A Toast to the Good Times by Liz Reinhardt, Steph Campbell Page A

turning colder with every passing second. I try to take a bite of crepe, but it’s like ash in my mouth, and I have to throw it down and just sit, surrounded by the rotting remains of the best breakfast to hit the Murphy house all year, alone, secure in the knowledge that every single member of my family thinks I’m a hopeless, idiotic piece of shit do-nothing.
    Jingle fucking bells.

 
     
    Chapter 9
     
    I kick at the snow and wish to god I could transplant myself back to my apartment. I want a start-to-finish do-over of the last two days. I stop at the end of the driveway and stare left, then right, then left again.
    Where the hell am I going to go?
    Not back inside to fight some more. The train station is too damn far to walk, especially in this cold. My nose is burning in the frigid air, and the fact that I only grabbed my hoodie on my way out the door even though there’re thick blasts of flurries swirling down doesn’t help anything- especially my mood.
    Why am I always made out to be the bad guy?
    I start in the direction of the only warm place within walking distance. It isn’t far, and I could probably walk there blindfolded, but its familiarity doesn’t mean that it’s necessarily appealing.
    What it really is , is a last resort.
    A lesser of two evils.
    A testament to how fucking terrible things are right now.
    The exterior of the bar is even less impressive than I remember. I’d never let my place look so piss-poor. The walkway is torn to shit, several stones are missing from the steps, and the awning in the traditional Murphy tartan plaid is ripped.
    Jesus, Pop, no wonder you almost lost the place, it looks like shit.
    I pull the door open, and the warmth of the room floods over me. I’m instantly inundated with memories of sitting on those damn bar stools, watching Dad pour drinks. I was never allowed to touch the bottles.
    “ You can’t pour it until you can appreciate it. ”
    I heard my dad snap that in my direction a million times before my twenty-first birthday, and it never failed to irritate the crap out of me and make me antsy as hell for the day I turned legal. Dad always said that was set in stone by Granddad when he was a kid, so during all those pre-twenty-one years of indentured service, my only jobs were to refill the peanut bowls, sweep, take out massive amounts of garbage, wipe down the bar, and wash and dry trays of dishes.
    I keep my head down, and my eyes trained on the hideous green carpet as I cross the room and pull out one of the black lacquered stools. The husky bartender with the handlebar mustache and chin-patch of a beard, Bergin, has worked here for years and he recognizes me as soon as I sit down, because asking for a little anonymity in this shit hole town, in my family’s bar, is way too much to ask for, even if it is Christmas Eve, and I sure feel entitled to a Christmas miracle right now.
    “Landry? No kidding. What’ll you have, kid?”
    I cringe at the word, kid , and half expect him to pass a Roy Rogers across the bar to me.
    “Nice to see you again, Bergen. Bulleit. Neat.”
    He nods and pours my bourbon.
                  “Rough day, huh?” he asks, sliding the small glass toward me.
    “Rough life,” I mumble.
    There’s a snicker from the man sitting on the stool next to me that dives right under my skin and latches onto my last nerve.
    I gulp down the bourbon and ignore the sting as it flows down my throat and into my mostly empty stomach. I wish I would have gotten to eat those crepes before Paisley’s bombshell decimated our Christmas Eve breakfast.
    “You sure haven’t changed, Landry,” the man in the old flannel shirt next to me says.
    I peer under his low Yankees cap.
    “Rusty? You look like shit, man.” It’s rude, but it’s also Rusty, and he’s one worthless SOB and not exactly someone to bother wasting my best manners on.
    He shrugs in a way that says he knows exactly how wrung-out he looks.
    “So, tell me, what's so