Page 25 of Boyfriend
“No, it’s fine,” she whispers back. “I’m winning this thing, even if you snore like a freight train.”
I bark out a laugh. “I don’t.”
“How do you know?” she counters, smiling fiercely.
“I guess you’ll tell me, then. And I promise to be a gentleman.”
“Right,” she says crisply. And maybe I’m imagining it, but she actually looks disappointed for a split second. She turns and unzips her weekend bag, pulling out a makeup kit. “Let the games begin.”
* * *
A couple hours later, after a movie in front of the fire with my fake girlfriend, it’s time to leave for the party. So my brother and I flip a coin to decide who’s the designated driver tonight.
And I lose. Of course I do.
“You’re not even legal to drink,” I whine.
“At my own sister’s party? Please. Who’s going to card me? Not Uncle Jerry. He gave me a beer for my twelfth birthday.”
“I can be the driver,” Abbi volunteers. “I don’t mind.”
“No,” I say quickly. “You spend enough nights watching other people have fun.”
“How’s that?” Stevie asks.
“I’m a waitress at the hockey bar,” Abbi explains. Then she slips her arm around my waist. “That’s where we met. I memorized his order.”
“That’s so romantic,” Stevie says with a smirk and an eye roll. He’s not buying what Abbi has to sell. But it’s not Abbi’s fault. She has no idea how down on love we’ve all been these past couple of years.
In fact, last Christmas, after my parents had a shouting match on the steps of the church during the holiday service, my brother and I literally sat around asking each other questions like: Would you rather get married or have all of your fingers chewed off by a rabid dingo?
And we both picked the dingo.
“All right, guys,” my father says, entering the mud room. “Let’s get this shit show over with.”
“Dad,” I say, stopping him as he grabs his jacket. “Can I talk to you for a second?”
Abbi slips out the door then, and Stevie does the same.
“What?” my dad bellows. “We’ll be late.”
I let out a sigh. “What if you didn’t go? You clearly don’t want to. Lauren isn’t throwing a ‘shit show’ on purpose, you know.”
“She’s not throwing this thing at all,” he grumbles. “It was your mother’s dumb idea.”
“So you think Lauren should just cancel her party? Or, wait, cancel her whole wedding so that you don’t have to feel uncomfortable?”
“Did I say that?” he carps. “Don’t put words in my mouth.”
Now he’s glaring at me. All I wanted him to do was check his attitude.
Shit.
“Okay, let’s go,” I say as lightly as I can. Then I hustle outside because Abbi is in the cold waiting for us. And she deserves better.
* * *
The party is held at the Norwich Inn, which is a turn-of-the-prior-century farmhouse-style hotel on the main drag of a classy town across the river from Hanover, New Hampshire. When we arrive, I watch Abbi take in the crackling fire and the two dozen people milling about eating party food and sipping cocktails while Christmas music plays over the sound system.
