Megan Hart - Dirty

The conversation drifted from my pathetic mental state to his work in an elder-care home, his plans to meet Luke’s family, the dog they were considering buying. He had a cozy little life, my brother. A good job. A nice house. A partner who loved and supported him. I relaxed as he talked, my body melting into my bed and sleep beginning to tease me into thinking it might return.

Then he dropped the bomb on me.

“Luke wants to talk about having kids.” His voice had dropped to a whisper.

I might suffer from occasional social awkwardness, but even I know the appropriate response to that announcement is not “What in the holy fuck are you thinking?” but rather “Oh, that sounds nice.”

I didn’t say either one. “What do you want, Chaddie?”

He sighed. “I don’t know. He says I’ll be a great dad. I’m not so sure.”

I didn’t doubt my brother would make a wonderful father. I also knew why he feared the thought. “You have a lot of love in your heart.”

“Yeah, but kids…kids need a lot of…stuff.”

“Yeah.”

We sat in silence for a few moments, separated by distance but connected by emotion. At last he cleared his throat. He sounded more like his usual self when he spoke again.

“We’re just thinking about it. I said we should get a dog first. See how we do with that.”

It was more than I’d ever wanted to commit to, a pet. “You’ll be great, Chad. Whatever you decide, you know I’m here for you.”

“Aunt Ella.” He laughed.

“Aunt Elle,” I corrected.

“Elle,” Chad agreed. “Love you, bunny muffin.”

As far as pet names went, bunny muffin was among the more bizarre. I didn’t quarrel with it. “Love you, too, Chad. Good night.”

We disconnected and I settled back onto my pillows, my mind whirling with his news. A child? My brother…a father?

I fell back to sleep with visions of laughing babies in my head, which was marginally better than the dreams of red roses.

Friday came faster than I’d expected. I’d never been to The Blue Swan, but it was everything Marcy had said. More an intimate-coffee-shop setting with a dance floor than a dance club, it featured a steady pulse of electronic dance music, soothing blue lights and soft couches, an interesting array of drinks and stars scattered across the black-painted ceiling.

Marcy introduced me to her new beau, Wayne. He looked like the junior executive he was, complete with a hundred-dollar haircut and trendy designer tie, plain, without skulls and crossbones. He shook my hand and, to give him credit, did not overtly check out my breasts. He even bought my first margarita.

Marcy grinned. “Planning on getting wild, Elle?”

“Ah, one drink’s not a big deal. Not everyone’s a lush like you, babe.” What might have been condescending sounded fond from Wayne, his arm outstretched along the bench behind her to toy with the long, curling strand of her hair. “Trust me, Elle, we’ll be carrying Marcy out of here.”

Marcy made a face and nudged him, but didn’t look displeased. “Don’t listen to him.”

“Hey, so long as it gets me laid,” Wayne said, “I don’t care how drunk you get—”

She slapped him in earnest this time. “Hey!”

She sent me an apologetic glance, but I shrugged, not as embarrassed as I think she expected. The fact was, I liked drinking too much to be a hard drinker. I liked the oblivion, the way a few drinks softened the edges of my mind and chased away even the ever-present need I felt to count, catalog and calculate.

Alcohol is the noose with which my father keeps trying to hang himself. I understand why he does it. He is, after all, married to my mother. Now, retired and in his sixties, drinking is my father’s career and hobby all in one. Maybe it’s his shield. I don’t know. We don’t talk about it. We aren’t the only family with a white elephant in the living room, but who ever cares about anyone else’s family when their own is the one they have to live with?

“So, you work with Marcy?” Wayne earned points for what appeared to be sincere interest.

“Yes. She’s in public accounting and I’m in corporate, but we both work for the same company.”

Wayne grinned. “Me, I’m in murders and executions.”

“Wayne!” Marcy rolled her eyes. “He means—”

“Mergers and acquisitions. I got it.”

Wayne looked impressed. “You know American Psycho .”

“Sure.” I sipped my drink.

“Wayne thinks he’s Patrick Bateman,” Marcy explained. “Aside from that pesky bad habit of slicing up prostitutes with a chainsaw.”

“Well,” I said carefully, watching him, “nobody’s perfect.”

His smile rewarded me, and then he laughed. “Hey, Marcy, I like your friend.”

She looked at me. “Me, too.”

Sometimes you share a moment with someone that has nothing to do with where you are, or what you’re doing. Marcy and I giggled, girly in a way I wasn’t used to but enjoyed nevertheless. Wayne looked at us, back and forth, until he shook his head with a shrug at our feminine absurdity.

“To murders and executions,” he said with a lift of his beer. “And to all things materialistic and shallow.”

We toasted his words. We drank. We talked, though much of what we said had to be shouted over the music. I relaxed, letting the alcohol and music loosen my tense shoulders.

“It’s my turn,” I protested when Wayne made to order one more round of drinks.

He held up his hands. “I’m not gonna argue. My mama told me a woman’s always right. You go right on ahead, Miss Kavanagh, and buy the next round. I’m comfortable enough in my masculinity to accept a woman’s generosity.”

“Oh, ho ho,” said Marcy. “You mean you’re drunk enough you don’t feel like getting up to go to the bar.”

Wayne grinned and pulled her close for a kiss that made me feel like a voyeur. “That, too.”

That was my cue to leave them for a few moments. I needed to stand, anyway, to gauge my own level of inebriation. Two drinks took me a lot farther than they had three years ago.

A space opened up at the bar as I approached, and the bartender gave me his immediate attention. I knew he was paid to flirt as much as he was to mix drinks, but his smile still flooded me with warmth. I’m no more immune to my sense of self being reflected in the light of another’s esteem than any other woman. I smiled back and ordered two more beers and a bottle of water for myself.

“She doesn’t want that. Get her a shot of Jameson.”

I didn’t turn to face the voice that had haunted me for the past three weeks. I nodded at the ’tender waiting my approval, and he slid the shot glass toward me without another word.

“Hi,” said the man from Sweet Heaven, and I turned.

“Hi.”

The crowd had grown as the night wore on, and now it jostled us closer. He looked down at me, his smile bemused. In the blue neon light his eyes looked darker than I remembered.

“Fancy meeting you here.”

My fingers curled around the shot glass, but I didn’t lift it. “Yes.”

His gaze traced the lines of my face; I felt his look as if it was a touch. Someone pushed toward the bar behind him, nudging him forward another inch. He reached to grab my arm just above the elbow, so the sudden impact didn’t make me stumble. He didn’t let go.

“Aren’t you going to drink that?” He nodded toward the shot without taking his eyes from mine.

“I’ve reached my limit.”

More people pushed to the bar behind each of us, pressing us together. His hand slid down my arm to rest on the curve of my waist. A touch so casual anyone watching would assume we’d known each other for years. A touch so blatant it made my breath catch.