“Well, you’re not dying, so get busy.”
“I will when you will.”
I turn, my mouth dropping open. “Are you encouraging your baby sister to have sex?” I ask, using fake outrage.
“Yes, with the neighbor that makes you want to take a risk on yourself. And whose name makes you blush. I already like Liam whatever his last name is.”
“Murphy.” It’s quiet but there.
“Liam Murphy. Very Irish, don’t you think?”
“What’s Irish?” Mom calls from the door, and my eyes go huge at my brother.
“A whiskey we were discussing. We’re in the back,” he calls to the front of the house before dropping his voice to a whisper and bumping my shoulder. “Codename Whiskey.”
Codename Whiskey.I like that.
I reach for my phone, only to realize I haven’t seen it since this morning in Strider’s truck. How did I miss that?
What the hell is happening with Liam? In the chaos of the day, I didn’t check. I’m terrible at this wife thing.
“Hey, Strider,” I call but see the keys on the hook by the door. “Never mind.” I head for the garage and search the truck high and low. I see nothing. I even go back in and grab my brother’s phone and dial myself. Nothing. No ringing. No vibration.
Oh crêpe.
I manage to make an excuse after giving Mom a quick hug, take Dad’s SUV since it was blocking the garage, and go back to the brewery, only to discover the hostess talking with the rude waitress from this morning. She looks up at me but returns to her conversation without missing a beat. There’s no acknowledgement, no anything, so I wait.
And wait.
When I’ve spent more time than necessary without so much as a “we’ll be right with you,” I slap the hostess stand. “Hi, I need some help please. Has a phone been turned in to lost and found here?”
“Let me go look,” the hostess offers, wide-eyed, and scurries to the back.
“You look all innocent, but you’re a bitch.” The nasty waitress leans onto the hostess stand. “I bet you’re a terrible lay too. I’ll find a way to get him. Oh, and is this your phone?” She slides my device from her apron. “It fell in a pitcher of beer. Pity.”
Nutter Butter. I know she did not.
“You bitch.” I round the station and reach for her with an open palm, but she beats me to it and punches me in the eye.
“Oh my God, you hit me.” I cover my left eye with my hand as the whole restaurant grinds to a halt. Loud music echoes against metal and wood, but every voice is silent.
Think, Lorien. Respond. Do not react.
I reach for the phone on the hostess stand, dial 911, and when dispatch answers, I simply say, “I’ve been physically assaulted and need to file a police report. Please send units.” I place the phone down on the wooden station and take a seat in the waiting area.
I make it back to my brother’s long after steaks and potatoes. The salad never happened, nor did the broccolini. Apparently, Strider had to drive to Mom and Dad’s to pick up his ownbirthday cake because Mom insisted. They, for all intents and purposes, were stuck, not knowing why I was gone for so long when all I did was run to grab my phone. Of course, their calls went straight to voicemail when they dialed.
I came home with a swollen eye, a bruise forming near the nose and around the socket, and a triumphant grin on my face. I also had a soggy phone, the police report including the nasty woman’s name, as well as the assurance from the brewery that she would be relieved of her duties.
Quietly where no one else can hear, my brother whispers, “Codename Badass,” as he walks my parents out.
Mom and Dad are bummed I’m not going home with them, but the whole point of this weekend was time with my brother. So I bail on his sofa, a bag of frozen corn on my eye, and eat leftovers. I skip the cake. We’ll bake enough tomorrow.
“I need two more things about Liam Murphy, sis.”
“He’s crazy smart.” I remove the corn and look him dead in the eye. “And he saved my life when the movers held a knife to my throat the morning I moved in.”
I’ve never seen the shade of mauve that stains my brother’s face.
