It’s called a Coyote Ugly for those who haven’t had the pleasure.
I have. And since I’ve done it so you don’t have to, it’s not a pleasure. Nor as entertaining as the movie.
You can drown yourself in a bottle of wine to try and soothe the pain of a broken heart.
Men and margaritas.
You can use them, abuse them, and get hangovers from them.
Arguably the hangover from a broken heart is more lingering and painful than any red wine can offer, though my head may disagree with you on that.
So why do we do it? Either of them?
Even taking that first sip, unless you’re a virgin (in both senses of the word), you know what the end result is going to be.
A headache if you’re lucky.
A disaster if you’re not.
But we continue to drink. Because it tastes good. Because it’s fun. Because they offer us something. Escape. Safe haven. And as bad as the hangover is that first day, we seem to forget it with time and become more than willing to start all over again, memories blurred from just how miserable the morning after was.
He had two things in his hands. Coffee cups and a brown paper bag that had grease soaking at the bottom of it.
He held them up. “Thought this might get me through the door.”
I regarded the man with the muscles and the easy smile. The one who was more than dangerous.
Then I looked at the cup and the bag. The thing in there could have been a severed human head but it was deep fried, and I was hungover, so I’d most likely still eat it.
I snatched them. “You thought right, soldier,” I grumbled, turning on my socked heel and stomping back into my living room.
I didn’t like my chances of getting rid of him, and if I was honest—I didn’t have enough energy to lie to myself while hungover—I didn’t want to get rid of him.
“Sore head this morning?” he asked as he sat next to me on the sofa.
Close.
Too close.
He smelled better than the combination of hot caffeine and fried things.
Dangerous.
I glared at him in response.
“Why are you here?” I said instead, sipping the coffee.
“You remember what I said last night?” he asked, grin gone.
I wanted to lie and say I didn’t remember any of the night, that it wasn’t imprinted into my memory. That no amount of cocktails could make me forgot, for some insane and terrifying reason.
“I’m here because of that. Because of bungee jumping, and running and crunchy peanut butter, babe.”
Instead of lying, I nodded.
“Well then, you know. I’m here for you,” he said simply.
Then he glanced to the TV, like it really was that simple. Wrapped up in a little bow and compact, ready for an afternoon of vegging out on the couch.
Which it wasn’t.
You didn’t share a handful of words with someone, two kisses, then come home from war straight to them like they were your sweetheart for months and have some simple explanation for it all.
For us.
I opened my mouth to say a version of this, but of course, Keltan bet me to it.
“What are we watching?”
I followed his gaze to the TV, which was paused right on Audrey Hepburn looking into the Tiffany’s window, coffee in hand, sunglasses on and looking utterly fabulous. You couldn’t even tell how fucked-up she was on the inside.
That was the idea with most women: paint a pretty picture with clothes and hairdos and jewelry and maybe no one will notice the shambles beyond it all.
But I didn’t think of that. Instead, I gaped at Keltan for not recognizing perhaps one of the most iconic stills in movie history.
Well, apart from Marilyn Monroe’s subway grate scene in Seven Year Itch.
“You’re telling me you don’t recognize her?” I pointed to the most gracious woman in popular culture.
He squinted. “Don’t follow celebrity shit, Snow. Kind of don’t have the time to head to the flicks when I’m in a desert full of people trying to kill me.”
I gaped at him. “I’ll be gracious, like Audrey, and forget you referred to her as ‘celebrity shit,’ as long as that’s the one and only time you do so,” I said, my voice ice.
Instead of looking properly chastised, he grinned. I gritted my teeth and continued. Pretended the grin that should have pissed me off made me want to smile.
I didn’t smile. Well, at least not at men. And at least not at men like him.
Not since him.
“What about your childhood?” I asked, not being able to fathom not knowing the classics. Or watching movies.
He grinned. “I was brought up on a farm in rural New Zealand, babe,” he explained, toying with a lock of my hair. “We were up at dawn, milking cows, fixing fences, tailing sheep. My dad died when I was thirteen. I was the oldest, got the responsibility of farm duties. Me and my younger brother took care of the farm until I left for the army, and then he took over.” He volunteered the information so easily, without hesitation, yet the pain was apparent. He didn’t hide that either.