Page 4 of Mr. Brightside
Oof. A “Mr.” before noon. I hold in a shudder as I wonder what the hell this guy’s playing at.
“That would be me,” I hedge. Call it instinct, call it a gut reaction: but after years of emotional abuse at the hands of my family, I’m wary of shit like this.
“I’ve got a delivery for you from the offices of Hensley and Horr.”
It’s then that I spot the thick manilla envelope tucked under his arm. I straighten my spine and grind my molars, knowing he’s carrying the documents that either confirm or deny what I’m desperate to know.
“Courier service. That’s some fancy shit,” Cole mutters as I pass him to circle the bar and sign for the package.
I’m just about over hisfancy shittoday.
The courier kid’s got at least three inches on me, but he cowers when I come close enough to accept the envelope. He hands me a carbon-backed receipt first, which I sign and tear apart myself. I keep the client copy and give him the signed receipt.
Accepting the packet of papers feels like strapping on eighty pounds of hiking equipment. I’m taken aback by the weight of it and already convinced it’s too much for me to bear.
The kid lingers for a moment, looking around the bar like he’s never been here before. That makes sense, considering my lawyer’s office is in downtown Cleveland. We don’t get many people through the doors who aren’t already familiar with The Oak Barrel Tavern.
After several seconds, I wonder if he’s waiting for a tip. Am I expected to shell out cash on top of my lawyer’s astronomical hourly rate? I clear my throat to get his attention, desperate for him to take the hint and go.
“Oh, yeah. Sorry, I got distracted,” he mutters when he meets my unamused glare. He turns on his heel and heads for the front door, but not before glancing back to offer, “This place is pretty cool,” before taking his leave.
Yeah, kid. Believe me. I know.
“Hey!” I holler, rising off the bench and jabbing my finger at the little shithead who just swiped Mimi’s cup out of her hands. “You give that back—you can’t just take things from other kids.” I level him with a glare, and he immediately drops the cup.
The irony here is not lost on me. I used to buy Solo cups for parties at Rhett’s house, but I now buy them in bulk for afternoons at the splash pad.
“Danks, Uncle Jakey!” Mimi yells as she scoops up her cup and goes back to the game she’s made up in her head. I watch, amused, as she flits over to one of the smaller water fountains and plops down in a puddle, fully clothed.
Amelia’s more independent than her older sister, and she probably could have taken that little punk on her own. But I’m inclined to jump in and defend my nieces more often than not. They deserve to have an adult step in and handle shit for them; I want them to feel loved and safe and supported when they’re with me.
I settle back onto the bench I’ve claimed, flipping down my Ray-Bans and surveying the scene in front of me. There are at least twenty kids here today, and the place is total chaos. Screaming, crying. It’s like last call at The Oak on a reunion weekend when we also have multiple bachelorette parties in the house. The humans are just smaller here.
It’s not hard to keep track of my girls: Fifi had a major growth spurt last year. At eight, she towers over most of the middle school boys causing trouble at the far end of the splash pad. Mimi’s easy to track, too, considering she’s the only kid here rocking a Blink-182 long sleeved T-shirt. At least I didn’t have to fight with her about sunscreen.
I stretch my arms out on the bench and look around at the other adults. The girls and I come here a few times a month, and I’ll admit to having made the acquaintance of a new fuck buddy on occasion. It’s my target market, really, as long as I can discern the housewives from the nannies.
I’ve lived in this town my entire life, and I have a strict rule about not hooking up with regular customers or my employees now that I’m the manager at The Oak. The nannies of Hampton are the perfect pool for me to pick from, pun intended.
Letting out a huffy sigh, I check on the girls again. I usually love watching them run around and play, but today I’m restless. I can’t think about anything, really, except the Post-It note stuck to the first page of the documents inside the envelope that goofy courier kid dropped off a few hours ago.
Legally recognized marriage. No restrictions.
Seeing it spelled out in my lawyer’s loopy scrawl brought on a flurry of mixed emotions.
Relief. Excitement. Anxiousness. Spite.
It’s the spite that nags at me. Because there’s no way my bigot of a father would leave his will so open-ended.
The only explanation I’ve come up with is that he was too naïve—and too full of hate—to even consider the possibility of marriage being defined as anything besides the union between a man and a woman. He loathed that I’m bisexual and went as far as to try to force me into a relationship in high school with a girl he blackmailed into pursuing me.
That he didn’t stipulate that I had to marry a woman in his will tells me he was even more narrow-minded and bigoted than I believed. It also makes me inclined to marry a dude.
I put eyes on my girls again, double-check that all the little shitheads here are staying in line, then drag my gaze past the other benches.
I owe Mike an answer. Today.
That means I have to find someone to marry. Today.