Honey, Make This Easy

Part 1

It had been years since you'd heard the name Kiszka, and the shock of it caused you to choke on your gin and tonic. You brushed away the thin trickle of liquid that had managed to make its way out your nose and winced through squinted eyes.

"I'm sorry, did you say Kiszka?" You asked, suppressing your splutters as best you could.

"Yeah, my buddy Sam Kiszka," replied Matt, your host for the evening as you and your friends lounged in his living room, smoking and drinking. "He and his brothers just bought a bar in town, they're opening up this weekend and we've all been invited to the party."

You willed your face to remain neutral as you asked, "Brothers?"

Based on Matt's expression, you can tell you weren't successful. "Uh, yeah. Jake and Josh, do you know them, or something?"

"Yeah. Or something."

"Okay, I'm ready for shots," Your friend Riley announced, abruptly, causing vocal agreement from the rest of the room. You looked to him, and he tilted his head in question, silently asking if you were okay. As the rest of your friends got up to make their way towards the kitchen, your awkward questions forgotten, you gave him a nod and a mouthed Thank you. Riley raised his brows, and you knew that this was a conversation he would be having with you later. You sighed and heaved yourself from the couch, suddenly needing a shot, too.

You loved your friends that you'd made here in the past year since moving to Nashville, but you weren't ready to share your Kiszka-history with the class.

It's no surprise to you that, of all your friends, Riley noticed something was off. He'd been the first person you'd really connected with since moving. He was your first Tinder date, and you were seeing each other for a while before it became clear that the two of you were meant to be friends. He had introduced you to his friends who quickly became your own, and made Nashville feel like a home. You also knew that Riley was one of the best listeners you'd ever met, so whenever it was time to confess your past, it would be to a sympathetic ear.

During the week, you couldn't escape the thought of the Kiszkas, whether it was Matt setting plans in the group chat for the bar's opening, hearing John Denver while getting groceries, or seeing Birkenstocks everywhere you went, the reminder that you would be seeing them in a few days' time plagued you.

On Thursday, Riley sent you a picture of a bottle of wine with the message Be there in 10.

You unlocked your door and mentally prepared for interrogation.

Ten minutes later, you heard your apartment door open and from your couch you called out, "If you're a murderer, I won't put up a fight. If you're Riley, I hope you brought more than just one bottle of wine."

In response, you got an aggressive hand ruffling your hair, "I brought three just in case. And who knows? Maybe by the end of the night, I'll have finally decided I'm ready to kill you."

Riley flopped down next you and unceremoniously dropped a bottle of merlot in your lap. You looked at him, hoping your expression showed something akin to annoyance as opposed to the dread that had been living in your gut all week.

"Oof," Riley grimaced. "It's a good thing I brought the third bottle."

You groaned and threw your head back against the couch, "Okay, just... let me get through this and you can ask any questions when I'm done, deal?"

Riley nodded, and you unscrewed the cap off the bottle (thank God, since you'd lost your corkscrew) and took a swig, forgoing either glass you'd brought to your coffee table when Riley had texted you.