Tequila, Tequila

Now there was a quote for a cross-stitch.

CHAPTER TWO – MALLORY

Two hours later, my dad and grandpa had returned from the liquor store—and the bar, not that they admitted as much—and my phone was still call-free.

I was okay with it. Mostly because my can of Pepsi wasn’t just Pepsi, just like my mom’s wasn’t.

There were two ways to get through any family gathering: alcohol or a one-way ticket to Cuba.

Since I was short on funds, alcohol it was.

I mean, there was a reason I was such a disaster of a human being. Aside from my parents having a cringey sex life that I knew far too much about, the older generation of the Harper family was an even bigger mess.

Great Aunt Grace was an ex-acrobat who’d turned to chain-smoking and drinking whiskey from the bottle after divorcing her fourth husband. She had a sharp tongue and penchant for criticizing everything except movies with a shirtless Channing Tatum.

Last year, for her seventieth birthday, she’d demanded a trip to Vegas to watch Magic Mike Live, and out of the ten of us who’d gone, she’d enjoyed it the most.

She’d even thrown her underwear at them. It was a sight nobody ever needed to see.

As for Grandpa Eddie—well, he was special. Just a few days shy of eighty, he’d maintained all his mental faculties and had a wit sharper than a knife, and he was one of the only people who could hold a candle to Aunt Grace and make her shut up in the process. Partial to a glass of scotch on birthdays and champagne on Christmas and wine every other night of the year, he smoked big, fat, Cuban cigars and wasn’t afraid to tell you to get the hell out of his personal space.

Honestly, if I could grow up to be a combination of them in sixty years, I’d be more than happy.

I’d be old, grumpy, and just this side of being an alcoholic.

Would I get to wave my stick at people and tell them to get off my lawn, too? That was probably the only way their existence could get any better. Although, given my luck, there was every chance I’d trip over my own feet and knock myself out with the walking stick.

Clearly, I hadn’t been blessed with Aunt Grace’s ability to balance on, well, a flat sidewalk, as evidenced by the graze on my right butt cheek.

I couldn’t cross a road, never mind perform stunts on a tightrope.

“I’m telling you, Helen, it wasn’t my fault his chicken ran in front of my car!” Grandpa took a long drag on his cigar and puffed it out in little circles. “The damn creatures have a life of their own! Who keeps chickens in the city? We don’t live in bumfuck country land.”

Mom took a deep breath and slowly let it out.

“There’s a brake for a reason, you fool,” Aunt Grace snapped at him. “Use it!”

“I do use it. Just not when flying, feathered, little shit-droppers are in front of my car.” He sniffed and leaned back in the armchair. “They got wings. They can use ‘em.”

Aunt Grace rolled her eyes, simultaneously reaching for her whiskey and a cigarette. “They might have wings, but their brains are smaller than their shit droppings. They ain’t gonna move.”

“Is there a reason we’re discussing chicken poop?” I asked, looking around.

“Is there a reason you’ve got vodka in that can of Pepsi?” Grandpa shot back at me.

Narrowing my eyes, I met his amused gaze. “Yes. So the act of listening to you complain about chicken shit isn’t quite as painful.”

“Better the chicken shit than Grace’s obsession with that male stripper movie.”

Aunt Grace visibly shuddered.

Dad’s eyes widened. “Why don’t we talk about something a little less…dividing? Mallory, honey, how did your job interview go today?”

Everyone’s eyes looked my way. Like Mom and Aunt Grace didn’t already know.

I shifted on the sofa. Man, I should not have been so conservative with the vodka in this can. “It went well. Better than a lot of others lately, so there’s that. I think I might have a chance.”

“Did you tell them you’d once confused February with September?” Grandpa chuckled.

“I did not,” I replied. “I simply forgot that February only had twenty-eight days. It’s a common mistake.”

Aunt Grace leaned forward, silver smoke curling upward from her cigarette. “How about the time you thought it was Friday and went to school when it was Saturday?”

“All right, enough.” I grabbed my Pepsi can and finished the rest of it before jumping up off the sofa. “I could absolutely be someone’s personal assistant, and that’s that.”

“How?” Aunt Grace continued. “You’re a night owl, you don’t like other people, and you have the organizational skills of a two-year-old in a toy box.”

“And you’re seventy with an unhealthy obsession with a movie star half your age, should probably have stock in Marlboro cigarettes, and you’ve got a bit of a drinking problem, but you don’t hear me shouting that from the rooftops.” I tipped my can in her direction and left the room to the sound of Grandpa laughing so hard he wheezed.