Chapter Sixteen
Seth
Sleep did nothing for my terrible mood. I really needed it as a reset before tonight.
This Jack and Jill party is the last thing I want to be doing.
I just know whatever Ripley came up with will be a nightmare for me.
And yeah, I should know the itinerary for the night because I was supposed to help plan it, but instead, I sulked in my room and pretended it wasn’t a priority.
If I could get away with it, I’d bail entirely. It’s not my wedding. It’s not my party. I’m just a guest with a fancy title because I happen to be best friends with the groom. I’d never hear the end of it from Ripley though. It’s sad he’s the one I’m most concerned about.
He’d hunt me down, then drag my ass to whatever debauchery he has planned.
So there’s no use in even trying. I haven’t seen him today, which is on purpose.
I made sure he was at RED before coming back to the house to get ready.
Did I possibly ask around to see when he was supposed to be in?
Yeah, I did. I’m not even sorry about it. Can’t say I’m proud of it either.
We haven’t spoken since the shit with Thea yesterday.
I know he meant well, and a part of me was entirely too thrilled he stuck up for me, but in the end, I just felt guilty over it.
I had my chance to have him be my person.
I would have let him stick up for me against anyone and everyone if I’d given him a chance instead of icing him out.
But now it feels like I’m somehow using him, charring my blackened soul just a little more.
The stupid party is supposed to start soon.
I was told to meet everyone at some bar called Louie’s at six.
It seems early, and a part of me wonders if it was done on purpose for me.
Which again, makes me feel like shit. He’s potentially going out of his way to make me comfortable, and I’m yelling at him for having my back. What the fuck is wrong with me?
For the seventeenth time today, I consider not showing up.
Or maybe I can slip in for a solid fifteen then leave.
I could pretend to get sick or feign exhaustion.
It would mean I’d have Ripley’s place to myself for the night.
I wouldn’t need to hide in the guest room so I’m not forced to face him or talk things out.
The idea sounds way better than some honky tonk bachelor/bachelorette party.
Just as I’m seconds away from talking myself into skipping the party entirely, my phone buzzes in my pocket.
4/24 5:22 p.m.
Ripley: Listen, I know you don’t want to come, but you have to.
Ripley: This is me putting my foot down, in case you were wondering.
Delivered
4/24 5:23 p.m.
Me: You’re not great at being bossy.
Delivered
4/24 5:25 p.m.
Ripley: I should be, you’ve bossed me around enough.
Delivered
Images of me doing just that flash through my mind as I stare at his response. I know he’s doing it on purpose. He knows me too well. He also knows I’m not a fan of the tables being turned unless it’s him.
4/24 5:25 p.m.
Me: Ha ha ha
Delivered
4/24 5:26 p.m.
Ripley: But really, you have to come.
Delivered
4/24 5:27 p.m.
Me: “Have to” is a strong term.
Delivered
4/24 5:30 p.m.
Ripley: Fine, I want you to come. Pretty please with sugar on top **praying hands emoji**
Delivered
I don’t reply right away. Knowing he wants me there unfurls a warmth in my chest I can’t ignore. After a few minutes of careful consideration, I finally respond.
4/24 5:37 p.m.
Me: What’s the address again?
Delivered
4/24 5:38 p.m.
Ripley: It’s the only bar off the town square, you can’t miss it.
Delivered
4/24 5:39 p.m.
Ripley: Oh, and don’t forget to wear the outfit I left on your bed. It’s a requirement **winky face emoji**
Delivered
I roll my eyes at his response as I go upstairs to change. As soon as I turn the corner into my room, I see the flash of pink on the bed.
“Oh, fuck no,” I mumble out loud.
There’s a black T-shirt emblazoned with the words “Let’s Go Girls” in pink, but the “L” in “Let’s” is a sequined cowboy boot. There’s also a pink rhinestone cowboy hat and boots. But the worst part is the pair of denim cut-off shorts.
4/24 5:41 p.m.
Me: Absolutely the fuck not.
Delivered
4/24 5:41 p.m.
Ripley: Oh, come on! Everyone is wearing it.
Delivered
4/24 5:42 p.m.
Me: That’s great for them. I’m fine to be left out.
Delivered
4/24 5:42 p.m.
Ripley: **pleading emoji**
Delivered
Ignoring his last text, I huff out an irritated sigh before snatching the shirt and hat off of the bed. There’s no way in hell I’m wearing the shorts or the boots.
Once I’m dressed, wearing the only pair of jeans I brought with me and this horrendous shirt that’s definitely a size too small, I walk toward the front of the house to grab my shoes.
As I pass by the living room, I see both remotes neatly lined up on the coffee table, and it brings a small smile to my face.
He’s trying. Hard. I plan to do the same.
So instead of skipping the party, I’ll go for him. I’ll even try to have a good time.
Louie’s is… something. I’ve been to plenty of bars, but this one is quite a bit below my normal standard.
It smells like smoke—probably from the days when smoking was allowed indoors—it’s loud, and half the lights don’t work, giving it an unintentional atmospheric dimness.
I understand now why Thea seemed less than thrilled this was the place Ripley had planned for her Jack and Jill party.
I also realize this is why she wanted me involved, I never would have given this place the green light. Now I have to spend my night in a dirty, dimly lit dive bar. Is this karma for me being an asshole? Fuck me.
Before I fully take in my surroundings, a woman shoves a shot glass in my face.
“Drink up! It’s tonight’s entry fee.” She’s got a tray in her hand with pink cellophane tinsel hanging off of it and the same pink cowboy hat I brought on her head.
Entry fee? What the fuck? This has Ripley’s name written all over it. His favorite thing is watching other people get drunk and be messy. Giving him the reins to control an entire party was a choice.
“No, thanks,” I tell the woman. I don’t do shots. Not since college.
Stepping past the server, I spot Ripley watching me from across the bar.
The smile on his face when our eyes meet is absolutely breathtaking.
I stop dead in my tracks when I see it, as if my brain paused to take him in and forgot to send signals to my limbs to keep moving.
The one light behind him makes him look ethereal, giving him a halo of sorts.
His inky black hair is mussed like usual, but it almost looks like he put product in it tonight.
He’s dressed in the same tacky shirt as everyone else with the party, but his is slightly cropped—because of course it is.
His tattoos are on full display, even the one peeking out at his mid-drift.
He’s insanely beautiful, and I’m not even sure if he truly knows it.
Despite giving him a firm no on the cut-off shorts for myself, I’m really fucking glad he’s wearing them.
They’re doing wonders for his perfectly round ass.
He’s not the only one either, aside from all the women, he somehow talked Brooks into wearing them too. Ripley’s matching pink hat rests on the table, and a depraved part of me is dying for him to put it on so I can see the whole ensemble.
After what feels like an inappropriate amount of time to be standing still in the middle of a bar, I place one foot in front of the other, pushing through the crowd.
The party is clustered around a booth that threatens to collapse under the weight of everyone.
Thea’s in Cary’s lap, and the girl next to her is on Brooks’.
The whole bar is covered in pink cowgirl everything, and balloons spelling out “Last Hoe Down” float above the booth.
Disco ball cups with cowboy hats situated on top cover the table.
Classy.
“You made it!” Ripley says. “And you wore the shirt,” he snickers, and his eyes shine with warmth at the minimal effort I put in.
I make a show of placing the pink sparkly hat in my hand on my head for his amusement.
His eyes track the movement and darken when he takes in the whole look.
He doesn’t ask about the shorts or the boots, but I think he knew it was never going to happen.
The others wave hello and call out my name.
“Begrudgingly,” I jest.
“Always,” Ripley replies. “And I had no idea you even owned a pair of jeans. I kind of thought maybe you only had suits in your wardrobe.” Everyone laughs, including Thea who finds it so funny, she snorts and almost falls off of Cary’s lap.
I make a note to ask for a pitcher of water when the server comes to take the order for our next round. “It’s a good look,” he adds quietly.
A small smile creeps up on my lips. “I’m going to need an ungodly amount of alcohol for this. Please tell me they have something drinkable here,” I ask as a server walks by carrying a tray full of cans of lite beer and shots that smell like bathroom cleaner.
“Oh, come on,” Cary starts, “as if Louie’s would miss out on carrying RED.” He says it as if it should be obvious. I’m painfully aware everyone around me is a few drinks deep, so I brush it off.
“I guess I know what I’m drinking then.” Walking to the bar on the other side, I take note of just how busy the place is.
For how dingy of a bar it is, it seems to be doing well.
As I stand at the counter waiting for the bartender to notice me, I wipe at the back of my neck where I’m already sweating.
This place is stuffy and uncomfortably warm.
“What can I get for ya tonight?” the brunette behind the bar asks, tapping her long nails against the bartop.
“RED, neat. Please, and thank you.”
“Where ya visiting from?” she asks as she pours, her eyes on me over her shoulder.