I’d wanted to point out that yes, life does give you tools—that’s why we have fucking Home Depot. But arguing with Brody’s logic is an exercise in futility.
I don’t know how much longer I can take this. Hollis’ brother is impossible to live with. He has a different chick over every night, and they’re either porn stars or just very good at articulating what they like, love, and really love in bed. He leaves wet towels on the bathroom floor. His idea of cooking is throwing a frozen pizza in the oven, announcing it didn’t fill him up, and then ordering an actual pizza.
“Oh gosh, yes! Harder, baby!”
“This hard?”
“Harder!”
“Oh yeah, you dirty girl!”
Jesus H. Christ. I hate this apartment with the fire of a thousand suns.
I heave myself off the couch and head for the door, texting Sabrina as I slip into a pair of flip-flops.
Me: Hey bb, want me to come over and rub ur back?
She must have her phone handy, because she texts back right away.
Her: Not 2nite. Ray has his poker buds over and they’re all kinda drunk.
I frown at the screen. Damn it, I can’t stand that she’s still living in that house with that creep. But every time I bring up the idea of finding a place together, Sabrina brushes it aside. And she’s been kind of distant ever since Mom flew back to Texas.
I love my mother to death, but I’m pissed at her, if I’m being honest. I get that she’s worried about me and thinks that having a baby at my age is a terrible idea, but I didn’t like the way she interrogated Sabrina. Not just on that first day, either. The whole visit was riddled with passive aggressive remarks and veiled criticism. I think Sabrina felt defeated by the time Mom left, and I’m not sure I blame her.
I send another text.
Me: Honestly? Don’t like the idea of u being around drunk dudes. Ur due date is in 4 days. U need 2 B around responsible adults.
Her: Don’t worry. Nana’s sober as a judge. She doesn’t drink, remember?
At least that’s something. Still, I hate not being there with her.
“Oooooooh! I’m coooommming!”
Okay. Enough. I can’t stay here for one more second listening to Brody Hollis get his nut off.
Shoving my phone and wallet in my pocket, I stomp out of the apartment and take the elevator down to the lobby. It’s past nine, so the August sun has already set and a nice breeze tickles my face when I step outside.
I walk down the sidewalk with no destination in mind, other than not my apartment. With the part-time construction jobs, the visit from Mom, and driving back and forth from Sabrina’s, I haven’t had a chance to fully explore my new neighborhood yet. Now I take the time to do it, and discover that it’s not as sketchy as I originally thought.
I pass several cafes with quaint outdoor patios, some nice low-rise office buildings, a handful of nail salons, and a barbershop that I make a mental note to visit one of these days. Eventually I find myself in front of a corner bar, admiring the redbrick facade, the small patio sectioned off by a wrought-iron railing, and the green awning over the door.
The sign is old and dated and slightly crooked. It reads “Paddy’s Dive”, and when I step past the creaky wooden door, I find a dive, all right. The bar is bigger than it appears from outside, but everything in here looks like it was built, bought, and operated in the seventies.
Aside from one barfly at the end of the long counter, the place is empty. On a Friday night. In Boston. I’ve never been to a bar, anywhere, that hasn’t been jam-packed on a Friday night.
“What can I getcha?” the man behind the counter asks. He’s in his early to late sixties, with a shock of white hair, tanned wrinkled skin, and exhaustion lining his eyes.
“I’ll have a…” I pause, realizing I’m not in the mood for alcohol. “Coffee,” I finish.
He winks. “Living on the edge, are ya, son?”
Chuckling, I sit on one of the tall, vinyl stools and fold my hands on the counter. Okay, wait, bad idea touching this counter. The wood is so weathered that I’m pretty sure I just got a splinter.
I absently pick the sliver of wood out of my thumb as I wait for the bartender to make my drink. When he places a cup of coffee in front of me, I accept it gratefully and glance around the room.
“Slow night?” I ask.
He smiles wryly. “Slow decade.”
“Oh. Sorry to hear that.”
I can see why that is, though. Everything in this bar is outdated. The jukebox is the kind that still requires quarters—who even uses coins anymore? The dartboards are all punctured with holes so big that I don’t think a dart could ever embed into the board. The booths are tattered. The tables are crooked. The floor looks like it could cave in at any second.
And there aren’t any TVs. What kind of bar doesn’t have a TV?