The Bodyguard (78)

I squeezed my eyes closed. Of course this was how things were. It had been an act of self-jinxing to imagine anything different.

I took some breaths, but my lungs felt trembly.

So I did what I always did: I made a plan to escape. I would tolerate this moment in my life as long as I could, and then I’d graciously stand up with a smile like I had another event to go to, and then I’d elegantly sneak off into the shadows and disappear.

Easy.

How long could I tolerate this moment?

I decided on fifteen minutes—which was far too many—and then I kept my eyes on my plate so I wouldn’t accidentally look at Jack and Kennedy.

Holy cow. What a preposterous couple name.

But Doghouse was looking at them enough for the both of us. “Can you believe she’s here?” he kept saying, elbowing me. “That’s Kennedy Monroe. She’s Marilyn Monroe’s granddaughter.”

“That was debunked,” I said.

“She’s better looking in real life,” Doghouse said then. “That wasn’t debunked.”

“Anyway,” I prodded. “Don’t you like Kelly?”

“What?” Doghouse said, his voice going up like on octave.

But I was done with pretense. “It’s so obvious, dude. Just kiss her already. Be a man and make it happen.”

Doghouse looked down at his plate and thought about that for a second.

And then he did.

Not kidding. He stood, walked over to where Kelly was sitting, tapped her on the shoulder, and said, “Hey, can I kiss you?”

Kelly blinked up at him for a second, and then she just said, “Yes.”

It was that easy.

I watched him take her hand and lead her off toward the barn.

“Holy shit,” I said out loud. Was that all it took?

He left me with no alternative but to take a big swig from my jar of moonshine.

The schnapps was sweet at first. But then the moonshine hit.

I guess there’s a reason moonshine’s mostly illegal. It was like drinking straight antifreeze. My throat burned like I’d swallowed acid, and, for a second, I wondered if I might die. To try to get some of the fumes out, I leaned over and hissed down at the ground like a cat.

Just then, Jack’s sneakers—I’d know them anywhere—showed up in my field of vision. “Burns, doesn’t it?”

I looked up. He was nodding, like Been there.

In response, I made a hacking noise.

He sat down in Doghouse’s empty chair. “It’ll take the paint off your car, for sure.”

I sat up and stared at him, like You drink this?

“It’s also good for cleaning jewelry. My mom soaks her wedding ring in it.”

I put my hand to my throat to massage it a little.

Jack nodded, all sympathy. “You have to build up an immunity.”

What were we doing? Why was he even here? Were we hanging out like friends? Who needed friends when they had Kennedy Monroe?

Next, Jack offered me Doghouse’s half-drunk water glass with one hand, then he took a forkful of something that did not resemble food off Doghouse’s abandoned plate. “You should chase that with some yam and marshmallow salad.”

I shook my head. That was insult to injury. Then, making words at last, I said, “You should go back to your seat.”

But Jack just frowned at me. “This is my seat now.”

That’s when Doc stood up at the far end and clinked his moonshine jar with his fork until we all gave him our attention.

“Please join hands,” Doc said, all formal.

Jack took my hand—and the warm, smooth feel of his skin against mine sent tingles through my body.

Or maybe that was just toxins from the moonshine.

“On this beautiful evening,” Doc said, “here with so many friends, I offer thanks to whatever gods and goddesses we all pray to: for our blessings, for our big, beautiful, imperfect country, and even for our hardships. May we look after each other, tolerate each other, and forgive each other. Amen.”

Then Doc looked at Connie and said, “Does our hostess want to add anything?”

Connie stood up and raised her glass. “You all know I’ve been sick this year. I’d never have chosen to get sick, of course. But I’ve been thinking a lot about the upsides of it. How it forces you to slow down. How it makes you take stock of your life. How it lets you guilt-trip your family into spending time together. I’m grateful my lymph system was clear. I’m grateful they got clean margins. I’m grateful to be on the mend. And: More than anything, I’m grateful to have learned how to be grateful.” Then she nodded. “Thanks for coming tonight. Be careful of the moonshine. Amen.”

Folks took their hands back and turned to their plates.

Then Doc added, “If you’ve joined us before, you know the missus always likes us to go around the table and say something we’re thankful for—large or small. Starting tonight with”—he pointed—“our son, Jack.”

Jack didn’t miss a beat. He lifted the fork he was still holding as if making a toast and said, “I’m thankful for this yam and marshmallow salad.”

I thought I’d be next, but the man on Jack’s other side took the baton. “I’m thankful that the rain forecast was wrong.”