Page 107 of June: Jess' Story

I pull out some napkins from the center console and give him my bottle of water.

“The rest of the drive isn’t any less winding. Do you need to drive?” I ask Tommy.

“I’m not car sick.” Okay…

“Listen, I, uhh. You’re, umm…”What the fuck?Tommy is stammering and rubbing his palms across his thighs. “You’re going to get served divorce papers today.”Lovely.

I don’t say anything. I just wait for him to get buckled and continue the drive to Spearhead. It takes a half hour before he says something else.

“I didn’t know about Alex…and everything.” Like some sort of excuse. Like he wasn’t trying to embarrass me in front of everyone here. Like this isn’t three days before Christmas.

“It’s fine,” is all I say back, and Tommy squirms.

When the doorbell rings at 4:45 P.M., I know what it is. So I answer the door to a middle-aged man holding a manilla envelope.Right.

Brit is right behind me, though, so when I turn around, she just takes the envelope from my hands and throws her arms around me. I’m not sad about divorcing Tommy, I’m just sad at the state of my life. The hits just keep coming. What more can I take, really?

“I’m okay,” I pat Brit on the back and say.

“You don’t have to be.”

“Sure, but I am. And I’m tired. There’s no fight left in me.” It’s the truth.

“Okay.” She releases me and entwines her hand with mine, leading me into their great room where her family is assembled like some odd Brady Bunch. She’s happy. I want to be happy for her, but right now, if I let myself feel anything, it’ll likely be rage. And nobody needs that today.

I settle into a singular club chair by the roaring fire and pretend to read a book on my phone while the dads dote on Eden and the rest of Britain’s family organizes into teams for Catchphrase while Carly cooks dinner. A margarita finds itself into my hand via my best friend and I give her a warm smile.

If I can just get through Christmas, things will be fine. Things will be better.

As it turns out, all you need for things to feel better is six shots of tequila.

“I’m fine!” I shout over the loud music. “Never been better!!” Warm hands encircle my waist and pull me off the tabletop.

“Alright, peaches, you’re coming home with me,” Sandy says, then turns to give instructions to the hunk who pulled me off the table. Her twangy southern accent could cure homesickness and insomnia both.

“I love sleepovers! Do you want to have a sleepover, too?” I ask the rock hard chest attached to the warm hands carrying me through the door of Colton’s.

“Not tonight, buttercup,” he says.Ha. Buttercup.

“You’re so strong.” I rub his warm, hard pecs feeling like he could fling me around like a rag doll if he wanted and in response he tightens his grip around my legs.

I hiccup. “Okay, well let’s do a sleepover some other time, mmkay?” I give him a “Boop” on the nose and shut my eyes while I travel weightlessly into a pre-warmed vehicle.

Oh no. Oh no no no.

I rush into the kitchen to find Jim rolling up cinnamon rolls and Sandy fussing with the dishwasher. “Why did you let me get on the table?!” I screech.

Sandy starts laughing hysterically. “God himself couldn’t keep you off them.” My brain bounces off my skull painfully.

“Rick should really be worried about losing his liquor license. I was overserved.” I massage my temples, trying to ease the vice-like pain.

“You were already like that when you showed up with the Scala boys, honey.”Ugh. The spins. I have to sit down on a stool.

I vaguely recall driving with three very attractive men to the bar under the guise of wanting to dance. What I actually wanted was to get fucked into oblivion. What I wanted was to forget.

What I got was embarrassing memories and a hangover.

“Ughhh.” I groan and lay my face against the cool marble counter. “I shouldn’t have done that.” I moan and Jim chuckles, just continuing to roll up pastries with my head laid right beside his workspace.