The First Law of Love by Abbie Williams

—”
    â€œBud, go get me a drink,” Marshall interrupted his little brother.
    Wy responded, “No way.”
    â€œYou want a beating?” Marshall teased. “Besides, Tish needs a new one now too.”
    Wy huffed a long-suffering sigh. I told him, “Maybe just a soda this time,” and he nodded, kicking at Marshall’s ankle as he walked past.
    â€œYou’ll be working for Al, right?” Jessie asked me then.
    I nodded. “Yes, for the summer. I saw his office on the way here. I’m supposed to meet Al tomorrow.”
    â€œHe’s a good guy,” she went on, sipping from her beer. “My grandpa just retired, but he worked with Al for years.” She clarified, “Grandpa is the ‘James’ of Howe and James. He was just saying at Sunday dinner last weekend that he’s so glad that someone is coming to help out Al. He said what we need around here is some young blood.”
    â€œI’ll do my best,” I promised, picturing the two lists of surnames I had memorized. Even as fuzzy as my thoughts were at the moment, I recalled a family named James on the Unsold side.
    â€œWatch out for Derrick Yancy,” Marshall startled me by saying. He rocked the glider into gentle motion and added, “He’s been working on Al for a month now. He’s such a big-city bastard. He’ll look at you as a prime target.”
    I sat a little straighter. “Prime target for what, exactly?”
    â€œWheeling and dealing,” Sean said, cupping his hand around Jessie’s thigh and patting her twice. He said, “He’ll see you as someone he can convince that he’s in the right, that folks around here are better off selling to his company and moving elsewhere.”
    â€œSome people seem to think he’s in the right,” I said, as Wy returned with a beer for Marshall and another gin and tonic for me. I said, “Thanks,” sort-of forgetting that I had asked for soda, no alcohol.
    â€œEver since the power plant closed down last year, times have been tough around here,” Sean said. “It was so unexpected too. Just around Christmas, for God’s sake.”
    â€œAl was saying something about that,” I said. My thoughts were pinwheeling a little bit. A lot bit.
    Shit, lay off the drinks , I told myself.
    â€œDinner, everyone,” Clark said, emerging from the house carrying a platter of sweet corn.
    It was then that I tried to stand and instead stumbled, my drink spilling. Wy and Marshall simultaneously caught me, almost as though we had choreographed it, each of them grasping an elbow, one on either side.
    â€œYou guys, I’m so sorry,” I babbled. My shorts and legs were soaked with gin. “I’m drunk…”
    Everyone was laughing then, to my relief, rather than staring in stun at my ridiculous behavior.
    â€œIt’s just that I haven’t eaten all day…” I mumbled.
    Clark, reassuring and decisive, just like a dad, came near and said, “Hon, how do you feel about being a houseguest this evening?”
    â€œI think that sounds great,” I told him.
    ***
    Sunday morning I woke up staring at wooden beams. I blinked, absorbing the sight of sunlight streaking through a tall window to the right of the bed, creating a rich tint like iced tea on the ceiling. I blinked again, my mouth so dry it was almost impossible to swallow, a headache sprouting just behind my right eye.
    I could hear the sounds of everyone downstairs, the Rawleys probably having breakfast and marveling at how unprofessional I was, up here in their guest bedroom after having been too loaded to even join them for supper. Instead, Clark had escorted me up here while Wy fetched my travel bag from my car. Without so much as undressing, I had collapsed on the bed and now here I lay in the morning light. Smelling coffee perking, hearing laughter and chatter from below, embarrassed as hell.
    My phone chirped