“No shit?” I mumble.
“Yes, shit,” Zebb teases as the man looks at me as if he hadn’t noticed I’m attached to Zebb’s hand.
“It’s pronounced shite,” he corrects, rubbing his hand along a t-shirt that’s exposed by his open Santa jacket.
“Where is the -e then?” Zebb scoffs.
“It’s silent.”
“Exactly, which is why it’s shit.”
“You’re shit.” Santa Mick mocks and glances at me. “How is an angel like you with a man like him?”
My face heats. Certain that he’s referencing the costume, his question still feels like a compliment.
“Eva was the love of my life in high school.”
I . . .what?
I tip my head to look at Zebb. When I see the expression on his face, I’m convinced he’s joking around. Just like this exchange over the pronunciation of Mick’s last name.
Right.Zebb is quite the Christmas cracker, full of glitter and air.
“Yeah, yeah. You and love. Get a drink. Fireball is the specialty tonight.” Mick lifts his glass. “May we all have a snowball’s chance.” He eyes me over the glass. “Or an angel.” He drinks and Zebb gently pushes at his friend’s shoulder.
“Don’t flirt with my date.”
Mick dribbles beer down his t-shirt and roughly swipes at the spill before moving away.
“What a shit,” Zebb mutters as Mick leaves us and we shift through more people calling out Zebb’s name until we reach the bar.
“You made it.” My head turns at the sound of Brock’s voice.
“Your brother is a fireman, too?”
Brock reaches for his brother’s shoulder and jostles him. “How he got the job? Little brother couldn’t do anything without me.” Brock’s words are slurred and his eyes unfocused. He sways toward his younger sibling.
“Yeah, right.” Sarcasm fills Zebb’s muttered response.
“Think we’re going to do good tonight, buddy boy. Probably bring in about fifteen thousand for you and—”
“Can I get you another drink?” Zebb interjects while Brock’s glazed eyes turn to me. If you ask me, he’s had enough of the spiked eggnog already, although I’m certain that’s not what he’s been drinking.
Brock lifts his beer like his arm weighs more than the glass and he salutes his brother. He then pushes off his brother and disappears into the crowd.
“Sorry about that,” Zebb says, watching his brother sway away.
“Should you go after him?”
Zebb exhales. “Nah. He’ll drink another or two and pass out in a corner.”
“That doesn’t sound good.”
Zebb sighs. “It’s a long story. He and his wife split about a year ago and he’s not been handling it well, even though she was a bitch.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” It’s always difficult to hear of marriages failing. I’d definitely lost faith in the institution at a young age, but I did hope others might find a happily-ever-after even if it wasn’t written in the stars for me.
When my mind comes back to the present, Zebb is ordering us two shots of Fireball.