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My dating a man is something that my parents understand. It’s a comfortable situation for them. Me with a woman is harder to wrap their heads around.

Every time Mom sets me up on one of these fucking dates with another man she knows through her network and family ties, I humour her. It’ll never be more than that. I know my mind well, and I know what I want in a relationship.

That’ll never be a man.

I look forward when my phone buzzes on the desk.

Pops: Did you get the emergency text?

Poppy’s text is confusing at first glance, but once I notice the dozens of others on my screen, I open them, expecting some shit to have gone down.

The group chat is flooded with messages all sent over the past few minutes. I silenced it the other night when they wouldn’t shut up, so it makes sense I didn’t hear anything while Mom was here.

Johnny: Emergency meeting at Peakside tonight at 6. @everyone

Garrison: I’m still in Toronto.

Anna: B + I will be there!

Poppy: I’ll leave the house now. Miss u baby

Johnny: WBU Brycie?

Johnny: Bryce? Sorry, got rid of the i

Johnny: Miss you too Pops

Poppy: That was for Garrison, Johnny. I saw you last weekend

Johnny: And?

Garrison: Shut up, Johnny.

Garrison: Miss you more, honey.

Johnny: You tell me to shut up but call me honey? Mixed signals here people.

Anna: Will you tell us what this is about before we get there, Johnny?

Poppy: Where the f is Ice? As if the office is busy. Leaving now. TTYL xx

I roll my eyes at her last message. It’s never busy here. I spend most of the day playing Solitaire on the computer.

Me: I’ll be there. Need a drink or 10.

Johnny: KAY!

Anna: See you soon, Ice

Once the message comes in, I lock my phone and shove it in my bag before heading home.

Two and a half hours later, I’m a block away from Peakside when the sky opens up and starts raining on me. Thunder rumbles loudly as I curse and hurry my strides.

It would have been so much fucking easier to just drive, but knowing I’m planning on drinking my body weight in vodka, I didn’t want to have to worry about my car afterward. Now, I’m wishing I’d used my head when I smelled rain the moment I left home.

By the time I reach the bar, I’m soaked. My denim skirt is chafing against my thighs, and my shirt is suctioned to my chest. There’s water in my boots, and I’m positive my makeup is smudged.

“Fucking perfect,” I mutter before pulling open the heavy wooden door.