.”

  “It was,” I agree. I’m not sure where she’s going, but suddenly there’s hope.

  “And you are definitely ready to find someone.”

  “Great,” I reply flatly. I tighten my grip on the steering wheel. The pain in my right hand pulses.

  “And just so you know, you never needed my help. The right girl was definitely going to come along and see past your few small flaws to how amazing you truly are.”

  “The right girl. Noted,” I say, and her breath hitches.

  “Yes. And whoever she is will be very lucky.”

  “A lucky bitch?” I throw back her orgasmic words from last night.

  “Yes,” she grits. “That lucky bitch.” Her head turns away from me, staring out the window.

  “Let’s just chalk last night up to we drank a lot?” I say.

  “Yes, and we can pretend one last time. We came home from dinner, played Boggle, and went to our rooms for a good night’s sleep. The end,” she says eagerly, and I almost think that she still believes she was actually drunk. But that’s preposterous. The power of suggestion can only take a person so far. Plus, I told her.

  “Yes, let’s pretend,” I repeat. “We can blame everything on the whiskey.”

  “The whiskey made us do it.” She laughs.

  She laughs. She fucking laughs. Some fucking douchebag named Todd, who she claims to never have even liked, shows up at a bar with a girl and she’s a hysterical mess. We date for a month, proclaim our feelings for each other, make love half the night, and I get a laugh?

  It’s me. I’m not meant for love. Bachelor life is the life for me. Good news for the Faulkner Corporation; the company can thrive even more now that I’ve officially decided to take myself out of the romance race. It can go back up to number one on my list of priorities.

  Nothing else gets said. I pull into her development and park in front of her home. I cut the engine and pop the trunk.

  “What are you doing?” she asks as I open my car door.

  “I am going to open your door, grab your bag from my trunk, and walk you to the door.” I’m not a barbarian.

  She nods, waiting as I do exactly what I said. She steps out and I grab her bag, carrying it to her front door. The sun is bright, reflecting off some lingering snow piled up from the plows. As I walk up her steps, I hear the rattle of Boggle tiles in her bag. She really did bring it. That’s the game we should’ve played last night. I’m reminded of the brownies she baked for me.

  “I forgot to thank you for the brownies,” I say, standing at her front door and hand over her bag. This is it. Our final goodbye.

  “I almost forgot! Did you have one? Was it good?” Her half-covered face smiles up at me. I haven’t smiled once since this morning. But not Tina, she’s nothing but grins and giggles.

  “No, it wasn’t good. The mint flavor was disgusting,” I spew. “There’s some truth for you. Oh, wait, do you want me to keep pretending?”

  The bag drops from Tina’s hand, and she frantically searches through her purse for her keys. She sniffs while rummaging, and after retrieving the keys, struggles to get them into her lock with a steady hand. Her entire body shakes.

  “Stop. What is this?” I say, placing my hands on her shoulders turning her toward me. No more smile on her face. Is she crying? The glasses and glare make it hard for me to know. I lift my own shades to the top of my head and then use two hands to lift hers. Water pools out of her crystal-blue eyes. “Now you’re crying? Over the brownies? That’s what makes you cry?” I step back and lean on her railing, pressing a gloved fist against my lips before I say something I’ll regret.

  “I’m not crying over the brownies, you fool. Although, that does really hurt.” She wipes away the tears from her cheeks. “I’m sad because…”

  She pauses, and I take a breath through my mouth, swallowing the cold air down. There’s a truth she’s hiding. And maybe it’s a good one, the one I’m hoping for. If ever there was a moment for her to be assertive, now is that time.

  “Because all those things I said last night were true. And it kills me that this over. And it tears me apart to know that some other girl, some lucky bitch gets to be your girlfriend and not me.” Her voice booms as more and more gets said. “I’m not hungover and I wasn’t drunk last night. That was the weakest whiskey I’ve ever had. If anything, I was drunk with love. Actual love.”

  “Of course you weren’t drunk, that wasn’t even—” I bite my tongue. Forget the whiskey trick, what she doesn’t know won’t kill her. “I wasn’t drunk either. My words were real, my actions were real. Everything said or done last night, I meant.”

  “Really?” Her watery eyes meet mine. “We’re talking real, real.”

  “As real as it gets. How could you not know that?”

  “Because... because pretend games like this should never be played,” she cries. “Hearts aren’t designed for games. They need truth. They need reality.”

  “I promise, no more pretend.” I seal the sentiment with a cross over my heart. “I have fallen for you.”

  Thank God I hated those brownies or I might never have known the truth. I don’t think I’ll ever understand the things that go on in a woman’s head. The fake dating may be over, but the beta part, I think that’s something that may need to continue. Healthy feedback from the woman I love. I have a feeling it’s a necessity. “The next girl, the one I needed help in order to find, you’re her.”

  “So you’re saying that you... that we... that I’m that lucky bitch?” This time when she smiles, it’s a good thing. I smile back and cup my hands over her cheeks. I catch one last tear with my thumb and wipe it away.

  “I think we all know I’m the lucky one,” I say.

  A Real Trick

  “These are for you.” I am handed a stunning bouquet. Huge, bright, and blooming.

  “Why, thank you. Flowers, what a sweet gesture.” Henry and I are on our first date. Our first official real date. Only we’re meeting in front of The Red Pot this time. I was in the mood for Chinese and a more casual environment. If I want something, I speak up. Just like my boyfriend taught me.

  I’m dressed down in dark jeans and a blue sweater; Henry’s in a suit.

  “You are always the best-dressed man anywhere we go.” I beam proudly, using my non-flower-holding hand to grasp onto his.

  “
I have to be, especially when I’m walking in with best-looking girl.”

  Flowers, dinner, and flattery. That will get him….

  “Wait.” I stop us. “What are we doing? We said no more pretending.”

  Henry freezes, his jaw tightens.

  “Tina, don’t even do that. This is not pretend.” Henry’s grip on my hand is like a vise.

  “Ouch.” I pull it away. “I just mean, we’re pretending this is our first date. But it’s not.”

  “Oh, that.” He relaxes. “I don’t think there’s any harm in that. I just believe we should do things right. Start over fresh. Positive. It’s our first date.”

  “I don’t put out on the first date.”

  “It’s most definitely our fifth date,” he says without missing a beat.

  “I can’t.” My laughter bubbles out, only stopping when he bends down and his lips brush against mine. “I love how much you make me laugh,” I say, my mouth against his.

  “That’s because you’ve brought humor to my life.” His arms wrap around me, the cellophane crinkling between us. “And so much more.”

  My skin heats up. Head-to-toe fire. I pull the barrier of flowers out from between us and throw my arms around his neck.

  We kiss. A real kiss. That later on will lead to some very real things.

  “I think we should.” He pulls back, flustered and pointing at the restaurant.

  “Yeah, um, we better.” Like we really freaking better. My body, my brain, my heart, we’re all in on the fact of how real this is now.

  “Shall we?” He opens the door, and I step inside with my large bouquet. Heads turn, eyeing the flowers, eyeing me and the overdressed man at my side.

  Who gives a crap?

  I love these flowers and, more importantly, the guy who gave them to me. Flowers on a first date are awesome. And if he wants to wear a five-hundred-dollar suit to a restaurant where we’ll eat six-dollar lo mein, there isn’t anything wrong with that.

  Everything about Henry is very right.

  The flowers, the suit, the food, the conversation… all right. And maybe I can see that more clearly now because I’ve made some adjustments of my own regarding a few things. The right men are out there, and women should never settle for anything less.

  After dinner, our plates are carried away, and two fortune cookies are placed in front of us. They’re from Chi Ming. There’s a big chance I wrote the fortunes inside. We crack them open, and Henry reads his first.

  “Never give up. The beginning is always the hardest.” He lifts his head, his eyes digging into mine. “Did you write this?”

  “I did,” I say, surprised to have my words come back to me in such a fitting matter. My luck has definitely changed.

  “I’m glad we didn’t give up,” he says. His eyes are greener tonight. Sparkling, bright and readable.

  “Me too.” I return my attention back to my cookie before getting too lost in the sea of green. I place the two halves of cookie onto my plate and read my fortune silently, hoping for another good one.

  Hmm. Not my finest.

  I’ve gotten my good ole standby for fortune cookie writer’s block.

  “What does yours say?” he asks anxiously. The expression on his handsome face is priceless, waiting to see what other amazing words I may have written that could apply to us.

  Great lines speed through my mind about romance, love, and a promising future.

  But... I have to keep it real.

  “Mine says ‘Help, I’m trapped in a cookie.’”

  The end.

  Want More?

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  at Jenn’s story.

  Whiskey Flick

  Available Now

  Like a Bad Chick Flick

  Three Years Ago

  “Hey guys, this is Jenn, back again to show you how to do a french braid on your own head.”

  On your own head? That sounds stupid. I use my thumb to click the remote and stop filming. If I want more subscribers, I need to make this perfect or at least have it make fucking sense. I push a few blonde strands away from my face, smile, and press start.

  “Hey guys, Jenn here to show y’all how to... grrr.” I aim the remote at the camera propped up on the dresser and stop recording again.

  Y’all? What, now I’m from the South? Somehow I think my Jersey accent might give me away. I uncross my legs and lie back on my bed. Hmm. How should I do this? I leave the camera off while I practice.

  “Hey guys, it’s Jenn,” I say to the ceiling. “Lots of you have been commenting that you liked my last video where I showed you how to do a dutch braid, so today I’m back to show you how to do a french braid.”

  Dammit, that was perfect. It figures this is the time I didn’t hit record. I sit back up and run a brush through my flattened hair, prepped and ready for a self-braid demonstration.

  Maybe what I should do is just keep recording everything I say, even though it’ll be a giant pain in the ass to go back and edit when I’m done. But if I’m serious about doing this, I’m gonna need to start figuring out the editing part sooner or later.

  I press record one last time and chuck the little remote synced with the camera off to the end of my bed. I miss the mark and it tumbles over the side, thunking down on the floor. Oh well. I’ll grab it when I’m all done.

  I face the lens.

  “Hey guys, it’s me. Jenn. I, um.... Shit.”

  Keep going.

  “Hey guys, Jenn here coming at ya with some braid... ah, fuck me hard. That’s not it.”

  “Hey, Jenn.” I laugh. “Duh.”

  “Hi everyone, it’s Jenn, the braid girl.”

  The braid girl? Where did that come from?

  “Hey guys, it’s Jenn. I know a lot of you have been asking me for french braid tips.”

  Was that it? No, I said it different last time. I chew on my thumbnail, trying to remember what I said before. I know I mentioned the dutch braid, but what did I say again? I reach for the half-eaten vanilla-frosted donut sitting on my bedside table and take a bite, chewing while mulling over what I said the good time.

  There’s a knock on my door, and my brother’s girlfriend, Sasha, peeks her head in. My face immediately lights up.

  “Is it okay if I come in?” she asks.

  “Yes! Come in.” I place the donut back on the table and rub my hands clean. I shift over on my bed to make room for her to sit next to me. “This is such a great surprise. I didn’t know you guys were coming to the cabin this weekend. I thought Henry was away.”

  Henry and Sasha have been dating almost two years. He’s proposing soon. Not many people know. But I do. I helped him pick out the ring. He’s my brother, so of course I wanted to help.

  “He’s not here. It’s just me.” She sits down on the bed where I made room, and her perfume sends subtle notes of soft flowers my way. My heart speeds up, caught somewhere between a level of comfort and a feeling of terror by my reaction to her familiar scent. “But I knew you were at the cabin and I wanted to see you,” she says.

  “You came all the way here just to see me?” A warm flush rises up my neck to my cheeks. It’s a two-hour ride to my family’s second home. That’s a long drive for a surprise visit like this.

  “Your mom let me in. She and your dad were on their way out. They told me to tell you they’d be back later.”

  “Are you spending the night?”

  “No, I’m going to be leaving soon.” Her perfectly glossed red lips give me a smile that doesn’t reach her dark eyes.

  “Why?” An overwhelming wave of disappointment floods me, and my brain scrambles to think of ways to get her to stay. “Why would you come all this way just to turn around and leave?”

  She pushes back a long strand of her chestnut hair, tucking it behind her ear. The pulse in her neck is visible, beating fast. She lifts her chin slowly to face me.

  “You and sweets,” she says, not answering my question. Her finger grazes my skin, wiping away
some frosting from the side of my mouth. “It always amazes me how different you are from your brother.”

  I use the back of my hand to wipe away any remaining frosting as a knot builds in my gut.

  “Sasha, what’s wrong?”

  The silence that follows only lasts a few seconds but feels like an eternity. I know something bad is coming.

  “I broke up with Henry last night,” she finally says, looking away.

  “What?” I tighten my arms over my stomach. “No,” I all but burst out. “You can’t.”

  “I know he has a ring, Jenn.” She shakes her head, turning back, her brown eyes meeting my teary gaze. “I needed to end it now, before things went any further.”

  “You’re just nervous or have cold feet. You two are perfect for each other.”

  “We’re not.” She swallows.

  Maybe they’re not perfect, but he’s so lucky to have her. She is perfect. She can’t leave him. She can’t leave... me.

  “But now that you’re broken up, what happens?” A lump forms in my throat, and no matter how many times I swallow, it won’t go away. “I don’t see you anymore?”

  “You are the reason it lasted as long as it did,” she says. I’m dying inside, my tears beginning to spill, but she remains poised. “You are the reason I need to go.”

  “What?” I gasp. I’m the reason? “I don’t understand.”

  “I know you don’t.” She places her hands on my cheeks and I think she’s going to wipe away the tear sliding its way down my face just like she did the frosting. But she doesn’t. Instead, she leans in and her soft lips press against mine.

  My hands go to her shoulders, ready to push her away. Only I don’t push.

  I can. But I don’t.

  Whiskey Flick

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