Mrs. Gretchen takes hers and sits in the chair closest to the television. “To Dean,” she says, raising her glass.
“Who you’ve never met before,” I whisper to Boen as I take a healthy mouthful. And then my eyes bug out with shock. This is not iced tea.
I was happy when Mrs. Gretchen’s customary bottle of schnapps wasn’t on the table with the little jelly jars she uses as shot glasses because a couple shots of that stuff would have me singing the national anthem in French.
What I’m drinking may have iced tea in it, but there’s a lot more; knowing Mrs. Gretchen, there’s probably more alcohol in there than tea.
Boen coughs at his own mouthful. “That’s… potent,” he says politely.
Mrs. Gretchen smiles. “If anything is going to make the two of you friendly, it’s an afternoon of baseball and a good stiff drink.”
Boen
By the time the game is over, I’ve forgiven Rachel for calling me uptight.
Because I’m not uptight. I’m the farthest from uptight or tense, or non-relaxed. By the time the game is over, I’m well on my way to being intoxicated. The world is a fuzzy, furry, smiley place.
Rachel keeps making comments that make me smile, if not laugh.
She’s really very funny.
She’s still rude, but funny too. It’s possible to be both. Funny and rude, all wrapped up in a cute little green-eyed package.
The Blue Jays win the game; Dean, the former inhabitant of my home, has a good start. I hear all about Dean and how he was jilted at the altar. It seems to have worked out for him, from the way Mrs. Gretchen talks about his new fiancée.
We have several toasts for the happy couple. I thought Mrs. Gretchen was serving me iced tea until whatever alcohol in the pitcher hits me like a truck.
I keep sneaking glances at Rachel to see if she’s having a similar reaction. Or maybe it’s just because I want to look at her. Every glance, and I find something new about her face.
The way her nose turns up at the end.
The freckles that dot her cheekbones like a fairy’s kiss.
I really must be drunk to think things like that.
It takes several covert glances to determine the colour of her hair. At first, it seems to be a deep chocolate brown, but then I start to see the streaks and shades of red and even a few bits of gold around her face. It’s so short that it barely grazes her ears.
She has five earrings in the ear that faces me.
When the game ends, Mrs. Gretchen dismisses us, saying she has plans. I’m surprised; not that she has plans, but that I’m disappointed that I’m not able to stay longer and look at Rachel.
My balance seems to be off as I stand up, forcing me to grab the arm of the couch. Rachel sees and giggles and my face creases into a smile.
At the sight of it, her face lights up and my chest gets warm like I’ve leaned over a Bunsen burner.
“I can’t believe that my ninety-year-old neighbour can drink me under the table,” Rachel says, giving her head an overly enthusiastic shake. So enthusiastic that she steps back and leans against the door frame. “I shouldn’t move my head like that.”
“It makes your hair dance,” I say without thinking.
“My hair can dance?”
“Why did you cut it?”
“I don’t know.” When she runs her fingers through her hair, it lifts and falls perfectly into place. I stare, mesmerized by the shades and colours lit by Mrs. Gretchen’s outside light. “Demi—she’s one of my best friends—suggested I do a purge to get rid of all the bad energy produced by my ex-boyfriend and ex-girlfriend. At least I think that’s why I did it. I thought I’d take things further and chop off my hair because both of them liked it long.”
“You had both an ex-boyfriend and an ex-girlfriend?”
“Not at the same time.”
