Page 5 of Scotch: Unraveled

“Thanks, Nis.” I squeeze her arm as I pass by and duck right away when I exit the room. Our daycare has a long hallway where the cubbies are located as well as the preschool and school age rooms. Then there’s the front desk for check-in and check-out. Beyond the desk is a great room where the kids eat breakfast, lunch or dinner, depending on the times they attend, and a large carpeted area for play. Off the great room there are the baby and toddler rooms. Three each. I work with the babies in room three next to Nissa’s toddler room. I’ve never hidden from a parent before, but there he is gathering the girls’ bag and sweaters from their cubbies. His head’s bent low so he doesn’t see me. I slip into the toddler room next door where Nissa had been.

After twenty minutes, she walks back with me. “He’s gone. Babies that age, the boy should be better equipped. But he don’t know what he’s doing.”

That’s odd. His girls are like four months old or so. Heshouldhave a better handle on things. Maybe his wife or girlfriend does more of the day-to-day care.

Oh,crap. The thought hits me: I’m going to have to meet his baby mama. Chances are she’ll be the one bringing them tomorrow.

As soon as I’ve signed out and second shift has started, I pull my phone from my purse and dial Brighton, my best friend growing up. She heard all about Rory from the time we met to the day he shattered my heart, and for months after.

“S’up, babe?” she answers.

“Can you meet for a drink? I need you.”

“Sure, now?”

“Yes.”

“Whoa, Frankie. It’s not even the weekend. What the hell happened?” she asks. I can hear her keys jangling in the background. She doesn’t even have to ask where to meet. We go to the same place ever time one of us needs to blow off steam, since the day I’d rolled back into town and she introduced me to it. A cool little bar called Lady Sings the Blues.

Odd name, I know, but the atmosphere is incredible. And the bartenders—wow.

I give her one word: “Rory.”

She sucks in a sharp breath. “Be there in five.”

That’s the mark of a true best friend. When I get there, she’s already sitting at a table and has my cherry 7 and 7 waiting on a paper napkin in front of my empty spot. As I walk over to her, a waitress approaches the table, setting down french fries, onion rings, deep-fried mushrooms, and a huge platter of battered catfish. Tonight is a battered catfish kind of night.

“Talk to me, babe,” she says as I drape my jacket over the back of my seat and slide my bottom down on the old-yet-sturdy wooden chair.

Before I do, I slam down half my drink and then load my plate with fish, fries, mushrooms, and rings. She ordered us two separate bowls of ranch to dip in. Yes,bowls. That’s a lot of fried goodness. We need the ranch to break up the richness from the oil. Plus, it tastes good.

I dunk a mushroom, pop it in my mouth, and chew. “Rory’s here,” I tell her around my food, then swallow. She starts to respond, but I hold up my hand and shake my head. “He has kids.”

“Fuuuck.” She drawls out the word.

Fuckis right. “Twin baby girls. Mollie and Macie. They’re the sweetest things ever. And he joined the Lords. Did you know that?”

“I don’t exactly hang out in the same circles as the Brimstone Lords, so no.” Brighton is so pretty with her long, wavy, coffee-brown hair. She has these delicate features and the most interesting brown eyes with a hint of yellow. I know why I’m still single. Men are scum and can’t be trusted. But I can’t believe she’s still single. She’s never been damaged by love. She’s never even tried for it.

“He just enrolled them at the daycare,” I tell her, shoving another large bite into my mouth. Normally, I’m not this garish; it’s him, or rather the stress of seeing him again, that’s turned me into a boar.

“Got that,” she replies. “Listen, I need to be honest with you.” She picks up her bottle taking a hearty swig before ever saying another word. Yes. I’ve known this woman all our lives and she is stalling.

I swallow my catfish bite hard. An opener like that means I’m not going to like what she says. “Okay, sock it to me,” I tell her.

“I knew Rory was in town. Cross my heart swear I didn’t know about the lords.” She uses her finger to swish a cross over her chest. “I was afraid if I told you, you wouldn’t come home… and Frankie, you’ve been away for so long. I missed you.”

“I missed you, too. But you should’ve told me. Thornbriar’s not that big.”

“I know. I’m a selfish hag. He’s been seen—that can’t be undone. The question is, what are we gonna do about it?”

Do? Aren’t we currently doing something? I’m drowning my sorrows in greasy fried food and booze—well technically not booze. One drink doesn’t equal drowning. That comes later after we’ve both made it safely home and aren’t leaving the house until tomorrow. I thought she understood. All I know is that once we’ve consumed every last bite of food on the table, I need to undo my pants, and I’m ready to really get my drinking on.

We split the check, and Brighton heads to the cashier while I pull on my jacket and collect my purse. We head to our cars. I send her home to dig up some jammies and a blanket for me because I plan on getting so drunk, I have to crash on her sofa, while I, of course, head to the liquor store.

I’m in the whiskey aisle perusing the shelves for the Seven Crown, my cart already half full with three two-liters of 7-Up and three jars of maraschino cherries, so ready to erase any errant thoughts of the sexy Scotsman that I don’t see them until it’s too late.

Elise Hollister and Caitlin Brennen-Ellis. Daycare moms. And funnily enough, Lord old ladies. These sweet, easygoing, educated women attached to the club. I don’t know how they do it, or why for that matter. It’s hard enough to put up with a regular man. I’ve heard tales about the biker life.

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