Ienter the bar and survey the room. “If you’re up for trying a new place, I recently went to a cool little place with Kat and my brother,” Josh said when I called him this afternoon and suggested we grab drinks tonight. “It’s called The Pine Box.”
And, so, here I am.
I scan the faces in the room, looking for Josh; and when I don’t see him, I stride to the bar, settle myself onto a stool, and order a drink.
Yeah, this is definitely a cool little place. As much as I like it, though, I’d make a few adjustments, if it were mine. The layout doesn’t optimize the flow to the bar and the “specialty drinks” menu could use a little jolt of originality. Plus, that corner in the back—the one currently filled with crates and boxes? That’s the perfect spot for a foosball table. That’s a cryin’ shame, I tell you—a tragic waste of space.
The bartender places my drink in front of me. “You wanna open a tab?” he asks.
I gotta assume everyone who grabs drinks with Josh Faraday expects him to pick up the tab—a natural assumption when a guy drives a Lamborghini, I suppose—so I’m thinking I’ll give the poor rich guy’s pockets a break tonight. “Thanks, Tim,” I say, looking at the bartender’s nametag. “Yeah, let’s open a tab—I’m expecting a buddy. And, hey, whatever my buddy says about paying the bill when he gets here, drinks are on me tonight.”
I’ve only met Josh once, actually, about three weeks ago at my parents’ house, when my little sister, Kat, brought her new boyfriend home to meet our entire family. Everyone except Keane, that is, who was too busy shaking his ass for dollah billz as Seattle’s newly christened “Peen Star” to make the dinner. But just one spaghetti dinner and four foosball games later, and I already knew Josh Faraday was a long-lost Morgan brother. In fact, as I recall, I texted Keane later that night to tell him Josh had just usurped his spot as “the one I love the most.” I must say, Keane took the news remarkably well.
Of course, when Kat shocked us all by revealing she was carrying Josh’s baby at that dinner three weeks ago, my whole family instantly realized we had no choice but to accept Kat’s baby-daddy with open arms; but the truth is, we all liked Josh so much, we would have opened our arms to him, regardless of Kat’s bun in the oven.
Which brings me to why I’m sitting here at The Pine Box right now. Despite what Kat said at dinner three weeks ago about marriage “not being in the cards” for her and Josh, it seems Josh has secretly asked my mom and dad for their blessing to propose. So, of course, I texted Josh right away and asked him to drinks, suddenly feeling the need to explain two things to my soon-to-be brother-in-law: one, when he marries my sister, he’ll be getting a helluva lot more than a wife—he’ll also be getting a family, including four brothers who’ll always have his back, come what may; and, two, fuck number one—if Josh screws up and breaks our sister’s heart, the Morgan Brothers will turn into the Morgan Mafia so fucking fast, Josh won’t know what hit him.
My phone pings with an incoming text and I look down, expecting it to be from Josh—but, nope, it’s my extremely hot but crazy-as-fuck girlfriend (or, as of about an hour ago, my ex-girlfriend?), Olivia.
“Sorry, babe,” the text from Olivia begins.
I roll my eyes. That woman should get “sorry, babe” tattooed onto her forehead.
“I shouldn’t have said all that stuff to you,” Olivia’s text continues.
No shit.
“But you shouldn’t have stormed out like that and there was certainly no need to say you wanted to break up. We just had a fight, that’s all. It happens. It doesn’t mean we’re ‘fundamentally incompatible.’ I was just pissed, that’s all, and I had every right to be, not only about that bitch at the restaurant, but also about how women always throw themselves at you. I can only assume it means you don’t tell them up front you’re in an exclusive relationship. AND THAT PISSES ME THE FUCK OFF!!!!”
I clench my teeth. This is Olivia’s idea of an apology? What a fucking loon. How the hell did I let myself get hooked up with a woman as jealous and possessive as Olivia? It’s not my fault that blonde in the restaurant slipped me a note, totally unsolicited, when she thought Olivia had gone to the restroom. Emphasis on the word “thought” in that sentence.I’ve been eavesdropping on you and your girlfriend,the blonde’s note said.It sure sounds to me like your relationship is about to go bye-bye. When it does, feel free to call me for a little fun. Or, hell, call me tonight. I won’t tell.
Yeesh. The look on Olivia’s face when she lurched at me out of nowhere and snatched that piece of paper out of my hand was so fucking scary, I almost screamed in terror. Of course, true to form, I laughed my ass off, instead—and, man, did that piss Olivia off even more.
I take a long sip of my drink.
For fuck’s sake, I didn’t solicit that note tonight—I hadn’t even noticed that blonde sitting with her friends at the next table. And that’s exactly what I told Olivia when she accused me of flashing the woman some sort of nonverbal “let’s fuck behind my girlfriend’s back!” signal throughout dinner. Ridiculous. I’d never do that to a girlfriend of mine, even if it turns out she’s a fucking loon and not even close to the person she pretended to be for the first month of our relationship. Plus, not that it matters, but I wasn’t even remotely attracted to that blonde at the next table and wouldn’t have taken her up on her offer, even if I’d been single. Yeah, I know Olivia is a classic blonde, just like the woman with the note, so Olivia automatically thinks I’m all about banging blondes; but, honestly, my attraction to Olivia was kind of an aberration for me. Give me a dark-haired, dark-eyed beauty over a blonde any day of the week, man—I swear to God, it’s like I’m genetically programmed to lose my shit over girls like that.
But, regardless, even if I were a sucker for girls who look just like Olivia, does she really think I’m the kind of douche who’d hit on one woman while out with another? Gimme some fucking credit. And, hey, as long as I’m compiling my List of Reasons Olivia’s Tirade was Complete Bullshit, the truth is, I’m not all that into one-night stands these days, either. Been there, done that. Nowadays, I strongly prefer getting to know every inch of a woman I’m attracted to, both inside and out, night after glorious night.
I take another long swig of my drink in an attempt to loosen my clenched jaw.
There’s nothing I hate more than being accused of cheating. Like I’ve told Olivia over and over: I don’t cheat. I’m a Morgan, after all, and Morgans don’t cheat. Not on our women. Not in sports. Not in school or business or even in a stupid game of beer pong. Do I blurt, “I have a girlfriend!” like some pussy-whipped loser with girlfriend-inspired Tourette’s syndrome every time a female so much as smiles at me or says, “Hey, don’t I know you from the gym?” No, I don’t.But does that mean I’m gonna fuck every attractive woman who flirts with me?No. Because, first off, at that rate, I’d be fucking twenty different women a day. I mean, come on, I’m a commercial real estate broker, after all, and that means I come in contact with alotof different people on a daily basis, including women, some of them highly attractive. And, second off, regardless, I’m not sure if I’ve mentioned this, but...I don’t fucking cheat!
I drain my drink and slam my empty glass down on the bar.
I can’t take it anymore. Life’s too short to be this miserable. I’m officially done. That’s what I told Olivia when I stormed out of her place right before coming here, and, contrary to what she obviously believes, I meant every word I said.
I grab my phone off the bar and tap out a quick text to Olivia: “I meant what I said. We need to talk. Are you gonna be home later? I’ll come over.” I’m tempted to add, “Fuck off! I’m done with this nightmare of a cluster-fuck of a fucking relationship, you crazy fucking bitch!” But I refrain because my darling momma would kill me if she found out I’d cut the last, dangling cord with a girl over text—or, for that matter, told her to “fuck off” and called her a “crazy fucking bitch”.
“Another one?” Tim the Bartender asks, motioning to my empty glass.
“Sure. Thanks.”
I tap out a second text, this one to my soothsayer of a little brother. Not that he’s gonna reply to me any time soon—Keane’s the absolute worst about answering his texts. “Hey, Peenie,” I write. “Remember two months ago when we were fishing at Green Lake and I said you were wrong about Miss Perfect? FML. I owe you 50 bucks. I broke up with her earlier tonight. Text Colby for me, would you? I’m too embarrassed to tell him myself. Make sure to tell him I’ll never doubt my Master Yoda again.”
I put my phone on the bar and scan the place again, looking for Josh. He’s definitely more than fashionably late. I pick up my phone again. “Hey, Lambo,” I write to Josh. “We still on to meet at The Pine Box? I’m sitting at the bar.”
I make small talk with the bartender for several minutes until, finally, my phone rings with an incoming call from Josh.
