Page 29 of Holly Jolly July

Ellie

After a quick visit to a thrift store, we head back into the bar. The parking lot has quite a few more cars than last time,

which will be good for our cover. Mariah gets out of the car, fiddling with her outfit. She’s sporting a blond wig, tight

black pants, and a cut-off Harley Davidson crop top. I step up beside her, wearing faded Levi’s and a leather jacket. My hair

is tied up and covered by a red bandana, and I have a stick-on beard I borrowed from the costume department. Mariah’s done

our makeup to age us both: me with weathered wrinkles and freckles from years of too much sun, and Mariah with lines around

her mouth from chain-smoking cigarettes.

Mariah pulls at her shirt. “This is a bad idea.”

“What are you talking about? I barely recognize us. You killed our makeup!”

She’s not convinced, looking around like an animal caught in a trap and seeking a quick escape.

“Look,” I say, pulling out my phone and turning it to selfie mode before stepping up beside her. “We’re a perfect couple.”

She regards us both on the screen and gives a subtle nod. “We do look pretty good.”

“Smile!”

Mariah pops her hip and tilts her chin like a pin-up, and I give the camera a mean grimace before snapping a photo.

“Okay, yeah, we look the part,” she concedes. “But I’m a terrible liar. It won’t work.”

“’Course it will, soda pop,” I drawl in a Southern accent. “Like I said, it ain’t lyin’, it’s actin’.”

Mariah gives her head a shake, lips pursed.

Grabbing her by the waist, I tug her to my side. “Now listen here, missus. You an’ I, we go way back. We met down in New Orleans on a tugboat casino playin’ blackjack—”

Mariah pinches the bridge of her nose, but she’s fighting a smile under it.

“After all my time in the clink I decided to go straight, and you wanted to show me the world on account o’ me bein’ locked

up so long. Ever since, we been explorin’ everywhere we can explore by land, since I ain’t allowed on those aer-o-planes no

more.”

Mariah snorts, her shoulders shaking.

I turn her to face me. “You an I’s gonna have a good time tonight, ya hear?”

She rolls her eyes, a grin splitting her face.

I grip her shoulders. “I said, ya hear?”

“Yeah, I hear ya,” she repeats in what is quite possibly the worst Southern accent I’ve ever heard.

“Maybe leave the talking to me,” I say, breaking character.

Inside, the place is busy enough that we’re not noticed when we walk in. A small whiteboard on the bar has Jell-O shots $2 messily scrawled on it, which explains the crowd. There’s an odd mishmash of older working-class gentlemen and young college

students, and our outfits don’t look too out of place. We find a table in the back—far enough away to pass a casual glance

but still maintain a visual of Matt at the bar.

My heart skips when I see him, even though he looks so different here as Jax, his alter ego. Or is this his true self? Maybe

the sweet, considerate, kind person I met at the cabin is the ruse. He’s not the man I had feelings for; that person doesn’t

exist. I swallow the pain and pull Mariah’s chair out for her before taking my own.

Since it’s busier than usual, they have a server waiting tables. After several minutes she reaches us. Mariah tenses, looking

away and twirling a lock of blond hair to obscure part of her face. Shit, hopefully the server doesn’t recognize her.

“Hey, welcome to Grumpy Joe’s, we have two-dollar Jell-O shots tonight and the poutine is on special.”

“I’ll have a Bud—in a bottle, none of that on-tap nonsense. And the missus here will have a Long Island iced tea.” I order

for her, not only because it’s the gentlemanly thing to do, but because she was right about being a terrible actress. One

wrong move and she’ll blow our cover. Even now, with very little risk of being caught, there’s a bead of sweat trickling from

her wig down the side of her face.

The server jots down our order, not bothering to make eye contact with us.

“And, little lady, you want a turkey club and poutine?” I ask Mariah, to which she replies with a quick nod. Turning back

to the server, I ask, “What soup you got today?”

Mariah kicks me under the table.

“Never mind, I’ll have a BLT and fries.”

The server leaves and Mariah huffs out a breath. “I can’t keep this up.”

“Yes you can, you’re doing great!”

“What if someone recognizes me?” She fiddles with her outfit.

I tilt my head to the side. “I barely recognize you.”

This seems to calm her. Then she leans forward quickly, agitated. “Do you think we pranked him too much?”

I roll my eyes. “We didn’t. My siblings and I used to prank each other all the time. This is entry-level, trust me. But maybe

if someone let me hire a clown—”

She cuts me off with a wave of her hand. “Not happening.”

I raise my hands in defeat. “I know, I know. But seriously, all we did was hide bleu cheese in his bag.”

“And swap his cologne for cheap bubblegum crap from the dollar store.”

“And rub brown marker on his gym shorts so it looks like he sharted himself,” I say, laughter bubbling up.

Mariah struggles to stop laughing, too. “Okay, yeah, that’s pretty funny.”

“See? Harmless.” I don’t tell Mariah about the fake mouse I stuck in his water bottle. The image of him jumping and screaming

like a little girl around his big, muscly gym bros sparks so much joy.

We were able to return the bag to his truck and lock the doors with no issue, but now we have to find a way to return his

keys behind the till... with him there, and all these witnesses. We hadn’t quite thought this part through.

Our drinks and food show up several minutes later, and I’m happily surprised that the sandwiches are actually really good.

Mariah and I eat off of each other’s plates, me sampling her poutine while she tries my BLT. We seem to forget that we’re

in danger of getting caught, falling into a companionable back-and-forth conversation, swapping stories about my experiences

on set and wedding drama she’s witnessed. There’s something about spending time with Mariah that feels so natural. I never

would have thought after that first day together, where she’d been the world’s biggest grump and seemed irritated by everything

I did—including the way I breathed—that we’d be able to move past it. Now I can say with confidence that we’re friends. Sure,

I break down everyone eventually, but this is more comfortable than the average co-worker friendship. Perhaps it’s the situation

we’ve found ourselves in that’s brought us together when it could have ripped us apart.

One hour and three drinks later, our opportunity finally arrives. A crew of college-age people walk in and head to the bar

for Jell-O shots. Mariah and I hunch down, waiting for the right moment. Matt leans over the bar to flirt, but his usual hundred-watt

smile has been blackened from the dye in his drink. It’s not enough to deter the young women though, who giggle at whatever

he says.

“What do you think he said to them?” Mariah asks, fingernails tapping her glass with an irritated beat.

I scoff, also agitated by him openly flirting with multiple women right in front of us. “Probably something about karma.”

Mariah catches my gaze, a sinister gleam in her eye. “I think it’s time.”

I give her a solemn nod, pull a small remote from my pocket, and press the button.

An obnoxious fart rips from behind the bar. Everyone pauses like they’re in a tableau. Then, the group of women break out

in laughter. Matt’s eyes widen in shock and his mouth hangs agape, horrified. He turns bright red, then takes a few steps

back, trying to laugh it off. Whatever spell he had on the women has been broken. They take their cheap drinks and leave.

Look at that, we’re already making the world a better place.

Matt ducks down, searching for the fart machine, but can’t seem to find it.

Meanwhile, Mariah and I are dying, trying to stop ourselves from howling with laughter. My belly aches from it, my whole body

shaking. Mariah does a little wheezing inhale, which only makes it harder for me to pull myself together. We finally manage

to force the giggles away, each wiping at a tear, and prepare ourselves for round two.

Our next opportunity arises about ten minutes later. Another fart rips through the room, echoing off the walls. This time

Matt is furious, pulling things off shelves and looking inside cupboards, frazzled beyond belief.

Mariah and I are barely keeping it together, both of us bowed over the table. We manage two more farts before Matt finds the

sound machine and inspects it with irritation. He scans the crowd with an angry glare.

“Shit,” I say. “Act natural.”

“What the fuck does that mean?” Mariah whispers, not acting naturally at all.

We need to get out of here before she blows our cover. But before we can do that, we have to return Matt’s keys. Unfortunately, he’s now on high alert, eyeing everyone suspiciously. This won’t be easy.

I stroke my beard. “We should have put his keys back first.”

“What are we going to do now?” Mariah can’t keep the panic out of her voice.

I take her hand, assuming my role as badass biker boyfriend. Deepening my voice, I say, “Be cool, honey bunny.” Pocketing

the keys, I swagger my way to the bar.

Matt regards me with mild disdain and doesn’t even ask me what I want. Rude.

“Can I have some of those there Jell-O shots?” I drawl.

He nods, then sets a few down on the bar from the bin behind him. “Two dollars.”

I inspect them. “The missus ain’t one much for red. Got any blues?”

He eyes me, and for a second, I think he’s going to recognize me. He has, in fact, stared into these very same eyes while

wooing me into bed, naming our future dogs, planning the chicken coop, and filling our imaginary cellar with pickled vegetables

from our garden. My stomach clenches as I prepare for a hasty retreat.

Then he sighs, turning back to the bin to retrieve a few blues. “Two dollars.”