Page 17 of Plunge

I had begun hoping the jet lag was causing me to hallucinate, but he seems serious. I stand up and extend my hand. “Thanks, man,” I tell him. “Emily will be in touch later.”

I head into a tiny pub near my hotel and toss my suit jacket on a stool at the bar. I need to think and I need to find a wife…apparently before 7:30 pm. Rolling up my shirt sleeves and loosening my tie—I fucking hate wearing these noose-like things—I signal for the bartender. I look at the draft list, and I’m a little stunned to see one of my sister’s beers on tap here.

Up is definitely down today, I decide.

When I order a pint of her lager, the bartender seems impressed that I’ve heard of the tiny microbrew. I don’t tell him that my sister is the brewmaster. Instead, I order a burger and fries and glance up at the television to watch the hockey game that’s on.

I don’t mean to start eavesdropping on the date going down in the booth behind me. It’s not really my style and I should care more about the hockey game than their lame conversation, but I hear the dude drop the phrase, “does it bother you that my father’s in the family business?”

“Come again?” The woman sounds like she’s choking on her drink.

The guy whisper-shouts, “The family business. The mob. He’s currently serving a sentence for racketeering. Wanted me to be his legal representation, but everyone decided that wasn’t the best idea.” Holy shit, who is this guy?

I’m now fully invested in whatever shit show is about to go down behind me and I realize it’s been way too long since I sat and experienced American drama. I hear the server approach their table and the woman orders a grilled cheese with pizza sauce on it. Thistle’s go-to sandwich, I think. She always ordered that when there weren’t vegetarian options.

Meanwhile, the douchey guy rattles on and on about how his favorite movie is Mystic River because of how accurately it portrays the hierarchy in connected families like his own. If this guy can find a date, I can find a fake wife, I think.The woman isn’t getting a word in edgewise until I hear her say, “Wait, did you just order the brownie sundae as your meal? I thought that was your dessert.”

“What’s wrong with a sundae for dinner? Empty carbs are empty carbs, sweetheart.” I can already tell that this guy is going home alone. Maybe the woman can marry me, I think. Surely I’m an improvement on what’s happening back there.

It’s killing me not to turn around and stare at them. After a shitty week, this awful date is the best thing I could have hoped for a distraction this evening. I bide my time until I can figure out a way to at least catch a glimpse of this train wreck.

“Here, let me show you something,” he says. I glance over my shoulder and see him reach for the woman’s wrist, which he brings to his mouth and then licks. “It’s erotic, isn’t it,” he says. And then he starts coughing.

I take my beer and swivel all the way around in my stool, unable to bear it a second longer. I have to watch this asshole go down in flames. But he doesn’t finish his discussion of ice cream for dinner or erotic wrist licking. He’s red in the face, hacking and coughing and sputtering. “Are you wearing perfume??”

And then I put everything together. The sandwich. The voice. Realization flows over me like a wave. Thistle McMurray is sitting at the table with the asshole, saying, “It’s just a dab of rosewater. I liked how it smelled…”

The man starts patting his pockets and pulls out an inhaler. He starts puffing on it like mad and coughing, shaking his head. Thistle hasn’t noticed me yet, but also isn’t jumping up to help her date. She’s biting the corner of one lip and twirling her fork around on the table as he closes his eyes and tries to breathe.

“I…have…asthma,” he pants.

Thistle looks super uncomfortable and mutters something about her friend setting up this date.

The guy flares his nostrils at her in between coughing fits. “How could you wear perfume? What were you thinking?” His tone is sharp and I don’t like the look in his eye. I personally don’t give any shits that his family is connected.

“Hey, man,” I say, standing up and setting down my beer. “You ought to go take some deep breaths and get it together so you can finish your ice cream.”

He takes another puff on the inhaler and turns toward me, his eyes shooting daggers at me. “Who the fuck are you?”

I shrug. “I’m the guy who’s telling you not to talk that way to your date.” I cock a brow at him and cross my arms in front of my chest. I’ve been in my fair share of bar fights around this country and a bunch of different ones.

It’s been a few years, but I’m sure I can still hold my own, especially when I’ve got some frustration to pound out.

Asshole glares at me and shakes his head, still wheezing. He points at Thistle. “You’re not worth this hassle,” he says. He throws some money on the table and shoulders past me.

Thistle has, by this point, noticed who I am and just sits back in the booth, arms crossed in front of her chest. As the door to the pub closes, I grab my beer and slide into the booth across from her.

“Hey, Thiss,” I say, raising my glass to her. “Been awhile.”

---