Page 149 of Best Kind of Trouble
We had, happily.
A similar scenario had played out the following week, but then my father’s strategy shifted. The week after that, we started getting invited inside.
The first dinner we had with them in the new year was completely silent, although yellow crime scene tape had been adhered to the wall where the plaque of rules used to hang. I was reasonably sure my father had done that, not the police. The tape looked almost sulky.
The next week, my dad couldn’t help himself. He started bragging about the progress he was making with his new business—a shared office space for writers my mother had high-handedly named The Writers’ Salon.
“We’ll have a new James Joyce on our hands, you watch,” he’d said.
“Jesus, I hope not,” Liam had muttered.
My parents were basically insufferable, and they only got worse once Silver Star reopened and started doing well. My father, of course, took credit for our success. He said things like, “I always knew you’d blow it out of the park”and “Liam’s unconventional, and that’s good, because there’s nothing conventional about successful people.” He’d say these things with a straight face, while serving up the most conventional dinner in the most conventional house.
Liam and I have formed a weekly tradition of following up the Friday dinners with a trip to the boxing gym.
For obvious reasons.
The truth is our brewery never would have survived January without our investors. Dottie’s partner’s son is a trained contractor. He handled the repairs for us at a bargain-basement price, but we were still closed for almost three weeks. A brutal blow. We reopened with a huge party, though, and then had weekly release parties for the beers Liam had been working on in the interim.
February was a good month. March was a great month, and we were able to pay our investors back with interest by April.
But my father played zero role in it.
Liam and I have tried everything we can think of to get my parents to ban us from Friday dinners for good. We wear Halloween costumes. Sometimes, we study knock-knock jokes so we can annoy them all night. Always, we bring beer and refuse their wine. But my father has yet to set us free.
Liam grins at me, tapping his chest. “I think tonight’s gonna be our lucky night. I’m wearing a Mr. Miracle name tag. Strange and wonderful things happen when I wear these name tags.”
Liam enjoyed joking around with them so much Cormac had given him a thick stack of them as a birthday gift.
I layer my hand over his. “You should have saved it for tomorrow.”
We’ll be attending a wedding in the afternoon—Eugene and Nora’s mom are tying the knot at The Ginger Station. Hannah is absolutely blissful that she was asked to be one of the groomsmen. Nora is the maid of honor, Cormac is the best man, and Ollie gets to be a ring bearer. It’s going to be a huge blowout. Garbage Fire will be playing, and the staff is serving one of our summer beers—Zephyr, named after my great-aunt, who helped us come up with the flavor profile.
Nora is currently out with Hannah, trying to find a last-minute date for the wedding after the guy she’d been seeing ghosted her. She’s adamant about bringing someone, because even though the relationship was super casual, she’s been playing it up as something serious at work. José’s long-time girlfriend is now his fiancée, and she’s gotten even weirder about the two of them working together.
I sigh, running my hand along Liam’s jaw. “Just think. We could be out with Hannah and Nora right now, trying to find Nora a wedding date.”
He grimaces. “Yes, I’m sure they would have welcomed my presence.”
“So you could have found Cormac a date.”
“Guys only play matchmaker when their women make them, and your closest friends are all taken.”
“Not Ann.”
“Ann’s only single because she’s enjoying that Golden app Otis got her hooked on.”
I shrug. “So you could have stayed home with Travis, invited the rest of the guys over, and jammed.”
He nods and flicks the Mr. Miracle name tag with his middle finger. “You raise a good point. That does sound a lot fucking better than this. So much for miracles.”
I shove him playfully, and he sweeps me off my feet, carrying me up the path in his arms. “We make our own fun,” he says.
I press my cheek to his chest, feeling impossibly lucky. Yes, we still have to spend an hour or so a week with my insufferable parents, but it’s so much easier with him. It’s almost enjoyable, exchanging glances over the table. Thinking of new ways to hopefully get released from the agreement.
It’s not that I never want to see my parents again. I don’t know if I have it in me to say words like “never” and mean them, which is probably evidence of that soft heart my father holds in such disdain. But I don’t want to be compelled to be here.
When we reach the door, Liam sets me down. “My turn,” he says with a grin. “I’m deeply motivated today. I’ve got plans for us, and they don’t involve sitting around and being talked at for hours.”
