Midnight Tongue Action

A light tap, tap-tap, tap bounces against my front door. I recognize my sister’s knocking pattern from anywhere, but my dog, Lola, warns the stranger behind the door that she’s big. However, if a real stranger were on the other side, she’d pee on the entry rug and run to my office to hide under the desk. 

“Coming!” I shout. One look in the mirror and I’m a tad peeved. Half of my makeup isn’t blended, and I’ve only styled the bottom section of hair. Lydia has a key, for Christ’s sake. I slip on my ratty slippers. From the top of the stairs, I can make out my sister’s glossy hair through the window on the door. I decided the $1,200 front door renovation was necessary, as the previous door—according to the carpenter that checked it out—would, “Stay stuck like that for the summ’uh, and be a drafty bitch in the win’uh.” As a bonus, the new one lets me see if we’re dealing with real or Lola threats.

Overall, I’ve spent almost seventy-five percent of my divorce settlement. First, there was the $500,000 beat-up home in Dorchester, right outside of Boston proper; then the $170,000 in renovations—so far; and you’re almost at the one million “jackpot”—his best friend, Connor’s, word choice—I received. Needless to say, no new slippers for now.

Descending the stairs, Lola shoots me a silent “thank you” for coming to her rescue from the scary intruder.

The only thing scary about my sister is her knowledge of my awkward middle school years.

I switch the deadbolt and swing open the door. “Where’s your key?”

She rolls her big blue eyes. “Ello Heather,” she says in an obnoxiously fake British accent, “it’s lovely to see you on this brilliant eve of a New Year. May I enter?” I open the door wider and she brushes past me, setting her giant designer purse on the antique entryway table. Lola charges, happy growling with a toy duck in her mouth, realizing it’s her favorite Aunt. Lydia drops to her knees to scratch Lola’s ears, golden fur flying.

“How will you get back into your house?”

Lydia finishes making baby noises at my puppy-dog and responds, “The garage code.” She shoots me an annoyed look. “Why aren’t you ready?”

Her discerning eyes track from head to toe, then toe to head, taking note of my half-done everything: hair, make-up, and outfit—tights, strapless bra, and bathroom robe.

I check my watch, worried I’m running late. But it highlights it’s ten-til-seven. “Because it’s early? I thought the party started at nine.”

“It does.” Lydia walks into the kitchen and gets some water. “But I want to beat the Uber surcharge.” Under the lighting of my kitchen, her Cartier tennis bracelet glistens. The same bracelet she bought for herself when she gave birth to Colin. Her husband bought her Volvo.

“Okay…” I mentally flip through my routine. I could speed up and be ready in fifteen minutes. But I wanted to avoid psyching myself out and sweating through my hair, make-up, and outfit. A solid hour-plus-more was the plan. 

My ex stopped working with Lydia this fall, opting for a job at a competing consulting firm. She confirmed the guest list with an assistant and reassured me the venue would be large enough if any of his friends showed up. But, above all, he wouldn’t be there. 

“What do you want to do before the party?”

Lydia walks past me and up the stairs. “Didn’t you get my text? I thought we could hit a bar around Faneuil.” She shoots right down the hall to my bedroom. Her heels click and clack against the original hardwood while it squeaks and creeks behind her.

She flops onto my bed, jumps back up, grabs her butt cheek in pain, and looks behind her to see my face-down phone. She lifts it up to clearly see a running list of missed notifications. “I guess not.” She tosses it back to the general location she found it. “What are you wearing?” She lifts her feet out of the heels and bounds to my closet. 

I make my way back into my bathroom. “It’s hanging on my dresser. I don’t really want to get drunk before the party, Lyd. His friends could show up.”

The light thud of bare feet skipping bleeds into the noise of my heatless curler. 

“Ew! No!” pierces right through. 

Lydia stomps into my bathroom. “You are not wearing that.”

I turn off the wand. “Why not?”

“You’ll look like a lawyer.”

“I am a lawyer…”

“Ugh,” she rolls her eyes. “You know what I mean.”

Anyone who’s met us assumes I’m the older sister. Growing up, it didn’t help that I was taller than Lydia when I was five, and so on for the rest of our lives. Nor did it help when Lydia chose a lucrative career with hours she found a way to control even in those entry years, leaving time for pilates and botox. 

You would never guess she was thirty-two to my twenty-nine.

“Here,” she returns a few minutes later with a sparkly black dress. With her right hand, she twists it back and forth, revealing its utterly open back and questionably short hem. Her left hand sets a bubbly, clear drink on my vanity.

“I can’t wear that.”

She hangs it on the hook behind my bathroom door. “Sure you can.” She giggles and smacks me on the butt. “Drink that,” she points to the glass.

I set the wand down and take a wary sip of the mystery drink. The burn of a heavy pour of tequila coasts down my throat, chased by the dash of soda water she topped off the glass with.

I cough a little. “Are you trying to get me drunk?”

“Yes,” she punctuates with a sharp nod.

Worry snakes up my spine. My lawyer-voice slips in. “Why are you trying to get me drunk?”

“Oh, chill out! None of them will be there. I just want you to get some midnight tongue action.”

***

Once I finished getting ready and finished the “drink” Lydia poured me, she acquiesced to pre-game at my house. And for me to bartend.

After two drinks, a FaceTime with John—her husband—to get his take on what I should do to renovate the upstairs guest bath, a turned-down joint Lydia packed, and Lydia’s enhancement of my eye makeup, we climbed into the back of an Uber. A little buzzed, I tried to convince Lydia to take the T instead, but she insisted—and was correct in her persistence—that we shouldn’t hop on busy public transport while “a bit wobbly”—said in that earlier British accent—this time a tad more convincing.

The small-size SUV rolls down Atlantic Avenue, giving us brief glimpses of the holiday-lit Harbor. 

Before we hit the North End and a wave of melancholy washes over me, the Uber pops a u-ey and sends us in the other direction, finally turning onto State Street.

“Thanks, Harry,” Lydia warmly tells our driver.

I stare up at the sky-kissing building. I’ve been here for weddings, holidays, alumni events, galas, and so much more over the last eight years I’ve been in the city. Doesn’t matter, though; my palms still sweat thinking of the beautiful—but very, very high—views.

Through the glass doors, at a long table adorned in a Paxton Press tablecloth, stands a handful of bouncers. Lydia spouts off our names, and we’re guided toward the special elevators to reach the top. 

A team of people await to take our coats and hand us half-filled glasses of champagne. 

As we walk down the hallway, my reflection scares me, thinking some young, tight-dressed-clad woman is walking right behind us. I pull the hem of the dress down before we walk into the main event.

“Lydia, you made it.” Kenneth Trist, her boss, greets my sister with a kiss on her cheeks. He looks over her shoulder and spots me. “Oh, Heather,” he sounds a little shocked. “Glad you could, ugh, make it.” He gives me a kind smile but no kiss on the cheeks, as he would have just one year ago.

“Me too, Kenneth. How’s everything going at Paxton?”

Lydia interrupts, aware that small talk with my ex’s boss isn’t how I want to start the evening. “Boo, work. Kenneth, what’s the best hors d'oeuvres, and where do we stand to get the first pick?”

He lets out a rounded laugh. “The ceviche and upstairs between the bar and the double doors.”

She leads me away up a pair of stairs. I patiently climb, trying hard to control the hem from riding and my stilettos from slipping off a step. Lydia breezes right on up, used to walking around in sky-high heels to assert her dominance in her male-dominated field. 

When she reaches the last step, she turns around, and I’m surprisingly just five behind.

“Jesus, you look so hot.”

I huff out a short laugh.

She gives me a light, backhanded smack. “I’m not joking. You know, that dress is from college.”

“It’s yours?”

After the divorce was finalized, I developed a bad habit of exercising. I counted down the days until I could go home, take Lola for a run, make dinner, ride my Peloton, and finish off with a cardio class. 

Weight peeled off, but the weight of failure over my divorce, where I stood in life, and an existential crisis waited until I finally cracked. 

Ended up right back in therapy. And apparently able to fit in my sister’s clothing. 

“Yep.” She leads me to the bar by the double doors, takes my glass of champagne, and places both of ours in the return section. To one of the bartenders, she orders, “One tequila with double soda, and one double tequila with soda. Both with limes.”

“I’m afraid to ask which is mine.”

“Good.”

She takes a sip of each drink passed to her and hands me the one that puts a scrunched look of disgust on her face. I take a tentative sip and scrunch my face in commiserative disgust.

***

Two hours or so go by while Lydia bounces us around the room, talking to Mr. This, Mr. That, Mr. Him with Mrs. Her, Ms. She, Mr., Mr., Dr., Mr., oh, and Mr.

It’s all going well until I peek over the railing and spot Connor McCoyd among a sea of Korey’s old posse. He looks up and makes eye contact. My stomach gives out, old hurt clawing up my spine.

“What are you looking at—oh, crap, they weren’t supposed to be here!”

I watch as Connor pats some other guys on their shoulders, but Lydia drags me away from the balcony before they can turn and look at me.

Walking backward, Lydia profusely apologizes to me. “I swear on my husband and child’s grave—”

“—Don’t do that.—”

“—they were not supposed to be here tonight. We can leave right now if you want and get trashed at a bar in Southie!” I try to dig in my heels since she’s not paying attention “If it makes you feel better, they’ve come up to me and apologized so many—” her body slams into a tall guy.

Oofs huff out of them both.

Lydia whips around. “Oh, Jeremy, I’m sorry. Did I spill your drink?”

A very handsome man turns around with a huge, straight, white smile. “I should have known it’d be you.”

She swats at him playfully, and focuses her attention on the woman across from him. “Did I get anything on you? I’m sorry!”

The woman waves off Lydia in a friendly manner as she blotches at her dress. “It’s black. I’ll just rinse it out. But you’ll pay my tip, Lydia.” She walks away.

I’m still staring at him, lost in a weird, drunken trance. 

Lydia’s head swings back and forth between us.

“Heather! This is Jeremy Redding.” Hiding behind his shoulder while we shake hands, she waggles her eyebrows and points to her dangling tongue. Stepping back towards his side, she introduces me. “Jeremy just moved here from New York City.”

“This must be so boring, then.”

He tilts his head. “How so?”

“New York on New Year's Eve… This must pale in comparison.”

“Eh,” he takes a big sip of his amber-colored drink while tracking me slightly with his eyes. “I think it holds its own.”

“Jeremy, tell my sister about your trip to Peru.”

He gives my sister a look, squeezing his eyebrows together. “You want me to tell your sister how I got lost in a country where I don’t speak the language and got arrested?”

“Of course! I need to run to the lady’s room. My sister can tell you all about ways to avoid arrest in the future.” Lydia doesn’t give me a second to protest and darts off.

“Can you really?”

“I haven’t ever practiced international law. But I might be able to help you with the criminal aspect.”

“DA’s office?”

“Nope. Tate, Vaughn, and Carroll.”

“Business law firm. What does that have to do with crime?”

I raise my eyebrows at him. “You tell me.”

He leans in and whispers in my ear. “Am I in trouble with the SEC?”

I whisper right back. “Look around. ‘It's like someone hit a pinata full of white people who suck at golf.’”

He leans back and gives me the same huge smile from before. “I’m in consulting, not the stock market. Big difference.”

“Let’s just say I don’t trust finance bros all that much.”

“With your money?”

“More than that. My ex is one.”

“Don’t let one bad boyfriend spoil the whole bunch.”

“Husband.”

“Pardon?”

“Husband. Ex-husband.”

I watch the color drain from his face, just like the rest. 

Over the last seven months, after the ink was dried and I knew I couldn’t be a woman scorned forever, I did make an effort to “get back out there.” Well, it took some dragging, kicking, and screaming on behalf of Lydia. Nonetheless, I went on dating apps for the first time in eight years and blind dates set up by friends. I even went to three farmers' markets on Saturdays, begging for a meet-cute.

Without fail, as soon as a man heard “ex-husband,” they mentally subtracted me from the roster.

“Wow. That’s… cool.” His description makes me release a startled laugh. Over his glass, he sends me a flirty smile. “Cheers to losing the dead weight?”

I lift up my glass. “Cheers.”

“So where does he—”

“—Oh, please, let’s not talk about him. Tell me, what brought you to Boston?”

“Obviously the weather.” We both laugh at his dry humor.

“From New England, Mr. Sarcastic?”

“Nope, Seattle born and raised. Just moved here this year after getting recruited.”

“Recruited by Paxton. You must be good.”

“Of course I am. Everyone here is.” He leans in close to whisper. “But no one is as good as your sister. If you tell her I said that, I’ll deny everything.” He bumps me with his shoulder, and I feel my cheeks blush. I briefly glimpse at his lips when he pulls away. Butterflies erupt in my stomach like I’m back in middle school with my first crush.

“Heather.” I tense up at the familiar voice coming from behind me.

“Connor,” I smile at Jeremy with no teeth and roll my eyes. The resemblance to my sister was never as akin. “How are you—” I’m cut off mid-spin as I come face-to-face with not only Connor, but my ex-husband, Korey.

Connor squeezes Korey’s bicep. “Told you it was her. How are you? It’s been forever.” It looks like he’s going to hug me, but I cross my arms, ignoring the slosh of liquid against my hand.

“Korey, how’ve you been?” Jeremy reaches around me to shake my ex’s hand.

I stare tight-jawed, stunned. 

“You look great,” Are the first words my ex says to me since we walked out of a cold law office.

“How do you two know each other?”

“Korey recruited me from New York. How do you two—Oh.”

The four of us are consumed by a bubble of awkward silence.

“Are you two…” Korey refuses to finish his sentence. Friends? Lovers? Dog walkers? 

I’m saved by the vibration of my phone in my clutch. I see Lydia’s name and a picture of her and Colin lit up on my screen, with an option to accept an incoming FaceTime. I lift my head around Jeremy’s shoulder and lock eyes with my big sister.

***

We stand outside snuggled up in our oversized coats. “Are you sure you want to leave?” I look around the street at everyone milling around, finding where they want to be when the new year begins twenty minutes from now.

“Of course.” She lets out a huge sigh, but thankfully doesn’t drag out an awkward apology or try to find the right, yet wrong, words to say. Instead, she says perfectly: “Anyways, I want to make it home in time to kiss my boys.”

“Gotta get that New Year’s Kiss.” I give her a soft smile.

“Oh, dammit! You didn’t get your kiss!” She twists as if she’s going to rush us back inside or search for the closest, least-seedy bar.

“No, no, no. It’s fine. Maybe next year,” I shrug.

Lydia’s Uber pulls up to the curb. She gives me a big hug. “Next year will be your best year yet.” She opens the door and says goodbye with, “Text me when you get home.”

***

I look down at my watch. “Uh, just in time.” I open my front door as fireworks go off in the background. Lola barrels toward me, jumps, and puts her paws on my shoulders to greet me with slobbery wet kisses all over my face.

Giggling, I dodge her tongue from getting inside my mouth. “Got that midnight tongue action, after all.”