8. World War Griggs

CHAPTER 8

WORLD WAR GRIGGS

WESTON

God, my brother is acting like a tool. And my dad seems tense. We just have to get through the party tonight, and then everyone can relax.

“Come with me,” I say softly to Abbi. She’s the only one in this scenario I can count on to behave. I already feel guilty for subjecting her to the madness of a Griggs family get-together.

She follows me to the staircase, where I step aside to let her go first. And I force myself not to ogle her legs in that dress. “It’s the room on the left,” I say when she reaches the top. I already put our bags in there.

But when I follow her into the room it looks smaller than ever. She eyes the double bed and then her eyes jump to mine.

“I’ll get Stevie to switch with us,” I whisper. “I’ll tell him…” I pause. “Okay, I have no idea what I’ll tell him. I’ll think of something.”

“No, it’s fine,” she whispers back. “I’m winning this thing, even if you snore like a freight train.”

I bark out a laugh. “I don’t.”

“How do you know?” she counters, smiling fiercely.

“I guess you’ll tell me, then. And I promise to be a gentleman.”

“Right,” she says crisply. And maybe I’m imagining it, but she actually looks disappointed for a split second. She turns and unzips her weekend bag, pulling out a makeup kit. “Let the games begin.”

A couple hours later, after a movie in front of the fire with my fake girlfriend, it’s time to leave for the party. So my brother and I flip a coin to decide who’s the designated driver tonight.

And I lose. Of course I do.

“You’re not even legal to drink,” I whine.

“At my own sister’s party? Please. Who’s going to card me? Not Uncle Jerry. He gave me a beer for my twelfth birthday.”

“I can be the driver,” Abbi volunteers. “I don’t mind.”

“No,” I say quickly. “You spend enough nights watching other people have fun.”

“How’s that?” Stevie asks.

“I’m a waitress at the hockey bar,” Abbi explains. Then she slips her arm around my waist. “That’s where we met. I memorized his order.”

“That’s so romantic,” Stevie says with a smirk and an eye roll. He’s not buying what Abbi has to sell. But it’s not Abbi’s fault. She has no idea how down on love we’ve all been these past couple of years.

In fact, last Christmas, after my parents had a shouting match on the steps of the church during the holiday service, my brother and I literally sat around asking each other questions like: Would you rather get married or have all of your fingers chewed off by a rabid dingo?

And we both picked the dingo.

“All right, guys,” my father says, entering the mud room. “Let’s get this shit show over with.”

“Dad,” I say, stopping him as he grabs his jacket. “Can I talk to you for a second?”

Abbi slips out the door then, and Stevie does the same.

“What?” my dad bellows. “We’ll be late.”

I let out a sigh. “What if you didn’t go? You clearly don’t want to. Lauren isn’t throwing a ‘shit show’ on purpose, you know. ”

“She’s not throwing this thing at all,” he grumbles. “It was your mother’s dumb idea.”

“So you think Lauren should just cancel her party? Or, wait, cancel her whole wedding so that you don’t have to feel uncomfortable?”

“Did I say that?” he carps. “Don’t put words in my mouth.”

Now he’s glaring at me. All I wanted him to do was check his attitude.

Shit.

“Okay, let’s go,” I say as lightly as I can. Then I hustle outside because Abbi is in the cold waiting for us. And she deserves better.

The party is held at the Norwich Inn, which is a turn-of-the-prior-century farmhouse-style hotel on the main drag of a classy town across the river from Hanover, New Hampshire. When we arrive, I watch Abbi take in the crackling fire and the two dozen people milling about eating party food and sipping cocktails while Christmas music plays over the sound system.

It’s objectively a nice party. And I thaw a little when my sister flounces over with a happy smile and offers her hand to Abbi. “So you’re Weston’s date for Christmas! I’ve been dying to meet the woman who would voluntarily put up with him over the holidays.”

“I’m getting that a lot,” Abbi says cheerfully. “Congratulations on your engagement.”

“Thank you!” My sister’s eyes dance. “Let’s get you both a drink. There’s, um, a special one named after me. But we also have beer, wine, and soda. And lots of food.”

“Don’t worry about us,” I tell my sister, folding her into a hug. “Just enjoy your party while it’s going smoothly.”

“Don’t jinx me.” She sneaks a nervous look toward my father, who has planted himself at the precise opposite end of the room as his brother. Dad is standing there, hands jammed in his pockets, looking vexed. “I was kind of hoping he’d sit this out if it made him so uncomfortable.”

“He’s stubborn,” I whisper .

“I noticed.”

“Don’t worry about him,” I say, squeezing my sister’s arm. “Abbi and I will corner him and tell him bad jokes until he gets bored enough to leave.”

“I knew I could count on you.” Lauren sneaks another look toward Dad. “I just wish I didn’t have to.”

Abbi and I get some food, and I bring a plate to Dad. I also bring him a beer.

Then I forget about him for a few minutes and introduce Abbi to my extended family. First there’s my mom. “Weston! Hello, lovely boy! And you brought a date to meet your family! This is like a Christmas miracle .”

Abbi gives me a helpless look before she’s swept up into a hug by my mother.

Yikes . I’m going to owe Abbi after this, no matter who wins our bet. My fake girlfriend is gracious about all this weird attention, though. She chats politely with my mom and takes it all in stride.

Then I introduce her to Aunt Mercedes and a bunch of my cousins. They’re all like Switzerland, somehow staying neutral in World War Griggs.

The last person I introduce Abbi to is Uncle Jerry. He’s set up his mixology table at one end of the room, with a signboard propped onto the table announcing the night’s special cocktail: The Lauren.

“What’s in The Lauren?” Abbi asks gamely.

“I’m so glad you asked,” Jerry says, dropping ice into his pretentious crystal shaker with the titanium lid. “Kentucky bourbon, fresh Meyer lemon juice, simple syrup, and a float of red wine.”

“Isn’t all bourbon from Kentucky?” Abbi asks. And I have to hold back my snicker.

“Smart girl,” Jerry says with a cheesy smile. “Not everybody knows that. This is a special bourbon, too—Knob Creek Reserve. Very round-flavored, with notes of plum and caramel.”

Abbi indulges him, watching as he squeezes the lemons and shakes up the juice with syrup and bourbon .

Meanwhile, my dad glowers at us from across the room. He can’t stand it that I’m standing this close to my stepfuncle.

Jerry pours the mixture over ice. “And now for the grand finale,” he says, lifting a bottle of wine with a flourish. “Watch this.” He holds a spoon inverted over Abbi’s glass and pours an ounce or two of the red liquid into the golden cocktail. “The wine is suspended there, like a cloud,” he says.

“Cool,” Abbi says convincingly. “So I shouldn’t stir it?”

“No! It’s meant to look just like this—with the red floating on top. It’s my signature technique.”

“Ah, it’s beautiful!” Abbi says while I try not to roll my eyes. She takes a careful sip and pronounces it delicious.

I can almost hear my father grinding his teeth from twenty feet away. And when I next glance at him, he’s pouring himself a glass of bourbon straight from a bottle. Neat. And not a small amount.

I’ve got a bad feeling about where this night is headed. And it’s only eight o’clock.

For the next hour I try to humor my dad. I really try. And so do my aunt, my sister, and Abbi, who’s a champ.

But not only has he been steadily getting drunker, he’s practically brandishing that bottle of expensive bourbon he stole from Jerry’s bar table, taunting his brother with that sucker.

It’s like waving a red flag at a bull. I can practically hear my dad’s wheels turning. You do not fuck with a dedicated mixologist’s ingredients. Will Uncle Jerry run out of his pretentious unmixed drinks without it? Will he make a scene?

My dad is gunning for it, I think. He gets louder with each passing minute. I’ve been watching that bottle of bourbon this whole time, too, hoping to snatch it away from him. But Dad holds it in one fist like a cudgel.

“Maybe we should hit the road soon,” I suggest. “I’ve got presents to wrap at home.”

“Let me find the ladies’ room first,” Abbi says.

“Oh, I’ll show you where it is,” Lauren offers. She detaches from Nigel, her fiancé. “Right back, sweetie.”

He gives my sister a soft look as the two women walk away. For a guy named Nigel, he seems pretty decent.

I sneak another look at my watch. We’ve been here long enough. We’ve spoken to every cousin and family friend who was brave enough to come over to the chilly side of the room and humor Dad.

So I clear my throat. “Dad, you want anything more to eat? Seems like the party will be winding down soon. We should go.”

But my timing kind of sucks, because when I glance at the nearby food table, Uncle Jerry is right there.

Dad makes a snarly face. “I’m good,” he says. “Lost my appetite. Bourbon?" He holds up the bottle like it's the Statue of Liberty's torch.

"No, I'm the driver. But why don't you let me put that back on the bar?”

“Think I won’t,” he snorts. “This is top shelf bourbon. Only an asshole would mix it with lemon juice.”

I sigh.

“Is that supposed to hurt my feelings?” Uncle Jerry says to the meatball platter.

“Impossible,” my father slurs. "Wasn't aware you had any."

"Dad," I warn.

"What? It's true."

Shit. I’m glad my sister has gone to the ladies’ room with Abbi, so she doesn’t have to hear this.

Jerry turns around, and I brace. “Let him say whatever he wants.” My uncle shoves a meatball into his mouth. "He’s only making himself sound like a dick. You go ahead and rant, Mickey. Or steal that bottle of bourbon. Whatever floats your boat.”

"At least I didn’t steal someone's family. Does that make your dick feel bigger, I bet?”

“ Dad ,” Lauren gasps from the doorway.

"What?" my dad bellows. “You want to take his side? You always do.”

“Mickey,” my mother hisses. “Don't wreck your only daughter's party. ”

“I didn’t wreck anything! You two did!” As he shouts, he swings the bourbon bottle wildly.

And it crashes into the brick fireplace and shatters.

“Shit!” he howls. Then, as everyone stares lasers at him, he walks right past me and leaves the room.

My fingers knot into fists, and my first urge is to chase him down and tackle him into the snow. But I get a look at my sister’s face, and I don’t do it. I count to thirty and breathe.

And then I bend down and start picking up shards of glass off the rug. Because the people who work here do not deserve this.

Nobody does.