Whiskey Kisses (21 page)

Annie pops up from behind and signs,
Where’s Izzy?

“I don’t know.” I sign the words as well, and it feels just as lousy declaring it in two languages. “I’ll probably catch up with her later.”

I thought she’d be here.
Her features sag. Annie looks downright crestfallen that Izzy’s not with me.
I told her I was cooking something special. I guess I’ll have to wait to show off my culinary skills.
She makes a face.

Crap. Izzy knew about the party. No wonder her mood downshifted when I told her it wasn’t anything important. She knew it was.

A young blonde appears next to Annie.

This is my friend, Marley.
Annie gives her a half-hug.
She’s my new roommate at Whitney Briggs. We move in the day after the wedding.

“Nice to meet you.”

Annie used to tutor kids in sign language after school, so she rarely drops the syntax when signing. She’s always been a stickler for going the extra mile in everything she does, including expanding her social circle.

“I know you!” The blonde bounces on her heels. “You’re that hot bartender at the Black Bear.”

“No, that’s him.” I mock shoot Bryson.

“Nope, it’s you.” She gives a little wink, and now I’m really wishing Izzy was by my side. Maybe it’s not too late to text her. But then it’s dark as shit and almost impossible to get here unless you know the way. Maybe I’ll surprise her and stop by her place tonight, bring some whiskey and my tail between my legs.

Annie herds us all to the table, and Marley lands across from me with a dreamy look in her eyes.

Perfect.

Baya and Bryson fill the conversation with talk of their wedding. Still can’t believe he’s getting hitched in just a couple of weeks.

“How about you, Holt?” Mom waves her fork in my direction before taking a bite. “You think you’ll be taking the plunge anytime soon?” She tilts her head as if demanding an answer.

“Don’t know. I always thought I’d sort of be the forever bachelor.” And that’s the truth.

“Give him a break.” Bryson wads up his napkin and tosses it at me. “He needs to sink his teeth into a relationship first.”

“He’s just a late bloomer.” Mom comes to my defense. “Besides, there are still plenty of options out there for him.” She raises her brows in Marley’s direction.

Nope. Not going there. I’ve got all of my options narrowed down to one—the perfect one. I don’t need anyone else. I just need Izzy.

“Speaking of relationships, I have an announcement.” Mom leans in like a giddy schoolgirl. “I’m back in the dating pool.”

Bryson growls at the news. “Tell ‘em you got two buff dudes looking out for you.”

Baya leans in. “I think it’s great. I hope you have a good time.”

I lift a glass. “To Mom on what I predict to be the best half of her life.” Everyone joins in on the toast. “And to Bryson and Baya. Here’s to the happily ever after you both deserve.”

We touch glasses and knock back our drinks.

“To happily ever after,” Mom chimes.

Sounds like Mom is ready to move on. Grief coats me like lead from the inside out.

My mood plummets, and, as soon as we have cake, I make up an excuse about the bar and hightail it out of there.

Someday soon I’ll have to let go of all this bullshit.

Too bad I can’t figure out how.

Izzy

Hi Daddy,

Just when I thought I had my life squared away, the bottom falls out again. That’s what I get for leaping into the oily black lie that is love. I loved you. I leaped in your arms every day screaming those very words, and, now, all that’s left is a void—dead empty space, brokenness, and whiskey, and my splintered heart. It’s a shame I ever trusted anyone—beginning with you.

Maybe I’m not the fuck up—maybe you are,

~Elizabeth

Spending Saturday night with my mother has never really bothered me—until now. I’ve got the ritualistic chick flick going. We’ve each washed and set our hair in rollers. I’ve plied both our faces with enough avocado and raw egg to make any omelet jealous. Our fingers and toes are freshly painted a raucous shade of fuchsia as we watch a waning romantic comedy we’ve seen at least a dozen times before, but, deep down, I still wish I was with Holt at the birthday party I wasn’t invited to.

A gentle knock vibrates from the door, and we freeze.

I cinch my bathrobe shut and look to my mother. “You expecting someone?”

“Nope. You?”

I avert my eyes. “It’s almost ten-thirty. Everyone knows that only serial killers and booty calls come a knocking this late.” I bat her away. “Get the gun.”

“We don’t have a gun.” She narrows in on me with that are-you-shitting-me look on her face. Mom isn’t one to fear anything or anyone—a genetic trait that obviously skips a generation—or at least me.

“Then, obviously, we should
get
one,” I hiss. “Call 911.”

Her mouth squares out. “So they can do what? Act as a butler service at tax payers’ expense?” She waves me off as she heads toward the commotion. “You ever call the cops for something so ridiculous, you’re going to end up on the news. It won’t be flattering. It’s probably just Laney. She’s forever losing her key.”

“I can count on one hand how many times she’s been here this year and still have four fingers and a thumb left over.” I jump to my feet in the event I need to smash someone’s head in with a lead crystal vase—even though we’re currently deficient in such luxuries.

“Smart ass.” She flings open the door and her glossy green face brightens. Great, it’s probably Donny coming back with his greasy tail between his legs. For his sake he’d better have my forty-five bucks on hand. “Oh look, it’s another smart ass!” She widens the door and waves the said
smart ass
in. It’s probably Jemma. “Aren’t you the margarita mixer who was sucking face with my daughter a few weeks back?”

Oh. My. God.

Holt walks into the room, and our eyes connect in that deer-in-the-headlights kind of way. Mine because he sees me in this hideous slumber party getup, and his most likely because he’s pondering how fast he should run away from the two green aliens standing before him.

A smile spreads over his face, wide as the sea.

Somebody kill me.

Here I am, looking like a day spa cast off while the most handsome man in the history of the world stands before me smiling like a loon. God, he’s probably laughing—
affirming
to himself it was a brilliant idea not to include me in on his mother’s big birthday bash. He’s probably here to tell me we’re not a good fit, that he prefers dating girls who can’t see thirty on the horizon for another ten years. Oh, hell, what do I care—it’s not like I don’t already have egg on my face.

“So what do you think, Izzy?” Mom plants her fists over her hips. “How would you classify this? Is he a serial killer or is this a—how did you phrase it?
Booty
call?” A grin spreads over her face. “I don’t think they call it that anymore.” She turns to Holt. “What are the kids calling it these days? A bump and grind? A late night sex summons? Or just a good-old fashioned mounting?”

“Shit,” I whimper, dashing past the two of them and throwing myself in the shower. If ever there were a day I could shrivel up and slip down the drain, this one would be nice.

Booty call
. I rake a brush through my hair and change into my red silk robe. Is it wrong of me to secretly wish it were Greasy D and not Holt?

I head back out to the living room where my mother is busy staring him down.

Holt has his hair slicked back, a crisp white dress shirt on with his inky dark jeans, and, holy hell, I’ve never been so glad it’s not Greasy.

“Izzy!” My mother sings while patting the spot on the couch beside her. All four cats sit at attention and glare openly at Holt. Honest to God, I’ve never seen them so riveted by anyone. Bashful looks like he’s about to knife him. “I’m so glad you could join us.” Mom bubbles with laughter, and it sets off all sorts of alarms inside me. My mother never bubbles. “Your special visitor and I have been getting to know one another.” Her voice reaches a melodic crescendo.

Crap. She’s never this giddy. Giddy is against her religion. Sarcasm is the altar at which she worships. And if she’s not aiming her cynicism in poor Holt’s direction—that must mean I’m the one being tied to a stake. Shit. She’s about to make an offering to the god of shame and humiliation—and I’d bet the forty-five dollars I no longer have that the sacrifice involves me. “Izzy Sawyer—come
on
down!” She sings as if I’ve just won a spot on a game show. The Wheel of Misfortune.

I spear her with a look. I swear, that woman has sung her last chorus.

“Holt and I were just going over your old report cards.” She fans herself with a stack of white papers.

I suck in a quick breath.

He shakes a small black box, and its contents clatter happily.

“And baby teeth!” She sings over to him.

“My report cards…
baby
teeth
?” Fuck.

On second thought I wish I had 911 on speed dial to keep me from killing my mother.

I touch my hands to my temples. Shit, shit, shit! Brain hurts. A serious cerebral injury is taking place, and it’s all my mother’s fault.

“Report cards, really?” I moan.

“Oh, just high school dear.” Mom flicks her wrist on her way over to me. She leans in and kisses my cheek on her way out of the room. “If you kids don’t mind, I’ve got a date with a hunk of steel named Magnum. He’s locked, loaded, and ready to go. I’ve got a thirty-day warranty and brand new D batteries. I’m going to make the best of it.” She glances back at Holt. “It’s time to say hello to my little friend.”

Oh. My. God. I close my eyes a moment. I don’t know which is worse. The fact Holt has seen me decked out like a thirteen-year-old at a sleepover or the fact my mother just referenced her vibrator in her best Cuban accent.

Holt appears by my side, and I can’t seem to scrape my gaze off the floor.

“Hey, beautiful.” He touches his finger to my chin and gently lifts it until I’m swimming in those silver beams he calls eyes. “Brought you something.” He produces a rectangular amber bottle from behind his back.

“Whiskey?” I jump a little when I say it, mostly because I think I’m overdue for a good inebriation.

Holt smolders into me—his lids heavy with desire, and my panties beg to melt right off. Then I remember where I am and who’s in the next room pulling her love slave out of a box, and my thighs cinch shut.

Okay. I take a breath. Stay calm. This is not a problem. I’m a grown woman. Who the hell cares if my mother is home cuddling up to a robotic device in the name of her warranty? A tiny voice in the back of my head says me, but I’m quick to squelch it.

“Sorry I didn’t call.” He leans in and tucks his face in my neck for a moment.

“I’m not.” I touch my hand to the stubble peppering his cheeks and groan. “I’m just glad you’re here.”

“I want to apologize for not inviting you to my mother’s party. It was stupid of me. Believe me, Iz, I can’t wait to bring you home. I want you in every part of my life. I swear you’re everything—”

I shake my head and touch a finger to his lips.

“I don’t need an apology.” I pull him in by the back of the neck. “I just need, you.” I hike up on my tiptoes and press a gentle kiss against his lips, so chaste and soft, like a butterfly brushing its wings. Here I am, kissing Holt Edwards right in the living room I grew up in. This is going to make a great story to tell all those imaginary future Edwards one day. For sure it trumps Laney’s I-met-him-in-the-ladies-room-because-he-forgot-his-contacts anecdote. My mother thought Ryder was a pervert for at least a year.

“I couldn’t get here fast enough.” He pulls back and whispers over my lips. “You’re all I think about. Every second we’re not together feels empty. I would have crawled here if I had to.”

“Holt.” I close my eyes for a moment because a part of me wanted to hear exactly that. I clear my throat and take a deep breath. “So”—a smile bounces on my lips—“you had a chance to spend some time with my mother.” I cringe at the thought. What was I thinking leaving him alone in the same room with her? I should have dragged him off to the shower with me. Hindsight is 20/20.