Hattie doesn’t see that. All she sees is a future with her baby girl (she’s sure it’s a girl) and Tyler, who is unemployed and sleeps more hours a day than Mrs. Pearlman’s Maine coon.
But all I see in my future is Hattie and me taking care of the baby while Dad works himself to death, trying to makeends meet like he always has. Except with a baby, there will be more bills and more mouths to feed.
I shuffle back to the kitchen to hide Stella’s cake and when I return, I find Hattie crouched behind the bar pouring red wine into a sippy cup she bought at the grocery store last week, which I had assumed would someday be for the baby.
“What are you doing?” I whisper-spit at her.
She tugs me by my wrist so I’m below the counter with her. “The internet says I can have two glasses of wine a week, okay?” She hands me the bottle of wine. “And don’t look at me like that.”
“You don’t even like wine.”
“Hey,” she says. “I’ll take it where I can get it. But don’t tell Ruth. She’s all over my ass about caffeine and deli meat and Caesar dressing and all kinds of crap.”
She would be. Ruthie wants to be a doctor, and she’s going to be a damn good one. “But what’s the deal with the sippy cup?”
She flips the cup upside down. “Spill proof. A hack from my party-girl days.” Her voice is reminiscent of a time that feels far away, but was as recent as early summer. Quickly, she kisses me on the cheek. “Thanks for the cake, sis.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Hattie hasn’t offered to pay me back for the cake, which really wouldn’t bother me much. I mean, the line between what’s mine and hers is invisible if not nonexistent. But the fact that this is for Tyler—Tyler, of all people. Well, it rubs me the wrong way. Hattie’s never been good with money anyway. She thinks money is onlymeant for spending.
Hattie shimmies her way over to Tyler, who I don’t think even showered before his own party. His acid-washed skinny jeans are at least one size too small, but I think that’s on purpose. His skin is so white it’s almost blue, and I guess that makes sense if you consider all the time he spends in front of televisions.
Hattie pulls Tyler from the booth where he sits with his friends and several already empty beer bottles. Reluctantly he follows her to the makeshift dance floor, where Saul is thrusting his way between two rows of shrieking waitresses. When he’s done, he whips around and beckons Tyler. At first Tyler shakes his head, but then, surprising me and, well, everyone else, he hands Hattie his beer and sprinklers his way down the dance line to Saul, who greets him by grinding on his hip. Whatever possessed Tyler to dance in the first place is short-lived, as his friends boo and he returns to his booth.
“Heteronormative bullshit,” Ruth mumbles as she reaches behind the bar for an empty glass.
I shove the cork back into the wine bottle Hattie opened and grab an almost empty handle of Fireball whiskey.
I hope I’m wrong about Tyler. Because maybe if I’m wrong about him, my gut could be wrong about Grace. And maybe—just maybe—Tyler will stick around and be the guy Hattie deserves.
I head for the outdoor seating, past Hattie and Saul grinding on each other while Ruthie takes video that will someday serve as incriminating evidence of our youth.
Boucher’s sits on the edge of a long dock, so I settle in with my bottle on the patio and decide I probably won’t be getting much sleep before my paper route. Out here the music is faint, quieted by the wind and waves, like I’m hearing it through an old telephone. I take a swig of whiskey and let it burn all the way down my chest.
Grace never really mixed with my friends. I think she was sort of intimidated by Saul and Ruth. Somehow making out with a girl was okay, but hanging out with her gay friends? Well, that was taking things too far. And she and Hattie never clicked either. If I had to guess, it was because Grace always wanted us to spend time alone and Hattie isn’t big on privacy.
“You mind sharing?”
I turn around to find Freddie framed in moonlight with a bag of chips in hand.
“Hey,” I say as I drag a chair around next to me. “Sit.”
He plops down and tears open the bag of chips. “Felt like I should bring something.”
I reach in for a handful as I pass him the whiskey. “Good thinking.”
“Sorry I’m late. I, uh, got stuck on the phone.”
“Who even talks on the phone anymore?”
He snorts. “Plenty of people. You know, we used to be stuck writing letters to each other and waiting weeks or even months to hear back. The phone is a modern miracle, and now all of a sudden we’re too cool for it?”
I laugh. “Okay, okay. Calm down, buddy. I didn’t realize phones meant so much to you.”
He smiles, but there’s none of that easy charm I remember from yesterday morning. He’s stiff and irritable. I know the signs all too well.
“Girl trouble?” I ask.
“Something like that.” He sits down and glances around at the empty patio before taking the bottle from me. “Not much for parties?”
