Next to James is my childhood best friend, Brad. Just a few inches shorter than James, Bradley Patrick is tall and muscular. Built like a cop, my dad, Dan, says. Brad is slouched in his seat and asleep with his jaw hanging open and drool slinking down his unshaven chin. He is not at his best. He looks like he hasn’t showered in days, and his stubbly face indicates that my guess is likely true. I admire the way his slight gut is peeking out above the waistline of his jeans. I want to poke his belly, though I know better—for he might fart or belch without waking.
Brad may be handsome and have a certain appeal about him, but he is pure Southie: a loud, brash man with a thick Boston accent and whose idea of culture is trying different beers. When he went to the academy with James, my parents saw stars in their eyes. They thought their son would be a cop and their daughter would marry one. Brad’s parents, John and Emily Patrick, have been friends with my family since well before James’s arrival, and they have long since been praying that Brad and I would settle down together. I have instructed them not to hold their breath. I have never, not ever, wanted to be a cop’s wife.
Finally, on James’s other side is Lindsay’s boyfriend and the newest addition to our group, Adam Stuart. Sure, they’ve been dating for nearly three years—and living together for two—but he’s still the new kid. Adam is handsome in an academic way. He’d rather study a gun than fire one—unlike the meatheads next to him—even though he is a pretty good shot. His shaggy black hair hangs in his eyes. He is a graceful sleeper, nary a sound. I adore Adam and his Southern twang. His gentle Southern nature is in sharp contrast to Brad’s abrasive, Northeastern demeanor. I also adore the fact that Adam seems is able to calm Lindsay down. She stresses out like nobody I’ve ever seen (and I thought I was a perfectionist.)
Darla nudges James a few times until he stirs. His arms fly wildly at his sides, smacking both Brad and Adam in the process. I giggle unabashedly at the sight. Brad and Adam stare him down as they adjust to being awake. James is still sleeping, but they don’t allow this for long. With an exchange of devilish grins, the pair begins jovially slapping the big oaf. Our group is, once again, drawing the attention of everyone around us, including security. I try to voice my concerns, but it’s no use.
I’m going in.
I carefully watch for James’s flying arms as he bats away stray limbs that have found their way to his face, and I throw myself into Brad’s lap, narrowly avoiding a black eye. He makes a grunting sound as I land and loosely wraps his arms around my waist.
“Hey, pretty girl,” he groans dramatically. He is not in pain, the crybaby. “Are you gonna expect me to tip you for this lap dance?” I roll my eyes. He’s laying his accent on thick, even for him—something he normally only tries with tourists. I don’t understand why, but women go crazy for the thick Boston Irish accent, especially when they find out he’s a big shot detective. I consider smacking him and reminding him that I know him, and have known him, my entire life. That accent coupled with his striking red locks and baby-blue eyes make Brad the poster boy for Southie.
I try to wiggle out of his grasp and lament that the only reason I threw myself into his lap was to stop them from smacking my brother. James is momentarily mistaken and believes I was acting out of sisterly devotion rather than a strong desire to avoid airport jail. I don’t bother to correct him, but he picks up on my base motivation when the security guard approaches and strongly urges us to settle down.
I suddenly feel like I’m back in middle school and I’ve been implicated in James and Brad’s cherry bomb prank. So what if I lit the fuse? It wasn’t my idea.
“What time is it?” Brad stretches, arms still around my waist; and yawns, his breath blowing in my face. I grimace. He really needs a toothbrush, or a breath mint. Maybe a routine cleaning wouldn’t be such a bad idea.
I look at my watch, “It’s four.” I sigh. After this morning’s flight delay we were upgraded to first class, but only after being informed that we wouldn’t be flying out until six this evening.
“Let’s get those drinks, shall we?” I squirm out of Brad’s grasp and move towards Darla, Lindsay, and Adam, who are already heading to Boston Beer Works just down the terminal from us.
“Great, I need a beer,” Brad says, letting off a small belch at the end. With his accent, it sounds like he’s saying beah. Whereas I’ve spent countless hours trying to eliminate my accent, Brad’s seems to have gotten thicker with age.
Brad stands up and blatantly adjusts himself for all to see. He is worse than my two-year-old nephew when it comes to touching himself in public. At least Alex has an excuse; he’s a toddler. Brad, however, skirts the boundaries of indecency every chance he gets. Working-class or not, some things are just inappropriate in public. He catches me looking and gives himself a little honk and he raises his brows. I will have to remember to ask Darla why she invited him.