Page 77 of Kiss My Glass
She wins the next race. I’m never go-karting with her again.
“Pizza and beer?” she says, after we’ve handed back our helmets.
“Sure,” I say, sourly. “Why not? I can drown my sorrows.”
Frankie pats me on the arm. “Cheer up. I most definitely cannot sing, so your time will come.”
“When you say you can’t sing,” I ask, as we walk to our cars. “Does that mean you can’t hold a tune at all, or that you narrowly missed out on a place at the world’s top opera conservatory? You can see what I might want to check.”
“Guess you’ll find out tonight,” says Frankie, with a grin.
The craft beer brewery does pizza – artisan, of course. Frankie’s booked us a tasting for two thirty, so we’ve got time to sit outside, relax and enjoy the sun, or in my case, lick my wounds. I have to admit, I did notexpect to lose and it smarts more than it should. I’m not a toddler in the playground; I’m a grown man. It occurs to me that I’m over-sensitive to failure the same way I am to rejection because to me, failing reminds me of all the times I’ve faced Dad’s disapproval. His disappointment that I’d fallen short, yet again. Everyone who beats me at anything becomes an avatar for my father, which isn’t fair on them – or me. I don’t need to keep carrying that psychological burden, but it’s a hard one to shift.
By the time we’re ushered to the tasting, I’ve already had three beers and am pretty buzzed. The bearded guy with the tattoo sleeve presents us each with a long wooden board with round indents along it for the sampler glasses. For each beer he pours, he talks about bouquet, and color, and clarity, and mouth feel, and hoppiness, and whether it’s sweet-toasty-nutty-grassy-citrusy-floral until my head is spinning. Though that might be the alcohol. Frankie listens attentively, holds each glass up to the light, and smells and tastes with the utmost care and seriousness. I’m just happy to drink and watch her work. There’s not going to be a quiz at the end, so why worry?
“What’s your favorite so far?” asks the brewer.
Okay, so a short quiz.
“This one.” I raise the glass I’m currently holding. “It’s very … drinkable.”
Frankie’s laughing at me. “This has gone right over your head, hasn’t it?”
And, indeed, to it. I am officially tanked.
Frankie rolls her eyes affectionately, and begins a short, intense conversation with the brewer. I understand not one word, but it results in Frankie being given a card for a brewing supplies store, so guess it was also about beer. She thanks the guy, takes my arm in quite a firm grip and leads me away.
“I hope they’ll be okay with you leaving your car here,” she says. “Because you’re in no condition to drive.”
This is undeniably true. “We can swing back tomorrow and pick it up.”
“Do you want to head into Martinburg now?” says Frankie. “Or find a hay barn where you can sleep it off?”
I draw her into my arms to kiss her, because as we all know, there’s nothing more appealing than a drunken fumble. Surprisingly, she tolerates my advances and we neck a little in the brewery parking lot before she pushes me away.
“Take a nap in the car,” she says. “Get your second wind. We have singing to do.”
“Singing!” I launch into “Sweet Child o’ Mine”. People are staring. Let them.
“Get in the car!” Frankie steers me into the passenger seat. “And stay there! I need to pee. I’ll be back soon. Don’t move!”
I have no intention of moving. But as I wait, the worry that’s been grumbling away since this morning penetrates my beer-fog to nag in earnest. I really should make sure that Nate’s okay. My phone’s in my pocket. No sign of Frankie so I pull it out and switch it back on. Check my messages. Fuck. Fuck, fuck,fuck!
“What?” Frankie’s back and she’s seen my face.
“Shelby’s in hospital,” I tell her. “They might have to do an emergency cesarean.”
Frankie grabs her own phone out of her bag and boots it up. Goes very still.
“Karaoke is on hold,” she says. “We’re driving straight to Martinburg General.”
I’ve got half an hour to sober up.
ChapterForty-Three
FRANKIE
Iwill not blame myself for this. It is not my fault this happened to Shelby on the one day I decided to take for myself. According to Danny, who’s been on the phone to Ava while I drive, after I’d left this morning, Shelby woke up with a vicious pounding headache and immediately vomited all over the bedroom floor. Nate bundled her into the pickup and took her straight to hospital. Now, they’ve got her in a ward under surveillance and it looks like she won’t be coming out until after the baby’s born. It’s very common for mothers with pre-eclampsia to have an emergency birth if there are complications. That’s exactly what happened with me. I was born when Mom was thirty-six weeks pregnant.
