All the Bold Moves (All The Right Moves 2)

Matthew pushes himself away from the wall with his boot, and stands straight. He nods towards me. “Her date ditched her and she needed a ride.”

Molly’s eyes bug out. “Shut the frick up. Are you shitting me?”

I roll my eyes and shove my way in past them both, completely irritated, tossing my keys and purse onto the small kitchen table. Both Wakefield’s trail in after me and I start ranting.

“Gee Molls, that’s a really good question. Hmm, did my date ditch me? Did my date ditch me? Well yes and no. This one here,“ I pivot on my heel, pointing my finger accusingly at Matthew, “crashed my date – just as you predicted – with a drag queen, which I’m sure Neve just loovvved… so much so that when he went to the bathroom, he never came back.”

Molly turns to her brother and shouts, “Ew! You showed up with a drag queen? What the hell Matthew?!” She shoves him with both hands until he stumbles back, falling onto one of our wobbly kitchen barstools.

“Stacy is not a goddamn drag queen!” He shouts back, throwing up his arms in defeat. “And what the hell do you mean I crashed the date as you predicted?’ Cecelia, what’s that all about?”

CHAPTER 15

MATTHEW

“Everything happens for a reason. But sometimes the reason is because you’re freaking stupid.”

– Molly Wakefield to her brother

Excuse my language, but this whole evening is turning into one giant clusterfuck.

Word to the wise: never ever crash a girl’s date and haul along another girl, especially if the girl who’s date your crashing happens to be your sister’s roommate… because when your sister finds out (and believe me, she will) she will chew your ass out.

My ears are still ringing from her high pitched shrieking.

I’ve never been bitched at so hard in my life. Not even the time I was seventeen and my parents took Molly out of town, leaving me alone (huge mistake), and trusting me with their house (huge mistake). Instead of cutting the grass and cleaning the pool like they’d asked me to, I threw a huge keggar (huge mistake). Holy shit did I get my ass chewed out; the fact that my parents continued finding cigarette butts and crushed beer cans for weeks afterwards certainly did not help.

Molly, bless her misguided heart, came to Cecelia’s defense like a dog fighting over a bone with meat on it, and (being a guy) I didn’t see it coming and therefore, didn’t adequately prepare myself for the assault. My little sister verbally beat me to a pulp – a skill I didn’t realize she possessed - then when she was done, she verbally beat me up again.

Trust me when I say: I’ve has my ass reamed out plenty because I’ve screwed a lot of people over… Like. A lot of people.

But I’ve never has my ass chewed out like this.

Who knew Molly knew so many vulgar synonyms to call someone an asshole?

Not me, that’s who.

Walking into my dark apartment, the first thing I do after chucking my car keys on the granite countertop in the kitchen is stroll to the fridge. The light comes on inside my Sub Zero and I bend at the waist to peer inside, hungry but not really craving anything, and equally unimpressed with my dining options.

Left over pizza.

Left over Chinese takeout (General Chao’s Chicken).

Half a Rubbermaid container of diced cantaloupe.

Left over steak, wrapped in tin foil from my parents’ house, from er, two weekends ago…

Are you sensing a trend here?

Sighing, I grab a fork out of the utensil drawer, then the carton of General Chao’s Chicken and take it to the living room. Yeah. That’s right – I’m eating it cold.

Newsflash: guys are simple, disgusting, creatures…

After stabbing a decent amount of chicken and shoving the giant forkful into my mouth, I reach for the remote control while I chew, and point it at the giant flat screen above the fireplace in my living room, changing the channel from ESPN to Sports Center.

Bored, I half listen and begin texting a few of my buddies while the sports broadcaster does commentary on a major league baseball team I couldn’t give two shits about. Here’s the thing about playing for a professional sports team: most of us do not live in the cities that we play for. In the off season, we’re spread around the United States - in the towns, often times, where we grew up and got our start.

I am no exception.

I work in Los Angeles, but live in Wisconsin.

So, even though I’m texting my teammates late on a Saturday night, I know most of them probably won’t respond because of the time difference. Plus, a handful of them are married, and quite a few of them have kids. One thing is for sure: probably not a single one of them is sitting alone in a dark apartment eating dry, leftover Chinese take-out on their couch.