by McGee, Kayti
And the second they know, he’s a dead man. They won’t even consider feeling bad until they’ve mounted his head on a pole outside of There In Spirits. Frankly, I can’t decide if I’d like that or not. Probably there are pros and also cons.
Pros include looking amazing in black as I would technically be a widow and also no one speaking ill of the dead. Cons are them fucking up that beautiful face of his and the knowledge that it’s like—really over for real for real.
Such a coin toss.
In the meantime, it’s easy enough to ignore my doorbell, social media, phone, and the pebble Eileen is currently tossing at my bedroom window.
Or it was, until she moves to a rock large enough to come sailing right on through the glass. A note is wrapped around it with a rubber band as though this is a shitty movie threat from the 1980’s: let me in or else I come back with the army. The army being seven Riley’s, one brother-in-law, and assorted hangers-on, I decide I’d better let her in.
“You are paying for that window.”
“You are not showering enough.” We stare at each other until she pulls out a fresh bottle of Jameson.
“How did you know?” I ask.
“You live to smugly explain every detail of your life to us. The second you stop, it can only be because your life sucks. And let’s face it, Phoenix was basically the only thing you had going for you. Did you punch him? Because I’ve told you before about punching people. Domestic violence is not something to be done recreationally, Bridget—”
“I didn’t punch him. He just wants a divorce so he can go live a quiet, beige life in the suburbs.”
“Are you being serious right now?” Eileen takes a swig straight from the bottle and passes it over to me. “I’m going to fucking punch him right in that perfect nose.”
“You’re my favorite sister.” We drink together until we both pass out in my bed, cuddled up like puppies. I cannot recommend divorce, but if you must, I highly recommend doing it with Eileen around.
Eight
The Happy Ending
It definitely sounds real fancy to tell people we have a family lawyer. That’s definitely why we do it. In all honesty, it’s my cousin Steve-o, and he works for Legal Aid. Sure, his stationary isn’t much to sneeze at—and I’m pretty sure he pays for it himself—but he’s as licensed as anyone else in the great state of Missouri.
So I’ve rerouted Phoenix’s calls to Steve-o’s cell phone, and even the fact that I forgot to give Steve-o himself a heads up on it doesn’t take away from the delight I feel at how that must have gone the first time.
He was probably blindsided.
A feeling he taught me all too well.
I’m trying really hard not to be bitter, but Sierra’s behind the bar again. Maggie said she’s sick of talking about me and moved down the bar to sexually harass a group of businessmen. I am not sick of talking about me. Sierra does not appear to be sick of talking about me. Although I do have a sneaking suspicion this might become writing fodder for her at some point. So in answer to her question if I’ve even spoken to my soon-to-be ex since I left him on my porch, here I am.
Bitter.
“I guess I just feel like I deserve this.” I slurp at my Princeton Rub. I’m on my second, which has me pretty deep into Chatty Cathy territory. “I was smarter before I met him. I was going to settle. If I’d gone with a passionless man, we wouldn’t have fought and that guy’d be waiting for me now, at home with a game that isn’t soccer and his hobbies that do not involve harassing the neighborhood birds. It’s the grownup way.”
“Oh, honey. You deserve nothing. Karma’s not real. But that doesn’t mean you have to settle, either.” Sierra’s on her second drink, too. “Can you ever go back to passionless sex now, for example? Oh, god, don’t cry.”
But it’s too late. I’m sobbing.
“Anyone else I have sex with won’t have his perfect dick!” I manage to get out, as Maggie assures the businessmen she has no clue who the crazy crying woman is who looks just like her. Dave hands me a stack of cocktail napkins and flees. I don’t expect to see him again tonight. Just like I’ll never see the perfect D again. That sets me off all over. Being an adult is just one unending misery, punctuated by shining moments of drunkenness.
“I’m just saying that maybe you should talk to him. Marriages are about compromise, and you didn’t even try to find ways for the two of you to be alone and chat before you threatened to sic all of your sisters on him and locked him out.”
Well, fuck. When she puts it like that.
“Do you want another drink and I’ll braid your hair before I leave?” I nod before that registers.
“Wait. Why are you leaving?” This is alarming. I’m not sick of talking about me yet.
“I’m as inspired as I need to be to finish my book. Grindr Payne and Gunchester Wig are finally going to get their happy ending. And so, it’s almost time for me to go. But much like a busty, horny fairy godmother, I’ll always show back up just when you need me.”
There isn’t much for me to say to that. It probably is time for a nice French braid and a good hard think. And she’s right. I need to take some responsibility for this. I’m the oldest sister; I should have set firmer boundaries.
Set any boundaries at all.
I’m going to have to make a grand gesture.
I cannot imagine the divorce judge will be altogether happy when I give a speech in court. Probably even less happy when she sees I’ve recruited Erin to film it. But one can never be certain when one may go viral, and in the social media game, one must always be prepared. I’m still annoyed no one covered my wedding, frankly.
I start writing it in my head. Phoenix, I will begin. I think for a while. Phoenix. Writing speeches is really hard, it turns out. Even though you were wrong af—no, I can’t say ‘af’ in court. Also, I’m supposed to be accepting responsibility.
Phoenix. Fuck my sisters. No, no, no, wrong on several levels. I’m rummaging through my purse for a pen to see if writing it out is any easier when I hear it. The utterly distinctive sound of all my sisters saying ‘potato’ in their different voices, even Erin’s fake brogue. And the last one…
That last potato sounded real familiar. Real familiar.
Thank the Virgin that Dave gave me all these napkins, because I only have about fifteen seconds to wipe the tears and stray mascara off my face before I’ll have to turn around. It’s sure lucky for me Sierra is still finishing my braid, and that gives me a small amount of cover. I blow my nose heartily just as she finishes wrapping the elastic.
Then he’s on the stool next to me, and I can’t help but notice he’s still wearing his wedding ring. It’s more than a little impressive considering that I picked it out for another man A of all, and B of all it was his idea to get a divorce. The shame of every good Catholic. I wouldn’t take back the banging, though.
Besides. I’m still wearing my ring, too.
Then Sierra’s back behind the bar, presenting us with two new drinks.
“Okay, don’t be mad. This one’s called the Reconciliation. I invented it after Phoenix called the bar earlier. It felt appropriate.”
“And Catholic!” I say, taking a large sip.
“Does that taste good, baby?” Phoenix asks, and he isn’t exactly wearing his mean face, it’s more like the really earnest one he had when we broke up but he just called me baby and is that a hint of rainbow I feel?
“It’s fine,” I lie. This might be a trick question. I might be getting blindsided again. But the name of the drink… Which is good. Sierra is my favorite fake bartender wingman.
I can tell when everything’s getting real, because all my sisters grow miraculously quiet. It’s possible this may qualify Phoenix for canonization. Father Paddy would certainly agree.
“Bridget Riley Kelly. You are way too much work for me. Your family is a shitshow. I’m bored to fucking death without you. Can we get remarried?” With that, he pulls out an engagement ring that is cert
ainly worth less than four months of his salary, but is also a thousand percent more perfect for me.
“We decided not to put it in your drink, because that’s the kind of thing that would make you mad,” Sierra stage-whispers. They made the correct decision.
“We never actually got divorced.” I feel like I need to just point that out.
“I know, but that wedding wasn’t really ours. Besides, did you know Sierra is an ordained minister?” That’s all it takes to sell me.
Five minutes to get Dave re-settled behind the bar.
Five minutes to rally the troops.
Five minutes to say our vows.
Fifteen minutes total before I kiss him again and confirm that we are man and wife.
The bar erupts, and even though she’d probably make a killing, Sierra slips out to leave us to it. Not to worry. Erin’s already hopped behind the bar to work the room with her accent. Maggie’s sitting on a businessman. Eileen is holding Darby back before she punches the stranger who just spilled her drink.
“Do you want to get out of here?” Phoenix whispers.
“Desperately.”
There’s an awful lot to recommend about an Irish family, but this might even be better.
* * *
If you like my style of screwball comedy, check out UnderCovers, my first in a series of outrageously ridiculous romance.
UnderCovers
Halfway through her first year on the job, Melissa Montclair decides the best part of teaching is winter break. And the best part of break is the Perfect Ten she meets in a bar on New Year’s Eve.
Why not celebrate a semester under her belt with a Perfect Ten in her pants?
The one night affair is all she hoped for, until she walks into school a week later and sees Mr. Ten is Student Twenty-nine on her roll call. She should be mortified—and she is—but that doesn’t stop her from banging him again.
And again.
And again.
So much for job security.
Posing as an exchange student at Hamilton High is finally the assignment Officer Spence Vega has been hoping for. Now he has a shot at getting to the bottom of the town’s recent molly epidemic.
There’s only a couple of problems: first, history is taught by the curvy bombshell he banged on New Year’s. Second, his growing suspicion is that she’s the dealer he’s looking for. The job was supposed to be an easy in-and-out, not the teacher.
If only they could stop getting under the covers, staying undercover would be so much easier.
Read UnderCovers now!
* * *
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Also by Kayti McGee
Written with Laurelin Paige as Laurelin McGee
Miss Match
Love Struck
MisTaken: A Novella
Under the Covers novels
UnderCovers
Topped
Long Shot
Hands Off
Standalone
Screwmates
That Thing You Do
The (Not-So) Secret Identity!
Kayti McGee is livin’ deliciously in beautiful Kansas City, Missouri. Go Royals!
She also writes as the latter half of Laurelin McGee. Like her co-author Laurelin Paige, she joined Mensa for no other reason than to make their bios more interesting. Sometimes they podcast as IRL.
Stalk away at:
www.kaytimcgee.com
[email protected]
