by Blair Holden
Chapter Five: I’m Shivering Like Cousin It at the Sight of a Hairdresser
“Can you still send someone to prison for sexual assault if the person performing said sexual assault is as drunk as my cousin Lou on St. Patrick’s Day?”
“You have a cousin named Lou and this is the first time I’ve heard of him? I’m hurt, Beth.”
“Trust me, Little Red Riding Hood, if I’d ever let him anywhere near you, there wouldn’t be enough holy water out there for you to bathe in to get rid of the aftershocks.”
“Hey! Boyfriend standing right here, no one’s going to touch my Little Red Riding Hood when I’m there.”
“Calm your panties, J. Crew. I’m just stating a hypothetical situation where I would never intentionally place Megan in the same vicinity as my relatives, especially Cousin Lou. Cousin Lou went to prison and came out as their official hairdresser. He braids the hair of murderers kept in federal prison for fun now. Do you want to go near him?”
“I think Alex would be more his target audience, don’t you think?”
“Hey! Don’t objectify me. I know I’m pretty and all...”
“Babe, you’re more than just pretty. You’re outright dreamy and tough, like my very own Hercules.”
“Thanks, Meg, you always know how to make those pretty-boy complexes go away.”
“Everybody shut up! Don’t you see she’s trying to climb over the bar now?”
Ah, I’ve been spotted. I slink back into my seat, bar-climbing efforts having been thwarted. What are we even doing in a bar? No one except Travis can legally drink, and putting alcohol near him would probably be as insensitive as telling a girl to eat salad...you just don’t do that and still call yourself a decent human being, people.
But somehow, we’re in this low-key pub, and I’m on my third drink of God knows what, but I told the bartender to give me something strong enough that I wouldn’t want to bury my head in the sand for the rest of my life by remembering the things I do tonight.
The man did good, and I rewarded him by trying to tackle him into a completely socially acceptable hug that somehow made security come to the floor and detach us.
Such an overreaction.
“Tessie, I think that’s enough for tonight, let’s go home.” My oh-so-sweet-and-perfect boyfriend sidles up to me and doesn’t flinch even though I must be reeking of alcohol. My fourth drink is in my hand, vodka with a side of some fancy fruit juice, and I don’t plan on leaving my spot until all the memories of the prior evening have been obliterated.
“Is the story still going up?”
He’s stone-faced in response. Ha! Stone-faced.
“Is my name, which is obviously linked with yours, going to be in some cheap political tabloid, making me look like the image of a wholesome All-American train wreck?”
Silence.
“I’m not asking you to make it go away, Cole. But I’m also not asking you to stop me from reacting because I will react. I will react the shit out of this situation, and you will happily let me.”
“Tessie, I don’t think that’s such a good idea.” He’s trying to placate me, and I know what placating does. It makes possible epic drunk mistakes turn into a quiet night in, safe, boring.
Kind of like I am.
When have I ever done something that doesn’t fit into the good girl bracket? My boyfriend had to be sent to military school to have his ways reformed, he’s been involved with some pretty shady stuff that caused a scar on his wrist, and there’s me.
Where’s my scar?
I want a scar, preferably one that looks like a lightning bolt.
“You know what is a good idea?”
“Putting you to bed?”
“Only if you’re in it with me.” I waggle my eyebrows, but it might have come across as an earthworm having a seizure.
“But no, sexy times with you is not my point. My point is that we should get in trouble, like the kind of trouble that potentially end in arrest. If I’m getting my fifteen minutes of fame, why not go all out?”
“You want to get arrested? Great, let’s go home. I’ll borrow some handcuffs from my dad and lock you in his office. There are enough guns mounted on his wall of fame to make you think you’re in state prison. Buckle up, Shortcake.”
I poke him in the chest repeatedly. “Aren’t you supposed to be a bad boy of some sort? Isn’t this like your domain? Why are you killing my buzz?”
He rolls his eyes and glares at the bartender who’s attempting to refill my drink, and he backs off. Coward!
“This isn’t the right way to deal with things. Travis is working on it; your dad is breathing hellfire right now. Those bastards are going to be sued into the next century if we get our way with it. You need to stop drinking.”
“But you don’t get it!” I whine, aware of the attention we’re attracting. My friends have done a good job of crowding out anyone who might seem too interested; Beth’s glare of death does well enough, but who doesn’t want to see the mayor’s daughter make an absolute fool of herself? I think they were disappointed that I didn’t get up on the bar, take my clothes off, and shake what the good lord gave me.
I lower my voice. “You don’t know how fast they’ll get the scent of this. It’s like they’ve got bloodhounds out. The moment they realize I’ve got even a hint of a past, I’ll be a joke.”
Cole’s brows scrunch up adorably; it’s almost cute how clueless he is—almost being the operative word here.
“Who are you talking about?”
“Mmmm no one!” I pretend to zip my lips.
“Tessie.” Oh crap, “protective boyfriend” syndrome is making an appearance. I need to shut this party down before he goes into one of his protective rages. But the problem is that I’ve had one drink too many to actually go ahead and do that.
“Tell me, what’s got you so freaked out?”
I clamp my hand over my mouth so that he can’t make out the words that are automatically leaving my mouth. He removes it and leans in. “Tell. Me.”
“Sports journalists, team owners, the HR departments of said teams, gossip sites that are partial to hunky college football players, and there was this one email from someone over at Playboy who wanted to know if you have a foot fetish.” I scrunch my nose up at that one because the thought is nasty.
“Also, there was this one girl who wanted to know if your hands are good in other departments outside of football. Oh, oh, and this one guy from our local TV station who was wondering if I wore so many baggy clothes because I was pregnant? And if I was, did you abandon me because you could sense my gold digger tendencies from a mile off. There’s more, but I can’t seem to think at the moment, I had to start sending them to my spam folder after a while. I’m so glad I’ve got thicker skin now, because some of them would’ve destroyed poor old Tessie.”
I’m counting down the more standout emails and a few choice voicemails on my fingers so I don’t notice Cole’s reaction until his fist thumps down on the bar, the impact so strong that a glass that was teetering on the edge falls down and shatters.
Everyone’s definitely watching us now, if they weren’t before.
Travis comes over and hovers in the background; I should appreciate the fact that he’s being so strong. All the time he’s spent rebuilding his reputation could come tumbling down in the space of an article, but he’s pulled himself together and is looking out for me instead, but I’m too drunk to be considerate.
“Whoops.” I swing my feet around the bar stool and hop off. “I’m not cleaning that mess up. Bernie, the drinks are on my tab! Sorry for the touchy-feely display of emotion; I just love you, man, and our good friend vodka. See you tomorrow, same time.” I shoot him a two-finger salute and waltz out of the bar, aware of the number of people calling my name.
***
It’s cold outside, horribly so, and I realize that after I’ve marched out of the pub without my coat on and kept walking for long enough so that the cold has seeped inside my bones and
I’m shivering like Cousin It at the sight of a hairdresser.
Hairdresser reminds me of Beth’s Cousin Lou; I’d like to meet Cousin Lou someday.
Even my bad, drunk humor isn’t stopping the cold from attacking me in full force. Christmas lights and decorations surround me, bright lights mostly in hues of reds and whites and greens. People are out in hoards even though it’s edging closer to midnight. The perks of being in a small town and owning your own business is that you can stay open for as long as you want, and in the spirit of that, we’ve got last-minute present shoppers galore. I stumble into one such store, looking for warmth. I find it near a candy store where I happily set up camp. Old Mrs. Gardner, the owner and someone I’ve known for most of my life, is behind the counter. She looks at me a bit concerned as I sit down, cross-legged on the busy floor, occasionally getting stepped on by customers, but this is my happy place and I need to be in the moment.
In front of me is a wall full of chocolate, not your basic mass-manufactured chocolate bars that I basically live on while on campus. These chocolates are handmade works of art, luxury items that you only fork out on when you’ve made a massive mistake and need to suck up. It’s self-explanatory that I have seen a fair share of them in my house, my father always turning to artisan chocolate to help solve his marriage crisis.
While they don’t guarantee matrimonial success, these are damn good chocolates. I reach out my hand to touch the glass display that’s protecting the goods and sigh. I hope someone gets me chocolates for Christmas; I really don’t want to have to buy them for myself.
“Sweetie, are you okay? Do you want me to get someone?” Mrs. Gardner has left her charge and crouches down in front of me. I shake my head, feeling a strange prickling sensation in my eyes and a catch in my throat. “I’d just like to sit here a while, if that’s okay. It’s cold outside and I forgot my coat. I can’t even go back and get it because I would honestly get lost on my way back and it’s just really, really cold outside.”
Something maternal comes over her and she looks at me like I’m a lost little puppy who’s wandered off alone. Jeez, I must look pathetic.
“Okay, hun, whatever you need. Why don’t I bring you some hot chocolate, on the house!”
Hot chocolate reminds me of Cole and of the one we drank not too long ago. The prickling in my eyes gets worse and, to my utter mortification, my chin begins to wobble. This puts Mrs. Gardner in emergency mode as she leaves the counter to an assistant and gets to making me a steaming cup of hot chocolate before I have a full-blown meltdown.
I draw my knees to my chest and rest my head on them, closing my eyes for just a second. Suddenly I’m sleepy, terribly so. If only I’d listened to Cole and opted for the big, nice, warm bed he’s got, I could be all snuggly and warm, the little spoon to his big spoon. It’s a nice mental image, the kind that could potentially put me to sleep in this store and risk getting trampled on by the most lethal people out there, holiday shoppers.
“Shortcake, I’m here—I’ve got you.”
“Hmm?” Dreams are rather powerful things, in my head we’d just gotten into bed and pulled our toasty blanket over us, the kind that makes you feel like you’re enveloped in a warm, fuzzy hug. He’s pulled my back to his chest, our legs are tangled, and my head’s ducked under his chin. We’ve always fit together so comfortably.
“Come on, let me help you up. I’m taking you home.”
“But, it’s so nice here. Can I just stay a couple more minutes? Just a few more.”
“You’re breaking my heart here, baby, please let’s just—”
“I think you’re both in need of some good old chocolate comfort, hun. Here, two steaming mugs for my favorite lovebirds. Just take good care of little Tess here.”
My fairy godmother for the night has me opening my eyes just in time to see her thrusting two huge mugs of hot chocolate at Cole before returning to her post.
Sighing, my boyfriend reluctantly takes a seat next to me, barricading us from the onslaught of busy customers. Handing my drink to me, his smile is sad. “We need to stop meeting like this.”
“Drinking our woes over divine chocolatey goodness? Never!” I say a bit too enthusiastically.
“You’ve had a lot to drink, maybe you should stay away from scalding hot items.”
“Then you better move on over to the next state, hot stuff.” I bump my shoulder with his and then laugh out loud. “God, that was so lame! I’m so lame. Why are you even with me? Wait, don’t answer that. I’m not insecure, I don’t have self-esteem issues. We’re Bran-fucking-gelina, equals. Actually, you’re lucky to have me, I’m awesome. “
“You’re awesome,” he agrees and then we drink our hot chocolates in peace.
***
In the end, I’m half supported, half carried home. Somehow I end up in my bedroom with multiple people looking at me in anticipation, like geography nerds waiting for Mount Vesuvius to erupt. I bet they’re disappointed when all I manage to do is toe my shoes off and fall facedown into my pillow.
“I’m tired,” I tell them.
“Tessa, maybe we should...”
“Dad, you look like you’ve aged ten years in the last two hours. Stop worrying so much, before Danielle leaves you for less grayer pastures.”
That’s an asshole thing to say, but I feel like being an asshole, especially since the horrible voice that lives in the back of everyone’s head is telling me that it’s my dad’s fault that I’m going to be Brown’s very own Lindsay Lohan.
“Dad, maybe we should talk to her tomorrow. Let’s just—”
“Oh, this is rich, the fact that you two are bonding over how much of a mess I’m acting like right now. It’s just like old times, except I’m you now, Trav, just damn perfect.” I roll onto my back and start laughing because this is too damn hilarious.
“Okay then, show’s over. She wants to be the mean drunk right now, how about we all just see each other over breakfast?”
“Come on, Trav, you know this isn’t her. Cole’s right, let her sleep it off.”
“Thanks, bestie, I knew you were the best thing that could ever have happened to my brother. Also maybe the kinkiest, but that’s a subject for another day.”
“Right, everyone out.” I hear a door slam and then the lights dim. I’m being sat upright and Cole’s taking my clothes off. I swat his hands away. “I love you and all, but I’m not in the mood tonight.” Curling up in fetus shape, I start to finally drift off. Ah, peace.
“Your clothes are wet, Tessie; you fell into an icy puddle on our way back, in case you need a reminder.”
“Oh! That explains why I feel like my fingers could fall off like little icicles of human flesh. I need a human body-warmer, please, oh boyfriend of mine, won’t you join me in bed?” I stretch out my arms and pretend to give him a seductive look.
#Fail.
He shakes his head and helps me up again. “If you make it tomorrow without getting hypothermia and possibly not being kicked out by your family, you have to promise to stop complaining about the number of times I get Chinese takeout during the week.”
“Sue me if I care about your cholesterol levels, Stone, sue me.”
“Easy there, tiger, now lift your arms.”
I suddenly feel too tired to make innuendos so I listen to him, let him dress me in my pajamas and tuck me into bed. Later when he joins me in bed, he forces Advil and water down my throat before pulling me to his chest and wrapping me up in his arms.
“I’m happy you’re still here, my brave girl, so happy.”
***
Dad’s press secretary is a short, very undistinguished-looking man in his mid-forties. As far back as I can recall, I haven’t associated Jeremiah M. Caldwell’s visits with anything good. He’s hired to act as a human version of Photoshop. He makes the proverbial wrinkles in my dad’s political life go away while making him look like the Jennifer Lopez of Connecticut’s political elite.
Divorce?
Make the ex
-wife look like a pill-popping loony.
Alcoholic son?
Stage a heartwarming public coffee date in town square, and make sure to have a photo op of them hugging it out afterward.
Overweight daughter?
Set up a golf date and a lunch (of pure leafy greens only) at the country club. Increase the budget of the PE program at the local high school and initiate surprise inspection of the school cafeteria.
These are the kind of things that occupy Caldwell’s existence; if it weren’t for the fact that my mom really is a pill-popping loony, I’d totally blame him for my parents’ divorce.
What woman could possibly share her husband with this guy?
I attempt not to spill freshly brewed coffee all over his nether regions as I hand the man in the tweed suit his cup. He turns up his nose at it. “I only drink Earl Grey tea, Teresa; could you be a darling and fetch me a cup?”
I grit my teeth. “I am aware of your preferences, Mr. Caldwell, but we currently don’t have any. I thought you might be fine with the second-best option.”
It’s pretty expensive coffee; I’ll pour it over his head if he doesn’t accept it.
“Why don’t I take that, Tessie? Mr. Caldwell doesn’t look like he takes his coffee that strong.” Cole foils my murder plans and takes me by the hand before I commit manslaughter.
We’re all currently in my dad’s office, all including the man himself, his slimy press secretary, Travis, Cole and me. We’re being briefed on what the plan of action is regarding my little two-page spread in a pretty widely circulated paper, and the more words that come out of the man’s mouth, the closer I get to planning the perfect murder.
“What we have here is all of America thinking that you’re just another run-of-the-mill candidate with a severely dysfunctional family, Mr. O’Connell. You’ve been reduced to a cliché, if I could be so honest. You’re divorced, your ex-wife is burning through her divorce settlement faster than I can flip a pancake, and your son has no direction in life. Those were big enough issues, but now that your daughter’s...well, her indiscretions just became public, we’re going to have to change our tactics. If you still want to shake up American politics and run for governor, then we’re going to need to pull out the big guns.”
