The Firework Exploded (The Holidays #3)(24)

“And this is why I’m able to sleep at night and why you’ll be able to walk down the aisle and marry my daughter without being dickless. Nobody likes a dickless groom, Sam. Nobody.”

Reggie turns away from me, pulls a wad of cash out of his pocket, and tosses it on top of the bar.

“Drinks are on me since dumbass over there conveniently forgot his wallet,” he announces, nodding his head in Alex’s direction. “I’m getting a cab home before this Viagra wears off. Bobbie, you’re in charge of these two shit-for-brains. Make sure they don’t do anything stupid.”

With those parting words, Reggie pushes his way through the crowd and heads outside to hail a cab.

“So, are you going to answer that text? Don’t worry, I’m not mad. I totally know it wasn’t from Scheva,” Alex reassures me, tossing back the shot of whiskey the bartender just placed in front of him.

“Of course he’s going to answer the text. And how do you know it wasn’t from Scheva?” Aunt Bobbie asks him.

“Because Scheva isn’t in to the whole Golden Shower thing, that’s how I know. We tried it once, it didn’t end well.”

“You snuck into her bedroom window in the middle of the night when you were hammered, pissed on her while she was sleeping because you thought her bed was the bathroom, and she punched you in the jaw,” I remind him.

“Exactly! She totally wasn’t into it. Case dismissed.”

Aunt Bobbie grabs me by the shoulders and turns me around to face her on my barstool.

“Even though that message was the definition of a drunk text, you can still read between the lines,” she says. “Noel wants to talk and I can tell by the Debbie Downer face you’ve had all night that you want to talk to her too.”

Reaching back, I set my full glass of beer on the bar that is now piss warm after I’ve sat here for so long holding it.

“We’ve been avoiding a few things we need to talk about and I know I can’t do that anymore. It’s not healthy,” I admit.

“At least you learned something from all those girly romance books you read,” Alex laughs.

“Hey! They aren’t girly. They are very informative about what goes on in the minds of women. And none of those books are anything like what’s going on with me and Noel.”

Yes, I have an addiction to reading romance novels. Yes, Reggie found my stash of books back in February, assumed I was gay, and announced it to the family by dumping the bag of paperbacks all over his living room floor. Sure, Noel didn’t mind one bit and even bought me a Kindle for Valentine’s Day so I wouldn’t have to lug a bunch of books around, but like I said, nothing in those romance novels compare to our current issue.

Fine, so in pretty much all of those books, there’s some sort of communication breakdown. Secrets are withheld for whatever reason, the couple gets into a huge fight when they misconstrue something, they break up, someone almost dies or someone else starts slutting themselves all over the world to make the other person jealous, etcetera, etcetera, everyone finally finds out the truth, they get back together and live happily ever after.

See? Nothing like me and Noel.

Sure, I haven’t told her the reason why my dick stopped working because until I got my prescription changed, I wasn’t sure it would ever work again and I didn’t want to worry her. And yeah, maybe now that I’m on the new pills and am pretty confident my dick can finish the job going forward, I’m still freaked out that the damage has already been done. Noel is sufficiently losing her mind about it, and she’s too afraid to tell me she doesn’t want to marry me.

No one cheated on anyone with half the town, no one had a secret love child, and no one killed anyone and went to prison, only to find out it was all a mistake and they were framed. Okay, so I sort of killed Turd Ferguson, but he’s alive now, isn’t he? A little brain-damaged and a whole lot psychotic-as-f*ck, but he’s alive. And sure, I kind of feel like I live in a prison since I’m always running in fear and have to carry a shiv to pry his mangy body away from trying to chew off my leg, but it’s not like actual prison.

“Shit. I need to go talk to Noel,” I mutter, all of my thoughts melting together in my brain until all I can think about is how stupid I am and how I need to fix things before Noel cheats on me, gets pregnant with my best friend’s child, and I shoot a man in Reno, just to watch him die.

Jumping off my stool, I don’t even bother saying good-bye to Alex and Aunt Bobbie. I jog through the crowd of people, burst through the front door, and hail a cab.

*

Closing Reggie and Bev’s front door behind me as softly as I can, I tiptoe slowly down the hall, thankful that someone left the light on in the kitchen so I can see where I’m going.

“WHERE’S MY BUTTER, MOTHERFUCKER?!”

“GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!” I shout at the top of my lungs when Scheva jumps out from behind the living room wall, holding her hands up like she’s going to karate chop me.

“Oh, sorry, Sam. I thought you were Mr. Yoder. Did he come with you? Did he bring our butter?” she asks, looking around me and toward the front door.

“Where’s Noel?” I ask, not even wanting to get into a butter discussion with her since I’m still confused by the text Noel sent from Scheva’s phone earlier.

“She’s really upset. I think she’s in the bathroom crying,” Scheva tells me distractedly, still looking behind me at the front door.