“Cool,” Abbi says convincingly. “So I shouldn’t stir it?”
“No! It’s meant to look just like this—with the red floating on top. It’s my signature technique.”
“Ah, it’s beautiful!” Abbi says while I try not to roll my eyes. She takes a careful sip and pronounces it delicious.
I can almost hear my father grinding his teeth from twenty feet away. And when I next glance at him, he’s pouring himself a glass of bourbon straight from a bottle. Neat. And not a small amount.
I’ve got a bad feeling about where this night is headed. And it’s only eight o’clock.
For the next hour I try to humor my dad. I really try. And so do my aunt, my sister, and Abbi, who’s a champ.
But not only has he been steadily getting drunker, he’s practically brandishing that bottle of expensive bourbon he stole from Jerry’s bar table, taunting his brother with that sucker.
It’s like waving a red flag at a bull. I can practically hear my dad’s wheels turning. You do not fuck with a dedicated mixologist’s ingredients. Will Uncle Jerry run out of his pretentious unmixed drinks without it? Will he make a scene?
My dad is gunning for it, I think. He gets louder with each passing minute. I’ve been watching that bottle of bourbon this whole time, too, hoping to snatch it away from him. But Dad holds it in one fist like a cudgel.
“Maybe we should hit the road soon,” I suggest. “I’ve got presents to wrap at home.”
“Let me find the ladies’ room first,” Abbi says.
“Oh, I’ll show you where it is,” Lauren offers. She detaches from Nigel, her fiancé. “Right back, sweetie.”
He gives my sister a soft look as the two women walk away. For a guy named Nigel, he seems pretty decent.
I sneak another look at my watch. We’ve been here long enough. We’ve spoken to every cousin and family friend who was brave enough to come over to the chilly side of the room and humor Dad.
So I clear my throat. “Dad, you want anything more to eat? Seems like the party will be winding down soon. We should go.”
But my timing kind of sucks, because when I glance at the nearby food table, Uncle Jerry is right there.
Dad makes a snarly face. “I’m good,” he says. “Lost my appetite. Bourbon?" He holds up the bottle like it's the Statue of Liberty's torch.
"No, I'm the driver. But why don't you let me put that back on the bar?”
“Think I won’t,” he snorts. “This is top shelf bourbon. Only an asshole would mix it with lemon juice.”
I sigh.
“Is that supposed to hurt my feelings?” Uncle Jerry says to the meatball platter.
“Impossible,” my father slurs. "Wasn't aware you had any."
"Dad," I warn.
"What? It's true."
Shit. I’m glad my sister has gone to the ladies’ room with Abbi, so she doesn’t have to hear this.
Jerry turns around, and I brace. “Let him say whatever he wants.” My uncle shoves a meatball into his mouth. "He’s only making himself sound like a dick. You go ahead and rant, Mickey. Or steal that bottle of bourbon. Whatever floats your boat.”
"At least I didn’t steal someone's family. Does that make your dick feel bigger, I bet?”
“Dad,” Lauren gasps from the doorway.
"What?" my dad bellows. “You want to take his side? You always do.”
“Mickey,” my mother hisses. “Don't wreck your only daughter's party.”
“I didn’t wreck anything! You two did!” As he shouts, he swings the bourbon bottle wildly.
And it crashes into the brick fireplace and shatters.
“Shit!” he howls. Then, as everyone stares lasers at him, he walks right past me and leaves the room.
My fingers knot into fists, and my first urge is to chase him down and tackle him into the snow. But I get a look at my sister’s face, and I don’t do it. I count to thirty and breathe.
And then I bend down and start picking up shards of glass off the rug. Because the people who work here do not deserve this.
Nobody does.
Nine
Smells Like Woodsy Goodness
Abbi
I’m standing outside the building when the shouting starts. I’d been about to answer a phone call from my stepfather. He probably wants to wish me a Merry Christmas.
But I silence my phone instead, and listen as the awful sound of glass breaking pierces the silence.
Uh-oh. Poor Lauren. Poor Weston, too. This is exactly what he’d been hoping to avoid. I don’t move from my spot on the inn’s back porch, because the Griggs family doesn’t need one more person gawking at them right now.
But a moment later, Weston’s father emerges out of the back door, too.
I’m so stunned that for a beat I just stare at him, open-mouthed. “How could you?” I whisper.
Oops. I shouldn’t get involved. I know this. But I’m just so mortified for his family. I turn away because I can’t stand to give him any more of the attention he craves.
It’s not like I don’t understand that he’s hurting. It’s just that I know how to suffer in silence, like a grown-up. A skill he obviously never learned.
We ignore each other for a couple of very long seconds. I finger my phone in my pocket, and wonder what I could do to help Weston right now.
Meanwhile, the person who should have been helping Weston is pulling a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and lighting up.
I hate cigarettes. Just like I hate overgrown man-babies.
“Welcome to the family,” Mickey grunts. “Things are pretty hairy with the Griggs clan these days.”
Oh really? You don’t say. But that’s all on him. It must be hard work to maintain this level of animosity for—what did Weston say?—three years?
I should just keep my thoughts to myself, I tell myself.
But Weston is hurting because of this man. The whole family is hurting.
Maybe I can’t let it go. Some people just need a shake.
“It’s hairy because you make it that way,” I point out before I can think better of it. “This whole situation sucks for you. I get that. But you’d better get a grip on yourself already.”
He pulls a cigarette from the pack. “You’re young, honey. Talk to me in thirty years.”
My blood pressure leaps up. God, how I hate men who talk down to women. “First of all, I’m not your honey. And there are worse things in life than divorce.”
“Sure.” He flicks a lighter. “You probably know all about heartbreak and disappointment at the tender age of twenty.”
“Hey!” Now my anger is driving this bus. “I only look young. Three years ago my only parent was driving my dog to the vet, when they both died in a car crash.”
Mr. Griggs jerks backward, like he’s been slapped. “Jesus Christ. That’s terrible.”
“Yeah, I know. But don’t feel sorry for me. I don’t need your pity. But for the love of God, stop giving your kids so much drama. You’re not dead.” I grab the cigarette out of his hand and throw it into the snow. “Not yet, anyway. So stop throwing yourself a damn funeral.”