Tequila, Tequila

Her thin lips were caked in bright pink lipstick that smudged at the corners of her mouth, and those corners were currently tugged up in a self-satisfied smile.

I crossed to the cabinet where my mom kept the hard liquor and reached inside for the red-capped bottle of Smirnoff vodka and pulled it out. Standing, I tucked the bottle into the crook of my elbow and looked at my relatives.

Mom smirked. “What are you doing with that?”

I looked her in the eye and said, “Doing the same thing you did with your buddy Jack. Hiding it to get me through the week.”

Her laughter mingled with my great aunt’s as I stomped to the stairs, still cradling the bottle. I made a tiny detour to grab my purse and made my way upstairs to the only sacred space I had left: my bedroom.

It was the only place in the house that I could confirm my parents hadn’t had sex in, and that was because I’d put a lock on the door when I was eighteen, and I had the only key.

In hindsight, eighteen-year-old me was way smarter than me now.

Then again, me now was hiding a liter bottle of vodka in my bedroom, so who was really winning here?

I kicked the door shut behind me and set the bottle on top of my dresser. There was no doubt in my mind I’d need that vodka by the time the night was through, and that didn’t even count this afternoon’s antics by me.

I pulled my tee over my head and undid the button on my pants. I was sad about them. They made my ass look at least ten percent peachier and perkier than it actually was, and that was something I could get on board with.

In fact, I believed that all pants should have that perk.

Denim companies would make a mint, especially around the holidays. Spanx were killing it on the stomach thing, after all, but they’d never quite cut it on my ass.

That was probably the fault of my ass, to be honest.

I switched the smart interview outfit for yoga pants and a tank top that stated that I drank well with others and went back downstairs, phone in hand. I wasn’t letting go of the damn thing until I found out if I’d gotten the job today or not.

“What’s for dinner?” I asked, joining my mom and aunt in the kitchen.

“Lasagna,” Mom replied, holding a pasta sheet in the air.

Aunt Grace turned her head to look at me, the pasta sheet box in her hands, and narrowed her eyes at me. “Why are you holding your phone so tightly? Is it an extra appendage you’ve had attached to yourself?”

I rolled my eyes and sat down at the island. “No. I had a job interview today, and she never said when she’d let me know, so just in case…”

“You’re going to be more attached to it than your cousin James was to his penis when he was a teenager?”

“I’m sorry to disappoint you, Aunt Grace, but I have no knowledge of James and his penis,” I said simply. “But yes, I’m going to be attached. I don’t want to miss the call either way.”

She nodded, handing Mom a couple more sheets of pasta. “It’s about time you got a job. Or married.”

I choked on my own spit. “About time I got a job? I’ve been out of work for a month, and that was because the company shut down! It’s hardly my fault.”

“I stitched t-shirts when I was your age and I needed money.”

“Yes, but we don’t live in the eighteen-hundreds anymore.”

Aunt Grace narrowed her eyes even more and wiggled one finger at me. “Your attitude stinks. That’s why you’re single, jobless, and living with your parents.”

Mom froze.

“Is that why you haven’t died yet? God isn’t ready for your shit and wants to inflict pain on our innocent souls for a little longer?” I shot back.

Slowly, Mom turned around and looked at me, eyes wide.

Silence tightened the air in the kitchen, and I stared down Aunt Grace for a good, long minute.

Until her eyes crinkled, her lips curved into a grin, and her wrinkled cheeks flushed with her laughter. “Atta girl. Maybe that’s why you’re single. You’re too much of a smartass.”

“Coming from you, I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Mom pinched the bridge of her nose and shook her head. “Why did I agree to this again?”

“Because you’ve got three bottles of Jack in your closet and a Pepsi under the bed.” I quirked a brow.

“Aunt Grace is right. You are a smartass.”

“It’s genetic,” I quipped.

“Of course it is.” Aunt Grace put the pasta back in the cupboard. “It’s the only way to deal with the insufferable men in this family. Be such an obnoxious smartass they go to another room and leave you the hell alone.”