Page 1 of Airhead

Chapter One

November, 1981

Hartigans should come with a warning label.

No, that wouldn’t be enough. There should also be sirens, alarm bells, six-foot-high razor wire, a full military squadron armed to the teeth, and the scariest nun from St. Bernadette's School for Girls, all of whom would warn that the end (of your panties) was nigh.

But not Katie Madigan’s panties.

Nope.

Her French cut undies were as safe as Fort Knox because she knew better than to ever fall for the charms of a Hartigan—especially Frank Hartigan.

It was a Friday night in November 1981 at Marinos. The air was a crisp forty-five degrees outside the doors, and a beer-scented eighty-nine inside since practically everyone in Waterbury was packed into the sports bar. Friday nights were for blowing off steam after a long week at work. Saturdays were for taking the train across the bridge into Harbor City to dance like you weren’t’ living paycheck to paycheck.

No, this wasn’t how Katie had seen her life turning out when she’d graduated at the top of her class and left for an Ivy League college, with big plans to see the world and to never set foot in Waterbury again, but that’s how things had worked out.

That’s why she was at Marinos on a Friday night, despite the dismal state of her bank account balance. She had accepted her fate. No. She’d embraced it. Instead of living a life of adventure, she’d gotten her degree from the state university and had come home to working-class Waterbury. She’d taken a job teaching third graders, shared a tiny apartment with her twin sister, and never thought about what she was missing out on—because she wasn’t missing out on anything.

She’d learned better.

Now, her favorite words were ‘predictability’ and ‘dependability.’

Frank Hartigan was one of those things, but definitely not the other.

Katie might not be a genius, even if her IQ was as high as her teased-up bangs, but even she knew what to expect from Waterbury’s most eligible bachelor. She’d been watching him since high school. He’d flirt. He’d charm. He’d get her worked up, and naked, and spread wide on the nearest horizontal surface, and then he’d be gone. It was his pattern. Like every firefighter in her experience—except her dad—Frank Hartigan did not stick around.

Therefore, she should not, would not, could not fall under Frank Hartigan’s spell.

Of course, that didn’t mean she couldn’t let Waterbury’s redheaded answer to Robert Redford buy her a beer. She was on a teacher’s salary, and the tread on her Pinto’s tires was worn to almost nothing. Really, she’d be doing it for womenkind.

So, despite knowing better, she couldn’t help but enjoy watching the redheaded walking wall of muscle as he headed straight to her table with two bottles of Bud in hand.

“Why do you have that look on your fash?” Connie asked. Her sister’s words slurred together as she shredded the cardboard coaster promoting the bar’s upcoming Rocking In 1982 New Year’s Eve party that had been delivered along with her second Long Island Iced Tea.

The coaster was twenty-five percent confetti, while her drink was already half gone. Things were moving along right on schedule. Predictability for the win.

Connie had a process she followed whenever she broke up (temporarily—unfortunately) with her gag-me-with-a-spoon boyfriend, Blane “The Creep” Adler.

First: A night of Long Island Iced Teas at Marinos Sports Bar, followed by a trip to Marino’s All-Night Diner next door (no they weren’t owned by the same people, and the grudge between the owners of Marinos-without-an-apostrophe and Marino’s-with-an-apostrophe went back decades). There, they’d order the same thing they always did when Connie’s dirtbag boyfriend cheated on her. The hope was that a greasy patty melt would prevent Connie’s hangover the next day.

It never did.

Second: Connie would spend the next forty-eight hours bitching about The Creep and pointing out to Katie every shitty thing he’d done during the entirety of their on-again/off-again relationship. There were a lot of things to point out. The man really was an asshole.

Her hand to God, if Katie had a time machine, she would kill Hitler first, then she would stop Connie from ever asking The Creep to the eighth grade Sadie Hawkins Dance a decade ago.

Katie had a feeling God would forgive her for both.

Third: At hour forty-nine of the process, The Creep would call Connie. She’d hang up. He’d call again. And again. And again. And again. Each time he’d promise that, from now on, she was the only girl for him.

Then the flowers would start. Then DJs on the radio would start playing love songs he’d dedicated to her. (Once he’d sent a singing telegram, but that was the only time he’d switched things up.) In the end, he’d show up outside their apartment and beg until she took him back.

Rinse and repeat.

And repeat.

And repeat.