Chapter 19
Nineteen
Olivia
Studs is packed. I don’t normally spend my New Year’s Eve at a lesbian bar third-wheeling with Tori and Ivy, but it was the
only place I could watch the Freeze game without some drunk guy mansplaining hockey to me. With two points in tow, Brody and
the team are en route back to the Cities to celebrate ending the year with a winning record.
“Let’s go around the table and share our resolutions,” Ivy says cheerfully. The sparkling fringe draping off her shoulders
shimmies as she talks. “I’ll start. As you both know, this was a successful year for my taxidermy business thanks to my boy-band
rabbits—Hare-y Styles was a bestseller. Next year, I have my sights set even higher with drag queen rats. My working title
is RatPaul’s Rat Race. My resolution is to be the top taxidermy seller on Etsy. I’m going to dethrone that fish plaque guy
once and for all.” Her closed fist shakes passionately in the air, pumping to the beat of the blaring music.
How big is the market for taxidermized drag queens? If I don’t get my own apartment soon, I’m going to be sleeping next to
Bianca Del Rat. I shudder.
Tori, on the other hand, is delighted by Ivy’s determination.
“Great resolution, babe,” she says, matching her energy.
“Tough to follow something as revolutionary as that, but mine is to drink more water. Which is why I bought this.” She reaches under the table and pulls out a giant stainless steel mug.
Gripping it by the handle, she slams it down on the table.
The ice cubes in my drink shake from the aftershock.
I push it aside, clearing my obstructed view. “Was the Stanley Cup not available for purchase? You’ll be peeing all day if
the water poisoning doesn’t kill you first.”
“The New Year starts tomorrow,” she says, leaning out of her seat to reach the straw. “This is Diet Pepsi.”
“What about you, Liv?” Ivy asks.
They brace themselves for my answer, flinching before I have a chance to open my mouth. My parents used to give the same look
when they’d get called into the principal’s office for an emergency meeting with my teacher.
I’ve never been much of a New Year’s resolution type. The whole thing feels so performative. And even though I love the attention,
I lack the necessary patience needed to outwait the countdown. Why wait on a calendar to give me the go-ahead when I can sneak
in undetected?
“Seriously?” I say, flabbergasted. I look back and forth between them waiting for one to clue in. Ugh. “I’m avenging my dead dad by fake-dating a pro hockey player so I can ruin his family’s legacy. Not to mention, I’m busting
my ass every day in a fifty-pound cat suit so I can eventually afford to move out of a guest room that doubles as an oddity
shop with a pop culture obsession.” I bring my glass to my mouth, but it’s just ice. My frustration grows as I slam it back
down on the table.
Tori grabs Ivy’s face and looks so lovingly into her eyes that I sink in my chair a bit, wanting to hide behind the mug. “Ignore my sister. You’re the most creative person I’ve ever met.” The two begin to passionately make out.
“Ew, gross!” I shout right as someone walks by. They stop and cock their head back, giving me a look of judgment so appalled
that I have no choice but to give my testimony. “Not in a homophobic way! She’s my sister,” I explain.
Tori bursts into laughter and the confrontational stranger continues on their way. “Stop being such a prude. Be a better ally
because technically you shouldn’t be in here.” Tori smirks.
There’s thirty minutes left of this year, and everyone is paired up (or grouped up). I feel like a wet rag. My phone vibrates
against the table, and while Tori and Ivy continue to examine the back of each other’s throat, I check the notification. It’s
Brody. The team landed back in Minnesota, and everyone is heading to the club to make it in time to watch the live broadcast
of the New Year’s Eve ball drop in Times Square. He sends me the location. I let out a loud exaggerated sigh, discreetly slipping
my phone into my purse.
“I think I’m going to call it a night,” I say, forcing a loud fake yawn. “I don’t have another hour of listening to Reneé
Rapp in me.”
Tori gasps. “Just because your sister is a lesbian, doesn’t excuse you from saying homophobic things like that.” Her pursed
lips fight a smile.
I slip out of the booth and into my jacket. “Love you guys. Have fun.”
“Have fun with your fake boyfriend. I hope you know your denial is starting to sound an awful lot like Aunt Lisa and her roommate Holly!” Tori shouts as I head for the door.
Brody’s directions lead to a trendy club with a long line wrapped around the building.
I don’t have to wait out in the cold in my short skirt and heels for too long because he assured me my name is on a list. I sneak past a gathering of people near the entrance, and the bouncer lets me inside.
With the team still on their way, I park myself at the bar with a drink while I wait for everyone to show up.
I’m hoping secrets of the family sort will spill as Brody and I share drinks.
I keep to myself, sipping my espresso martini at the bar. New Year’s Eve Live plays on the TVs mounted above the alcohol selection. There’s just over ten minutes left on the countdown. An anxious energy
hangs in the air as people shuffle around impatiently. I take another sip, hoping to catch a buzz and maybe whatever delusional
optimism fills people when they ring in the New Year.
Some guy slides in beside me, rudely knocking my arm as he pushes closer to the bar. “Here I am. What are your other two wishes?”
he says.
I look at him dumbfounded for a few beats. “What?”
I squeeze my crossed legs together tightly at the sight of his predatory smirk. He finds a way to get closer. The beer stench
seeps off his body like cologne. “I’m hitting on you. Don’t act like you don’t like it.” He slurs his words.
Despite giving him every physical tell that I’m not interested, he brushes my cheek with the back of his stubby fingers. I swat him away like the bug he is and lean so far back
in my chair that I practically fall off.
“Oh, gross. Don’t touch me.”
“Don’t be a bitch.” With the way he lingers on the word bitch, I can tell he takes great pleasure in calling me one.
As I search through the crowd for security, I spot Brody making his way over.
Maybe it’s the martini or maybe it’s the lighting, but he looks better than ever.
There’s a casualness to his appearance that highlights his natural charm—he’s just got it and doesn’t have to try.
A T-shirt, jeans, sneakers; effortlessly cool. A guy like him will always be in style.
“Is everything okay?” Brody asks, stepping between us.
“Bro, I called dibs.”
I tuck my chin into my chest, feeling self-conscious of the growing attention.
“She’s not interested.” Brody places his hand against the guy’s chest, stiff-arming him out of my personal bubble. Every muscle
in his arm flexes under the strain of the guy’s resistance.
The guy looks down at Brody’s hand on his chest. “And who are you, her boyfriend?” The guy looks back at me with newfound
disgust. Denial has soured his evening and ruined the illusion of me. It’s a much better feeling than when he was looking
at me like something to claim.
I panic a bit hearing the word boyfriend—so loud and so public. But he’s right, Brody is acting like a boyfriend, in the same way I acted like his girlfriend at the
pharmacy. Maybe this is what we do for each other?
I step up on the guy, filled with a sudden bravado and confidence that comes with being linked to Brody. “Actually, he’s Brody
fucking Parker and you’re nobody.” I point at him aggressively, my eyes narrowing. This guy will take the hint any second
now and back off like he should have from the start.
The guy’s shoulders drop as he relaxes into a smile and eventually a bit of smug laughter. “Parker? You’re the hockey player,”
he says. He looks Brody up and down before snarling into a shitty grin. “What are you going to do? Karate chop me?”
Before Brody can respond, I’m lunging forward. “He’s Korean, you idiot!” I cock my fist then release it through the air, slamming
right into the guy’s face.
Commotion erupts and I feel someone grab my body and toss me over their shoulder.
I kick and scream, trying to resist the pull before I realize it’s a bouncer three times my size.
As I’m being dragged away like a toddler throwing a tantrum, I look up to find that asshole being helped to his feet with blood leaking from his nose.
I’m quickly dumped outside on the curb like trash.
Brody shoves his way out the door, rushing over to me.
Helping me to my feet, he says, “Olivia! You absolutely dropped that guy.” With his face lit with adrenaline, he asks, “Did
your dad teach you to punch too?”
I straighten myself out, raking my hair back into place and pulling the hem of my skirt down my thighs. “No, but I’m pretty
sure I inherited it from him.”
“As awesome as it was, you didn’t have to do that. I was going to take care of it.”
“And risk messing up your hand? The Freeze are on a hot streak. I don’t want to be responsible for taking you out of the lineup
with a broken hand.”
Brody’s face falls into a bewildered stare. His blinking slows. “I wasn’t going to punch him. I was going to have him kicked
out of the club.” He points back to the giant bouncer standing guard at the door. The two share a friendly wave.
“Ohhhhhh,” I say, sheepishly waving back.
Tonight’s midnight chill is brisk enough to cool my hot head, but not the racing of my pulse. Drunk smokers gather on the
curb for their fix. I look into Brody’s eyes and crave him.
Brody takes my hand in his. “Is your hand okay?” he asks.
I shorten the distance between us with a step. Tiny pressure cuts decorate my red knuckles. Brody pulls my hand to his mouth.
It throbs in concert with my heart. He blows gently across the wounds and my knees buckle.
“It’s fine.” My voice cracks as I take back my hand. “I love punching racist assholes. They usually don’t have much going
on upstairs, so they drop pretty easily.”
I close my hand into a fist and flinch as a wave of pain shoots up to my wrist. I immediately relax it.
“We need to ice your hand.”
“Yeah. I think it’s broken.”
I look down at the snowbank beside me and think about shoving my fist in it, but my knees are already quaking from the frigid
temperature.
“Come on, there’s a convenience store a couple blocks away. Let’s get you a Bomb Pop.” Brody pushes the crosswalk button and
wraps an arm around my shoulder.
“I prefer Dippin’ Dots.”
“It’s not to eat, silly. It’s for your hand.”
Hand in noninjured hand, on a quiet sidewalk in the middle of the night, my sometimes boyfriend and I take in the New Year.