The Firework Exploded (The Holidays #3)(38)

“Is this the old ball-and-chain? Look at you, Sammy, all grown up and snatching yourself a hot one. How you doin’, purty lady?” he asks, pulling back the beer tab on his can and quickly bringing it to his mouth, loudly slurping the liquid that sprayed out and collected around the rim.

“’MURICA!” he shouts again, holding his can up in a toast before tossing it back, chugging the entire thing, then crumpling the empty can in his fist and tossing it into the grass.

“Holy shit, is that Ralph?” Alex mutters.

I turn my head to see him staring at the guy in front of us with his mouth dropped open and his eyes wide, my head swiveling back to this Ralph guy that Alex seems to recognize, when I hear him crack open another beer.

“I take it you guys know each other?” I ask softly, as Ralph adjusts the American flag bandana tied around his head, lets out a loud belch and pats his protruding stomach.

“The name’s Ralph, but all my friends call me Fat Ralph,” he informs me, holding his hand out to me.

I tentatively slide my hand into his, wondering why Sam is still remaining silent and not introducing us. Ralph’s sweaty, meaty hand engulfs mine and I try not to cringe as he shakes it, giving me a squeeze and yanking me toward him when I try to let go.

“We’re so glad you could come to the wedding on such short notice,” my mother announces happily, moving to Ralph’s side and patting him on the back to try and get his attention away from me as I shoot her a panicked look when he still won’t let go of my hand.

“You’re a purty one too. Not as hot as the redhead with the big hands over there, but you’ll do in a pinch. You got a date for this shindig tomorrow?” Ralph asks me.

Sam finally wakes up, taking a step forward to grab my shoulders and pull me back away from Ralph, tucking me protectively under his arm. Sadly, he still hasn’t remembered how to speak.

“How…why…when…HOW?” he mutters, the last word going up a few octaves, signaling that he’s pretty close to losing his shit.

“Aunt Bobbie and I snuck into your house when you and Noel were at work a few weeks ago,” my mother starts to explain nervously as Ralph turns his head in her direction and gives her a wink. “We went through your address book to find the addresses of some of your fellow Marines so we could send them wedding invitations, when we came across Ralph’s name.”

Ralph leans in and sniffs my mother’s hair.

“I told you, my friends call me Fat Ralph. You smell like a purty bouquet of flowers, hot stuff. What say we get this celebration started early, grab us a bucket of fried chicken from the KFC and make our own fireworks?”

My mother laughs uneasily, shooting my father her own panicked look, but he just casually slides his hands into his front pockets.

“I could go for some fried chicken. And if we’re being honest, I’m still exhausted from trying to get that coat rack of a hard-on to go down after last week. I could use some help,” he tells her with a shrug.

Ralph wags his eyebrows at her and she quickly moves a few feet away from him visibly shuddering when he never takes his eyes off of her as he bends down and grabs another beer from the case at his feet, shouting another “’MURICA!” in toast when he snaps open the tab.

“I’m beginning to see the error of my ways,” my mother whispers.

“What Bev is trying to explain, is that we saw Ralph’s name-” Aunt Bobbie pipes up, stopping mid-sentence when Ralph points at her.

“Sorry, we saw Fat Ralph’s name,” she corrects.

“Thank you kindly, sweet tits,” he says with a wink as Aunt Bobbie continues.

“And next to his name and address was the word FAM. So we assumed it stood for family and, of course, we had to send him an invitation,” she finishes.

“Is that true? Is this one of your relatives?” I ask, my head whipping around to look at a still shocked and tongue-tied Sam.

I’ve always felt badly that Sam never knew what it was like to have a family since he was an only child and his parents were killed in a car accident when he was a baby. He grew up moving around between foster homes, and even though he’s told me on more than one occasion that he didn’t have a bad childhood, I still couldn’t stop feeling sad about it. Especially when it came time to plan our wedding and make our guest list, and Sam had nothing to contribute. Even if Fat Ralph is the trashiest hillbilly on the face of the earth, I’m still going to be happy for Sam that he has one person here tomorrow to support him, and try not to be upset that he never told me about this guy. As Fat Ralph lets out another loud burp, I can kind of see why he chose to keep this part of his family tree a secret and I immediately forgive him.

“Shit, I’m not just a relative, I’m his brother!” Fat Ralph announces with a smile, showcasing a gap in the front where one of his teeth is missing.

“No, no, no, not my real brother,” Sam quickly ads, seeing the way my body suddenly tenses with this news. “Foster brother, I guess. Sort of. I mean, I lived with his family for one summer right before I turned eighteen.”

“That was a damn good summer, Shit Sock Sammy,” Fat Ralph laughs. “Did you tell them about the shit sock story? You probably did and left out all the good parts. How about we go inside so I can see what you got in your fridge and tell you how Sam got his nickname.”