Page 1 of Troubles

1

Lis

Orphan.

Origin: Late Middle English (noun)-Late Latin orphanus destitute, without parents.

I’m an orphan.

It’s an unofficial designation, but it fits. I’m broke as hell putting myself through college, and that’s close enough to destitute.

The “without parents” part is tricky. They’re both alive. They even live in the same small New York town as me; we just don’t interact. At all—no phone calls, no dinners together.

Nothing.

Cutting them out of my life was not an easy choice until it was. Cut ties, or let them drag me down. If I didn’t have Gracyn as my roommate, I don’t know what I’d do.

I scoop another handful of ice into the blender and hold the lid in place. Flipping the switch, I watch as the whiskey blends with the lemonade. When the ice is a slushed perfectly sassy pink, I pour the whiskey sours into tall glasses, adding straws and a couple whiskey-soaked cherries. My nana taught me to make these before I hit double digits. Told me it was her “secret” recipe. I don’t know that it’s any great secret, but it’s perfect every damn time.

The sound of the blender is replaced by the whir of Gracyn’s hairdryer as I take the handful of steps down the hall to our bathroom. I squeeze between where she’s leaning against the vanity and the tub, knocking into her as I pass and hand her a whiskey sour hoping for a distraction.

I shove my arms up into the front of my new tee shirt and pull it away from my body, needing to stretch it out over my boobs a little. Gracyn bought us matching shirts for St. Patrick’s Day and, of course, she bought a size smaller than I would have.

“What are you doing?” She slams her glass down and smacks at my hands. “That shirt fits you perfectly. Leave it alone.”

“Gracyn,” I whine, “we’re just going to McBride’s. Why do you feel the need to pour me into this tiny thing?” I’m not proud of the whining, but I feel way too exposed.

I prop my hands on my hips and face the mirror full-on. The thin green material stretches tight over the girls and the neckline scoops way lower than I’m comfortable with. Gracyn stares back at me, slurping from her glass.

It’s fascinating, watching her brain freeze hit, twisting and contorting her features. I try to push down the laughter that bubbles up, but it’s not working.

“Lis, you need to stop hiding your curves—use them, show them off. And for the love of God, promise me you’ll try and have fun tonight?”

I settle myself on the side of the tub in our tiny bathroom while she finishes her smoky cat-eye. “It’s time for you to get back out there. Just a little bit. Maybe flirt a little—kiss someone tonight.” Gracyn waves her hands up and down the script on her shirt, like she’s presenting prizes on a game show. “Kiss me, I’m Irish-ish” is scrawled across our chests, highlighted with bright red kissy lips. The shirts are cute, but it would be so much better if the lips weren’t perfectly centered over my left boob.

“There’s not going to be anyone new there. I’m pretty sure I’ve kissed everyone I needed to in this town.” It’s mostly true. Beekman Hills is nothing but a sleepy little college town about an hour outside New York City. Gracyn and I grew up here and sadly never left.

McBride’s Public House is only a few blocks from our apartment and the walk down Main Street is cold. Our breaths trail behind us in white plumes. I pull my fleece tighter around me and pick up the pace. Most of the businesses along Main Street are closed for the night, but the scent of cinnamon and coffee still linger outside the coffee shop as we hurry past.

The line to get into the pub winds around the white clapboard building that’s been here longer than I’ve been alive. College students and townies dressed in whatever green and plaid they could find—short skirts, ridiculous hats—and frat boys in kilts. All these people are in line, anxious to get their hands on cheap green beer and listen to a really bad Irish band.

Gracyn and I scoot around the back of the building and push through the door into the kitchen. Francie McBride’s bright gaze peers up at us over an impossibly tall stack of plastic cups. He juts his cheek out around the tower precariously balanced in his hands for a quick kiss. “’Lo, love. Just gettin' in, are you?” His accent is extra thick tonight.

Gracyn and I have not had to wait in a line here for years. Francie busted me when I was nineteen trying to drink with a fake ID. He sat talking to me for hours instead of calling the cops, taking me under his wing and eventually bought me my first legal drink. He’s been kind of a dad to me ever since. My own father couldn’t be bothered finding his way out of the bottom of a bottle.

Gracyn pulls her jacket off over her head showing off her creation. “I bought us matching shirts for tonight and she didn’t want to wear it. It took some time to convince her.”

“No, it took whiskey to convince me.” I pull my bottom lip between my teeth and shift uncomfortably.

Francie steps back to look at us as I drop my jacket on a stack of boxes, eyes crinkling above the scruffy beard he’s had forever.

“Let me help you take those out to Finn,” I say to try and move the conversation off my chest.

“I’ve got these. Go and have a pint. Off with you, then.” Francie pushes past me, chuckling at our shirts, shaking his head. “Come on, then. I’ve a new lad at the bar tonight, make sure he treats you right, yeah?”

It’s tight, but following close behind we get through the chaos pretty quickly. At the scarred, deep oak bar Francie bumps Finn and throws a nod in our direction. Finn turns, his wide smile about splits his face as he makes his way over to us, pouring drinks and collecting money as he goes. He hops up leaning over the bar and lays a kiss on me.

He thinks he’s the Irish Casanova, but the boy is too sweet to pull it off.

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