Page 20 of The New Year's Party
The bartender poured. “Cheers,” she said. They clinkedtheir glasses and swallowed. Doug barely felt it go down, that’s how easy it was to slip right off the edge. The warmth of the liquor spread through him.Godit felt good. It shouldn’t be this easy to fuck up.
What wouldn’t be so easy was tonight. New Year’s. Everyone back together. Everyone wanting updates, assessing how he was doing.
Well, there was only one fucking option, wasn’t there? Tell them all, Hellie included, that he’d gotten promoted, which was supposed to happen anyway, which he actually deserved based on his actual performance at that fucking job. He’d lie one more time, because the last thing he wanted was to look like a fuckup in front of all his friends during their first reunion in five years. They’d sing “Auld Lang Syne” at the top of their lungs and smoke a joint in the Dog House and then, in the morning, he’d rip off the Band-Aid and tell Hellie the truth.
Or maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe he’d just drive away instead. It’s not like Granny would miss her car—or him.
Or maybe he’d kill himself.
Maybe he should do that.
But not until tomorrow. There would be something poetic about killing himself in the New Year, and Doug had always had a weakness for poetry, which is why he loved rock ’n’ roll so much.
His phone dinged. It was Ted.Sureman come on over
Ted Kristos’s house it was. He wouldn’t use, of course... He’d just crash on Ted’s couch for a few hours... if Ted had a couch these days, since with Ted it was feast or famine. Maybe help himself to a beer or something.
“Thanks,” he said to the bartender. He slapped the counter twice. “Really. Thanks, I mean it.”
“Take care of yourself,” she said.
He pulled the hood of his coat up and left.
Maybe he’d do it while the sun came up, he thought as he climbed into his car. Not near Hellie—God, he wouldn’t want to put her through that—maybe in Phelps’s shed. Phelps could find him. Phelps could take it. He’d be good at breaking it to Hellie too. Compassionate. Maybe Phelps would even sleep with Hellie. Poor Hellie. That would be good for her, wouldn’t it? A moment in the sack to forget about Doug?
The thought ripped him apart. He leaned his head down over the steering wheel and felt tears on the back of his hands.
Thankfully he already had a gun.
Chapter 8
Hellie
December 31, 12:15 p.m.
The Nite and Day twenty-four-hour diner where I work as a hostess a couple times a week is starting to get its first families in the door. It’s just past noon, and the New Year’s Eve Brunch Family Special is definitely going to draw a crowd; unlimited pancakes for five dollars a person, little packs of crayons for the kids to write their New Year’s wishes on the paper tablecloths and buy-one-get-one mimosas cleverly called the Mom-mosa. The money isn’t as good as bartending, but the schedule is perfect for me, starting at 6a.m., just an hour after my bartending gig ends, so I can go straight from one to the other with a short nap in my car until opening. I keep a pillow in the car for these in-between times.
A boisterous family of five comes in the door, laughing, bringing a wet slap of sleet onto the front mat. They’re wearing matching Christmas pajamas under their coats. My hands count out the plastic menus without looking.
“Happy holidays! Table for five?”
“Yes, please,” says the dad with a friendly smile.
“Right this way. Let’s get you seated.” I lead them to my favorite booth, the bright corner one, freshly wiped down and ready. They slide in with their chaos of jabbering and coats, and I distribute the menus and crayons, saving the lastmenu for the littlest kid, who I’m guessing is around eighteen months.
“Does he need a high chair?” I ask.
“I wish. It would makemylife easier,” says the mom with a regretful smile. “But he hates high chairs. He’s convinced he’s a big kid.”
“Here you go, big guy,” I say, crouching down to hand him the menu and giving him a wink. He grins back as his fat hands fold around the menu. I straighten up and smile. “Your server will be with you shortly. Enjoy your brunch.”
A chorus of thank-yous follows me as I force myself to walk straight to my hostess station without looking back at them. Their youngest is about the age of my first Angel Baby. My second Angel Baby’s due date was a month ago. There’s a pang somewhere between my ribs. I would’ve been on maternity leave now. Letting Doug wait on me hand and foot. Posting all those cute complain-y posts on Facebook I’ve seen Olivia and Bunny share over the years.OMG why did no one tell me I will never sleep again.Or the sweet things Jenn always posts.The days arelongbut the years are short! Soaking up every #blessed moment!!!
Stop that. A quick mental slap and I’ve banished the what-ifs. They’ll be back, of course, they always come back, but I have a practiced slapping hand.
I seat two more families and one couple. My shift is almost over. There’s a brief lull, so I pull my phone out of the wide black pocket of my hostess apron. I check my phone a lot, which technically isn’t allowed, but I’m quick, and I’m discreet, and anyway, I never get in trouble at my jobs. My supervisors always adore me. I get promoted practically without trying.
But I don’t want to get promoted. Or at least, it doesn’t thrill me like it used to. What I want is to be lying on the couch with a newborn on my chest. I want it so bad sometimes it makes me think crazy. One time, I actually pictured myselfmaking a run for it with a customer’s baby.Notgood. I’m trying to find a therapist who takes Medicaid, but...
