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I’m fucking livid.
I’m pissed off and not drunk enough to deal with this kind of bullshit. What fucking piece-of-shit father tells his only son he’s getting married to another woman when you’re just now getting to know his ass? This is exactly why I didn’t want anything to fucking do with him. I’m pissed that I only had a quarter of a bottle of liquor in my cabinet. My head is pounding, my throat is dry, and I’m craving the burn of scotch. Ken Scott has fine bottles of scotch gifted to him from colleagues in sweater vests who have just returned from their vacations in Scotland. My shitty father is getting remarried, and he says it like this: “Karen and I are to be wed. Soon, very soon.”
To be wed? What the fuck kind of stilted-ass expression is that? And during a fucking telephone conversation?
“We are to be wed,” I repeat as I take his porch stairs in two long strides. The man has so much fucking topiary it makes me feel like I’m lost in the fucking Wonka Jungle, or Wonka Factory thing. Hell, whatever it is, it’s hideous.
First and foremost, I need more scotch.
“I’m all out!” I exclaim, my voice leaping out into the darkness.
I’m in a pickle here. I’m drunk, but not as drunk as I want to be. I need more liquor. Ken has more liquor. He always has.
I knock on the door, and no one answers. The man’s house is too damn big. Stupid brick showy model home.
“Hello?” I shout into the abyss of a dark yard, with loud crickets shouting back at me. The neighbors all have their porch lights on, and every house has an SUV parked in front, the bumpers littered with WCU bumper stickers. All of the overpaid, highbrow scholars live on this street. I pull my gray beanie down over my hair, hoping it makes me look even more dangerous to the neighbors than usual.
Landon opens the door before I even realize that I’m pounding my fist against the wood. My knuckles are barely healed; the skin never really has a chance to heal before I rip it open time after time.
“Hardin?” His voice is low, like I’ve woken him up.
“No,” I say, passing him in the foyer. I walk straight to the kitchen and raise my voice so he can hear me as he follows. My eyes stop for a beat on their couch; its frilly, floral-vomit-covered mass bothers me. “It’s someone else who looks identical to him, only this model thinks you’re an even bigger prick than the other one does.”
I open a cabinet in the kitchen to begin my search. My sperm donor—that is to say, Ken—since becoming sober has thrown out most of his liquor, but I know he kept at least one rare bottle of scotch. Maybe it’s a reminder, maybe it’s a temptation, but he cherishes it—fucking treasures it, even. I’ve heard him talk more about that stupid bottle, and with more pleasure, than he talks about his own son since I’ve been here. He always keeps it in a different spot; I don’t know if he hides it from himself or if he uses it as a constant marker of his sobriety. Either way, it’s mine now.
“They aren’t here. My mom and Ken went out of town for the weekend.” Landon explains what I already know.
I stay quiet, not wanting to converse with my soon-to-be stepbrother. The thought makes me gag. I’m not meant to have family, no siblings looking out for me or vice versa. I’m meant to be alone and take care of myself.
I keep searching, now moving into Ken and Karen’s bedroom. The room is enormous, big enough for three king-size beds like the four-poster they have in the center of the room. Their dresser, nightstands, and bed are all a dark cherrywood, the same as Ken’s desk in his office.
Anal-compulsive asshat.
The room is hideous and it looks like shit, so I hope Ken and Karen are happy in here with their matching furniture and pristine life. I pull the string in the closet to turn on the light and brush my hand across the shelves. After feeling around some dust and a box, my fingers hit glass. Jackpot.
I carefully bring the bottle down and wipe the thin layer of dust that’s gathered since Ken’s last public showing. Immediately I twist the top off, feeling deep satisfaction as the plastic tears, ruining the perfect seal.
The scotch is hot on my tongue, and it tingles a small cut on the inside of my cheek. I savor the thick, slow burn of the smooth liquor. Ken Scott has always loved his scotch, and he’s a true aficionado of the beverage. The taste is incredible—so smooth, yet with such a rich flavor. I personally think scotch is just a tad pretentious and was disappointed to find out that it’s the only whiskey that comes from Scotland. Showy bastards. Still, I love the taste—one trait I got from Ken’s short list of actual contributions to my existence.
Half of the bottle is gone now, my head is spinning, and I think I should finish it off. Why not? My dad doesn’t deserve it; he doesn’t even drink anymore. When he chose to stop holding hands with the devil, he lost the right to possess such an exquisite bottle.
Besides, he already has enough precious, perfect things. Like his new son, for example, who right now seems to think he can stop me from my mission to make his new daddy feel as shitty as I feel. Ken has a perfect soon-to-be wife who keeps his pantry and stomach full. She doesn’t have to work an eight-hour shift, then turn around and run off to another job. She doesn’t have to line up the bills on their kitchen table that’s missing a leg, and choose the one she’s not going to have the money to pay this month. The times I talk to him he seems to think we were fine back in Hampstead, and I blame a fraction of that illusion on my mum, whose pride was bigger than her brain.
His house is clean, and even his fridge is clean—no fingerprints are visible on the stainless steel. I lick my fingers and drag them down the metal.
Landon scoffs, cursing from behind me. “Did you drink that entire bottle?” he asks. His eyes are wide as he stares at the bottle swinging in my hand.
“No, there’s still half left. Want some?” I ask him.
He backs away into the dining room, his hands raised, and I follow him. “No.”
Perfect son who doesn’t drink. How sweet.
“I thought you weren’t drinking anymore?” he says. I turn to him, holding on to a big cabinet filled with expensive, shiny sets of dishes in order to keep myself from falling down. What the fuck does he know about my drinking?
My fingers dig into the wood. “Why would you say that?”
He realizes that he wasn’t supposed to say anything like that in front of the poor damaged child, and his eyes widen. “I just meant . . .” He attempts to bullshit me.