Chapter 32
Rory
“Jared, present your trophies.”
At Hunter’s words, Jared reaches under the table and raises up the most god-awful trophy I’ve ever seen. It is, actually, a trophy, and not one of the cheap plastic ones either, but it’s dinged and scuffed and it has a faded old ribbon tied to the bottom and a fake plant sticking out of the top.
Etched on the base is “Ruler of the Sirens.”
“And,” Jared reaches down again and this time pulls out a brown paper bag.
From it he pulls out an unmarked, sealed beer bottle.
“This is,” he says, “four bottles of the underground Golden Voice pilsner. It’ll be the best fucking thing you’ve ever put in your mouth .
. . no offense to present company of course. ”
There’s sputtering laughter from around the table and glances cast at me and Morgan while my cheeks heat.
“This is from Dad’s own limited run, never to be sold. I’ll fucking disown you if so much as a peep of this beer’s existence gets out.”
“Holy shit,” someone murmurs.
Golden Voice is the local brewery, the same one that makes the Call of the Wild IPA that I love so much.
Morgan catches my eye across the table. His brows furrow and he purses his lips, like I’ve got this. And I know exactly what he’s thinking. I’m the newbie, no one’s expecting me to win, so Morgan’s going to win those bottles for me.
Oh, it’s on.
Hunter sorts out a run of cards, ace through king, laying them face up on the table.
Then he flips them over, shuffles, and fans them out for us to pick.
“This way,” he explains, “there’s only one rule per face value.
” I draw an ace. Whatever Morgan draws makes him chuckle, and when I raise an eyebrow at him, he flashes me a wide, dangerous smile.
Oh boy.
After everyone’s picked a card, Hunter collects them all and shuffles again. “The training wheels are off; everyone gets to come up with a rule and enforce it.” He’s speaking for my benefit, of course.
The newbie.
“What are the hard limits?” I ask.
“Hard limits?” Hunter’s hands slow.
“You know,” Kit interrupts. “Water sport, blood play.”
“Spanking,” Morgan adds.
“Whips.”
“Anal.”
“Okay, okay, okay.” Hunter waves his arms. “I get it, Tweedledee and Tweedledum. However, I don’t think that’s quite what your fiancée means.”
“Well,” I start. “I’m guessing regular Uno game play is allowed—reverse, skip, draw cards.”
Hunter nods. “No rules that make anyone draw more than four cards, though. We’d be here forever.”
“Got it,” I say.
“Light humiliation,” Morgan adds.
“What?”
“One time Silas made everyone who played a certain card cluck like a chicken,” Hunter tells me with a grin.
“A PG version of truth or dare.” I glance at Morgan and his gaze goes soft. Memories of our game of truth or dare flash in my mind, but I force the thought away. “So what’s out of bounds and what’s acceptable?”
“Nothing that requires too much time or getting up from the table,” Hunter says. “Other than that, someone can object and we’ll deliberate.”
“This isn’t a fucking federal court,” Jared mutters.
“Plus,” Kit adds, “you have to be willing to do whatever it is yourself if you play the card.”
Good point.
Hunter finishes dealing out the hand. “Everyone have their rules in mind?”
Heads around the table nod.
And Hunter flips over the top card.
This game is brutal. It’s not a skill game. It’s entirely a memory game, and the shit people make up is bananas.
At one point, Hunter plays a queen and Morgan reaches for the deck. “Penalty for not genuflecting to Rory.”
Hunter cackles, accepting the penalty card and then giving me a bow and twirling his hand while saying, “My queen.”
My face goes beet red, and I reach across the table in Morgan’s direction but he ducks out of range, shoulders shaking from laughter. The whole table is laughing, and I can’t decide if I want to punch Morgan or kiss him.
“What does genufelting mean?” Leo asks, once the laughter has died down, and his mispronunciation has me biting back another chuckle.
“Genuflecting means, like, showing deference,” Bailey explains. “Bowing or some such.”
“Got it.”
The other rules are less embarrassing. Whoever plays a seven gets to switch hands with a player of their choice—Kit’s rule.
On a four, the player has to sing the opening lines of “Hooked on a Feeling” by Blue Swede with the rest of us doing the backup—Tuan’s rule.
There’s a kerfuffle when Bailey spills her drink and everyone makes a mad rush to grab a penalty card while shouting “Party foul!” There’s penalties for not enforcing rules, there are penalties for playing out of turn, and there are penalties for taking too long—when no one wants to admit they can’t remember whose turn it is and everyone casts glances around until someone finally doles out the penalty.
Leo gets a penalty for forgetting his own rule—a jack reverses game play—and everyone nods approvingly when they discover my rule—you have to pick a random card from the person to your left and play it.
Jared goes on a bender because he has neither a four nor a diamond and has to draw until he can play. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuckity, goddamn fuck, I hate you all,” he seethes over their laughter, until his hand is at least twenty cards.
Tuan’s the first to get down to one card but then Hunter, in a strategic move, plays a seven, so he and Tuan switch hands. But then the suit shifts to hearts and then-Tuan’s-now-Hunter’s card can’t be played.
Several other people get to a single card and then have to draw.
But Grandma and I played Uno a lot growing up. And I have a very good memory.
And today I also have good luck.
I’m down to two cards and no one has seemed to notice, until Jared speaks up. “Fucking newbie over here, with two cards left.”
The suit doesn’t change all the way around the table, so I’m able to play my queen of diamonds.
There’s a chorus of boos.
I put the card facedown on the table, keeping my own face as neutral as possible. Across from me, Morgan narrows his eyes.
If anyone has a two, they get to enact Hunter’s rule: a player of their choice has to draw a card. Or a seven, then someone else would get my hand. Briefly, I wonder if Morgan has either, and if he does, would he play it? Or let me win?
We get most of the way around the table when Jared plays a jack—reverse—and it goes around the other way. My heart thuds louder with every play.
Finally it’s back to me. Bailey has played an eight of diamonds after drawing four cards—she didn’t have another card she could play—so it’s my turn.
“Drum roll,” Morgan shouts.
Everyone puts their cards down and pounds their hands on the table. The whole thing vibrates with their enthusiasm as I slowly reach for the card to flip it over.
A joker—wild.
“Fuck yes!” Morgan rockets up from his seat and sprints around the table. I’m laughing, giddy, so damn pleased with myself. Morgan reaches me and grabs me, tilting me backward in my seat, over his arms, and plants a deep kiss on my lips.
When he sets me back upright, his friends are laughing and sorting the cards. Jared plunks the trophy and the bag of beers on the table in front of me. “Gonna have a drink now?” he asks, a dark eyebrow curling up.
I glance up at Morgan, who’s standing behind me, his hands on my shoulder. He raises an eyebrow and shrugs, leaving it up to me.
“I think I’ll hold off.”
At six o’clock, hours after the end of Sunday Funday, I swing open the door for On the Rocks. The cowbells clang above me and Grandma glances up at them as we cross the threshold.
“This is it?” she asks, looking around with interest. After lunch and helping her with chores in her apartment, I bundled Grandma up into my Civic and brought her to the bar. The usual crowd is here, including the older ladies in the back booth.
After I won the game and was declared Ruler of the Sirens, we stayed at the top for a while.
One by one, the people that had to go to work filtered out, including Morgan.
We’d ridden there together knowing he’d have to stay for work and we’d have to find someone to give me a ride.
Bailey offered, so Morgan left me at the top of the mountain with a kiss so long and slow someone (probably Jared) threw a strawberry at us.
Bailey asked how living together was going and inquired after my grandmother.
“You should bring her into town more, so we can meet her,” she suggested, and the idea stuck with me.
Today I’d expanded my circle and now I could call some of Morgan’s friends my own. Maybe Grandma needed to get outside of her bubble at the retirement community.
Morgan’s at the bar, a rag over one shoulder and both his hands on the counter. He’s grinning at me, and I get a warm feeling all over.
“What kind of chardonnay do you have?” Grandma asks, without even saying hello.
Morgan rattles off a few names and Grandma complains about a few of them—too oaky, too cheap, too dry—before settling on one.
“Do you want a table?” he asks. “I’ll gladly kick someone out for you.”
I throw him a look just as Grandma says “please.”
“Actually, I was going to introduce Grandma around.”
Morgan’s eyes dart to the back booth and he nods. “I’ll bring your drinks over.”
I take Grandma’s arm and guide her away from the bar. We arrive at the table where Mrs. Gardiner, Miss Mullins, and Miss Bright are seated. On my best behavior, I make introductions and ask if we can join them.
Politely, they make room for us. Grandma grumbles as she gets into the booth and loudly says, “So this is where you put the old folks.”
“Well,” Mrs. Gardiner says, affronted.
“I’m seventy-one,” Miss Mullins says cheerfully.
“Eighty-three. Ha,” Grandma says, like it’s a contest. “Where are all the men?”
“Married or dead,” Mrs. Gardiner says levelly.
“Small towns have shit dating prospects,” Grandma declares.
“You have to keep an open mind,” Miss Mullins says.
Miss Bright nods thoughtfully.
“That’s why I didn’t want to move out here. Small towns are high on drama, low on dating prospects. High on backwoods, narrow-minded rednecks—”
“Now wait just a minute there,” Mrs. Gardiner interrupts.
“—low on culture. Hell, I can’t even get a good chardonnay in here.”
Oh Jesus, this is going off the rails.
Morgan brings us our drinks and my grandmother continues to insult small towns and their residents. His eyes widen and he glances at me.
“Okay, okay, okay,” I say over my grandma and Mrs. Gardiner bickering. I have to stand and wave my hands in front of their faces.
Morgan backs away slowly.
Once the women are quiet, I flop back into my seat. “How about this: Morgan and I plan to elope at the courthouse. Discuss.”
Four sets of eyes stare at me.
“The courthouse?” Mrs. Gardiner asks, appalled.
“Can you believe it?” my grandmother adds.
“But . . .” Miss Mullins stares at me. “Where will all the Herevians sit?”
“We wouldn’t invite anyone.”
There’s a collective gasp from the three women.
“But I’ve known Morgan since he was in diapers,” Miss Mullins says.
“Is it money?” Mrs. Gardiner leans in.
“No,” Grandma bites out. “I cut them a nice check and they insist that they can do whatever they want with it.”
“Oh my.” Mrs. Gardiner is scandalized.
“The courthouse has a lot of history,” Miss Mullins allows. “But, oh, dear. It’s not the prettiest. There was a roof leak a few years back and the stain is still there.”
“A big stain,” Miss Bright echoes.
“I tried to tell them to spend at least some of it on a reception. But noooo.”
“There’s a lovely ballroom at Hawthorn,” Mrs. Gardiner says.
Grandma hits the tabletop with her palm. “That’s where I live. I told them!”
“And they don’t want to do it there?”
“No!”
They all turn dubious gazes to me, except for Grandma, who studies the three of them. “Did you have kids? Are they married? Where?” she barks out.
And I spend the next half hour listening to four elderly ladies explain to me just how fabulous a small-town wedding in Here could be.