Page 12 of Road Trip to Forever
Bodies press together. Music thumps from speakers mounted to the ceiling. The bass rattles the picture frames nailed to the walls. I feel like I’m at a rave instead of the neighborhood watering hole situated next to an eyeglass store.
Multiple televisions are showing the hockey playoffs and fans in jerseys congregate in small clusters to watch the game. Everyone erupts in cheers when the Bruins score. Someone calls outfree shots, someone else rings a brass bell, and the crowd goes wild.
I scan the restaurant and spot my friends tucked away in a corner of the room, gathered around a table full of fried food and half-empty glasses. I make a pit stop at the bar on the way over, nodding hello to one of the regular bartenders behind the counter.
“Gin and tonic?” Cleo asks. She reaches for a large metal shaker and fills it with a generous pour of alcohol before she finishes the question.
“Might as well put ‘predictable’ on my headstone,” I say.
She tops the beverage with a lime skewered through a tiny wooden toothpick and slides the glass my way. I pull a ten from my wallet and drop it in the overflowing tip jar.
“Predictability makes my life easier,” she says. “If you give me a second, I’ll grab a whiskey and ginger ale for your girl.”
I take a sip of my drink, a deep pull that has the gin burning my throat and working its way into my bloodstream. “My girl?”
“Lola. I haven’t seen her in ages.”
“Ah.” Another sip, then a third. It makes saying my next words easier. “She’s on a date.”
Cleo’s smile twists into one that’s sad. Full of pity, if I had to guess. “Oh. Right. Cool. Enjoy your drink. It’s on the house tonight,” she says. “Let me know if you want another round.”
“Thanks, but you don’t need—”
She disappears with a wave before I can argue or attempt to pay my tab. I sigh and push off the counter, dropping a couple of bills behind the bar in a spot I know she’ll see so she has no choice but to take the money.
“There he is,” Henry Dawson, one of my best friends, says as I approach the table.
He slings his arm around his fiancée’s shoulders, and Emma Burns glances up at him with pure adoration etched on her face. I swear the two of them could be out of a cartoon, hearts in their eyes and attention only on the other. The world could go up in flames and they wouldn’t notice, too enamored to be distracted.
“Hey.” I slide into the booth and take my usual spot at the end of the bench, settling against the leather ripped from years of wear and tear. Noah Reynolds and Neil Richardson, two other buddies, lift their glasses in my direction.
“Where’s Lola?” Henry asks.
“On a date with some girl who’s a plant enthusiast.”
“A plant enthusiast? Huh. That’s new.”
“Better than the circus performer from last year,” I say.
“You’re not serious.”
“He breathed fire for a living, Henry. I would never joke about such a serious matter.” I turn my attention to the women at the table. “Ladies. Plant enthusiast or circus performer? Take your pick.”
The ladies in question are Emma, Josephine—Jo—Bowen, who’s been dating my friend Jack for a couple years, and Rebecca, Neil’s wife. All good people, with witty humor and the ability to put up with their partner’s shit, which is a full-time gig. They’re genuine friends who care about each other and plan Saturdays down at the Cape or hiking the Blue Hills. They volunteer their time at the local food bank and create a carpool schedule to shuttle Neil and Rebecca’s kid, Wyatt, back and forth from preschool.
Lola dragged me to the last remaining Babies ’R Us in the Northeast so we could buy a car seat for my Jeep. The safest one, with all the bells and whistles, that can magically convert into a stroller too. During checkout, the cashier congratulated us and asked how far along we were. Lola grabbed my hand, placed it over her stomach and said,two months,but he’s my brother, so it’s a little complicated.Don’t tell my husband, she added, and I shooed her out of the store while she laughed hysterically.
I bet that poor woman still has a look of horror on her face.
“A circus performer is probably pretty proficient with their hands,” Jo says.
“The plant enthusiast could be nice,” Rebecca counters. “Tender and caring, you know?”
“An ax thrower would be a happy medium. Good with their handsandpays attention to detail. Ask her if she’s ever gone out with an ax thrower, Patrick,” Emma says.
“Lola would never go out with an ax thrower.” I squeeze the lime into my drink to make it tart. “She hates flannel.”
“Darn.” Emma sighs. “I forget how well you two know each other.”
