Page 27 of Boyfriend
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.
