The Promise (The 'Burg #5)(147)

“Even if she’s nice, this does not make me want to jump for joy, ’cause Enzo Senior is gonna f**k that shit up and we both know it.”

“A baby sister, Cat,” I reminded her of what would come out of that particular craziness for her and for me, at the same time mentally hoping I could get Chrissy to text me photos. I was also thinking it was time to mend fences with Dad. And lastly, I was wondering how I’d talk Benny into not losing his mind if I did that.

“Whacked and annoying, but we love each other,” Cat said. “We’re totally messed up.”

“I’m thinkin’ so is everyone else. They just deal with it better or cut each other a lot more slack.”

“Yeah,” she said softly.

“Now go home, get laid, make me a niece or nephew, and call me in a month with good news.”

“I’ll ask Art how he feels about the name Solitaire,” she joked as I turned the ignition.

“You do, I’ll still love her…and you,” I did not joke.

“You’re a pushover,” she stated, but her voice was softer and kind of husky.

“Whatever,” I replied.

“And a dork,” she went on, not sounding soft or husky.

“I’m hanging up now.”

“And if you think I’m gettin’ mushy, just to say, that’s another boundary I won’t cross.”

“I’ve already hung up,” I lied.

Her voice was smiling when she said, “Later, Frankie.”

“Later, Cat.”

I ended the call, tossed my phone to the seat beside me, and looked through the windshield.

Tandy, Sandy, Jennie, Miranda, and the IT guy were gone. So was the CR-V.

I put my car in gear while hoping that was Tandy, away from prying eyes, telling everyone to stop doing shit that could get them fired and start being cool, even as I had a feeling Tandy was doing the exact opposite.

Then I reversed out of my spot to go to Arby’s, get home, and start searching want ads.

* * * * *

“I’m givin’ up,” Cheryl decreed, leaning into the bar toward me.

I didn’t know what she was talking about, but I’d given up too.

On want ads.

I had also given up on waiting around my house alone the hours it would take for me to go to sleep, wake up when Benny got off work so I could phone him, and listen to him saying words that would give me an orgasm.

So I’d changed into jeans and a blousy, drapey, yet still clingy tee, strapped on fabulous spike-heeled sandals, fluffed out my hair, and took myself out to J&J’s Saloon, the local bar, a bar owned by Feb.

Feb was working. As was Cheryl.

This was good since I knew no one in Brownsburg but Vi, Cal, Kate, Keira, Angie, Colt, Feb, and Cheryl, plus a few more friends of Vi’s (who were also friends of Feb and Cheryl) that I had met at the wedding and bonded with over Bellinis. They were all married, most of them with kids, so we had yet to do what we promised to do at the wedding: hook up for a girls’ night out. So I didn’t count them. And Angie didn’t count either because she couldn’t yet cogitate. And since Vi and Cal were still in Virgin Gorda, and Kate and Keira were not of age to go to a bar (and they were still in Chicago), this left me fortunate that Cheryl and Feb were both working that night so I didn’t end up looking like a stylishly dressed barfly.

Once I got there, I wished I hadn’t left it until that late in my sojourn in Brownsburg to go.

Granted, I was more the subdued lighting, fabulous décor, every-drink-served-in-a-martini-glass type of establishment kind of girl, and this was not that. It was mostly made out of wood, rough and worn with age, and undoubtedly had more than its fair share of bar fights. There were pool tables in the back, and pool tables usually heralded a joint that was not my scene.

I still liked it.

Maybe it was because I walked in, Cheryl and Feb looked my way, and both of them called out greetings, Feb’s being, “Hey, babe! Cool you finally showed,” and Cheryl’s being, “Yo, Frankie, how’s tricks?” and that felt good.

After being away from everything I knew and found familiar all my life, to walk into a bar and have the women behind it give me a smile and a greeting, it made me feel home in Brownsburg for the first time since I’d been there.

It felt better gabbing with them both as I drank glasses of chilled white wine and people watched.

Though, now, I didn’t know what Cheryl was talking about.

“You’re givin’ up on what?’

“Men,” she decreed.

We’d been discussing the best brands of extra hold hair spray.

How did we get here?

“Uh…why?” I asked.

“’Cause, see, I’ve been livin’ in this ’burg for, like, ever, and the minute I hauled my shit over the city limits was the minute that commenced a dry spell unprecedented for me. And I work in a bar. That shit’s impossible.”

“A dry spell?” I asked.

“Babe, a dry spell. As in, I haven’t been laid…in forever,” she shared.

Clearly, as she barely knew me outside of us being in a waiting room for a joyous event and us mingling at a wedding reception during another one, she had to get this out. And as a sister, even without years of bonding over martinis (or tequila) and discussions of the best beauty brands of anything, I had to let her.