Page 15 of Pour Decisions
They both thank me—Rose’s birthday was this past week too.
“Well, fuck me, I guess,” Ash says before I can even say hello to him. “And fuck you.”
“If you had an ounce of patience, I would have said hi to you too.” I walk past him to the bar cart. “But now, fuck you too.”
“It’s been less than thirty seconds,” Wes says, almost in wonder. “Setting the ‘fuck you’ land speed records over here.”
“You think my ‘fuck you’ would travel faster over the sea?” Ash asks with a smirk, sipping his drink.
“Does it matter if you’d always lose?” I ask. “Why are you here anyway? Don’t you have shit with your band?”
The smirk on his face falters for a second. We’ve gone back and forth so often throughout our lives that I know he doesn’t crack that easy. Then again, he looks like hot garbage, like he hasn’t slept in weeks, so maybe he’s weak. At least he gave himself a buzz cut so his hair doesn’t look like he rolled out of bed.
I’ve always been a little jealous of how he never seems to have a bad haircut, even during the phase where he did a lot of weird shit with his hair. But you’d couldn’t pay me to tell him that.
“I was close by.” He shrugs and puts his hand out for Bubba, who trots over to him, butt swaying from the force of his wagging tail. “What’s it to you? It’s not like I showed up on your birthday. What do you do for yours anyway, jerk off to color-coded spreadsheets alone in your home office?”
“Fuck off.”
My spreadsheets are beautiful, and I bet someone out there would jerk off to them. But I’ve verbally sparred with Ash enough to know when to cut it off.
“Ashley. John David,” Mom says from the corner of the room, glaring at both of us. “Be cordial.”
“Sorry,” I mumble.
“Come sit down. Dinner’s almost ready,” Mom says, waving us toward the dining room.
Right as we pass by the entryway, Waylon’s best friends Jada and Jeremiah step up to the glass door. Jada’s eyes narrow at me for some reason, but I soon realize she’s actually looking at Ash behind me. But her smile brightens and she says hello to everyone, giving out hugs.
We make our way over to the kitchen to help Mom bring the dishes to the table, then herd all the dogs aside from Sadie (who’s calm enough to sit in Bianca’s lap without trying to eat everyone’s food) onto the porch outside the dining room. Bubba whines, pressing his nose to the glass. Lady must do the same thing all the time because there’s a dog-height nose smudge across all the glass panes.
We awkwardly shuffle around for the ideal seating arrangement. I end up across from Ash and in between Bianca and Jada.
Mom settles at one end of the table, and Dad, as if he sensed food was on the table, ambles in to sit on the other end. We load up our plates with all of Mom’s best dishes, plus some strong punch that Ash or Rose must have made. As usual, no one speaks for the first five minutes while we shovel down food.
“I’m so glad to see all of y’all here,” Mom says, buttering a piece of cornbread. “We haven’t had a family dinner in so long.”
“You got another one of those things on your hands?” Dad asks Ash, completely ignoring Mom.
“A tattoo?” Ash looks at Dad like he’s asked him if he’s human. “Yes, I did.”
I look at his tattoo. He has them up and down his arms and across his chest, with this new addition on his hand. It’s welldone, which I can only tell because some of his tattoos used to be incredibly bad. Thankfully he’s had the sense to get the bad ones covered with better ones.
“You’re definitely not going to get a job with that thing.” Dad takes a long drink of his bourbon.
“Good thing I have a job already. I’m not just fucking around —”
“Language, Ashley,” Mom says.
“I’m not just fucking around doing nothing,” Ash says again, ignoring Mom. “We tour. Record albums.”
“As long as you don’t end up freeloading back here.” Dad reaches for another piece of cornbread.
“Honey, please. We’re trying to eat,” Mom says to Dad. Dad just grumbles.
We have this conversation every family dinner when Ash is here, as if he hasn’t been in his band since his early twenties. Ash and I aren’t friends, but Dad’s insistence that Ash doesn’t have a job is exhausting. I think Ash would rather die than live off of anyone else, especially our parents. Then again, Dad doesn’t like music at all—he’s the only person I’ve ever met who doesn’t like anything.
“Anyway,” Mom says, overly bright. “Bianca, how was your meeting with the wedding planner?”
