Fuck.
I can’t go there. Not tonight.
Fucking alcohol.
Fuck my life.
I guzzle the water and toss the bottle into a bin. Shoving my hands in my pockets, I walk fast, forcing my brain to clear. I do not need to be a drunken sad sack tonight.
Maybe I should’ve stayed at the club.
Maybe I should’ve taken that dancer home.
Maybe, maybe, maybe.
By the time I hit the edge of the parking garage, something feels off. The air’s too still. The hairs on the back of my neck stand straight, and the buzz is burned out in an instant.
Then two men step out of the shadows.
One of them’s holding a baseball bat.
And just like that,maybeturns intodefinitely.
2
EMMA
“So Laddieand I are sitting at dinner the other night,” I say, grabbing a sip of lukewarm coffee as Mel and I take a rare breather from the chaos of the ER. “He begged me to get pizza, and apparently, takeout wasn’t cutting it. No, hehadto sit in the booth, with the leather seats, and have the pizza come out still sizzling in the deep dish pan. Full experience.”
Mel chuckles as she files her nails. “I remember that, though. Going to Giuseppe’s and having a Pepsi in one of those tall, red cups. And the pizza would come out still steaming, so hot you’d burn the roof of your mouth.”
“Exactly,” I say, laughing. “So, there we are, living his little dream, and he just rips one. Loud enough to rattle the salt shaker. I swear it echoed off every wall in that place. I look around, and there’s this old couple in the next booth, and the woman’s staring at us like I just committed a felony. So I’m like,‘Laddie, buddy, we don’t fart at the dinner table.’”
Mel laughs so hard she nearly drops her nail file. “Oh, come on—he’s what, five? Six?”
I roll my eyes. “That’s not even the story. He farts all the time. The fart wasn’t the issue. I just didn’t want a lecture from the old bat about myunruly childor whatever.”
I pause, grinning at the memory. “And somehow, the kid summons aperfectly decent British accent,like, straight out of Buckingham Palace, and repeats me.‘Laddie, we don’t fart at the dinner table.’”
Mel covers her mouth, already losing it.
“Wait, it gets better,” I say. “Because then he lifts a cheek, Mel. Helifts a cheekand lets another one rip while doing the accent again.”
Mel is wheezing. “No!”
“It was horrible and wonderful at the same time, and I couldn’t help but laugh, and before I knew it, I was crying, my stomach hurt, and I couldn’t stop laughing, which of course only spurred him on. And finally, the old couple just gets up and leaves. They left their half-eaten pizza, threw down a few bills, and just walked out.”
“Good riddance, ya old fuckers,” Mel snorts. “Power to the people.”
“Power to the farts,” I say, and we both dissolve into another round of laughter that earns us a glare from the charge nurse.
“Maybe he’s got a future in theater,” she suggests.
“Yathink?” I ask, shaking my head. “He’s already asked if he can do children’s theater.”
“Maybe he should,” she says.
I sigh. “Maybe. It’s just hard to figure out how to make it work.”
