Tequila Americano

16. dream

January, 2012

"Remi, I have to tell you something."

The window whistled and clattered with the storm raging outside. Ingrid sat up in her creaky bed, holding the blanket up to her bare chest. The dusty lamp on the nightstand cast a dim glow on her face, the rest of the matchbox room thrown into cold darkness.

"What is it, baby?"

Remi put his lighter to the stub of a joint and drew a breath from it. She waited until he exhaled the smoke.

"I'm getting married."

He laughed, but she wasn't even smiling. His laughter stopped, then started up again.

"You can't be fucking serious!" Remi kept the cigarette between his lips as he pushed himself into an upright position. "Who're you getting married to?"

She stared down at her neatly trimmed nails. "Remember my boss, Jack Astor?"

A guttural chuckle. "Dude who screwed you on his desk at work? Yeah, I remember. I had to cut you off that night, 'cause you almost drank yourself into a coma. Ah, good times."

Her cheeks ignited with a blush, invisible in the room immersed in shadows.

"Well," she cleared her throat, "he proposed last month."

Remi puffed out rings of smoke. "Why, he got you pregnant or something?"

Ingrid punched his shoulder.

"What?" He rubbed at the spot. "It's a legit reason. The only reason I can think of, actually. Wasn't the old geezer already married?"

Ingrid rolled her eyes. "He's not that old. Besides, his divorce has just come through."

"Baby, listen." He sucked the joint dry and stretched over her to extinguish it on the nightstand. His features hardened into a serious countenance. "If you wanna get rid of me, you just have to say so."

She frowned at him. "You think this is about you? I'm only telling you because, obviously, we won't be doing this after I'm married."

Remi grinned. "Guess I'm not invited to the wedding, then?"

Ingrid shook her head, looking almost sad. "There won't be much of a wedding to speak of. Just... you know, the bare legal necessities."

"Hey." He cupped her face and made her look up at him. "Are you sure you wanna do this?"

She gulped. "I... it's the best thing that could have ever happened to someone like me, isn't it?"

"That's bullshit. You're fucking awesome. You've made it so far practically on your own. What's an old dick like that jackass gonna do for you?"

Sighing, Ingrid slid back down under the covers. "I'm... I think I'm tired, Remi. So fucking tired of this life on the run. Maybe I should try settling down. And what better place for that than Uncle Sam, the land of opportunity? Try my hand at this American Dream thing."

"Well, good luck with that, baby," Remi retorted, matter-of-factly. "The American Dream's a fucking nightmare."

*

December, 2017

Ingrid spent the last week of the year catching up with her crew, writing well-wishes, packing and posting belated presents – now that she had a renewed lease on life and one clear, big goal to go with it, she started to feel strikingly generous. Her Midas touch, as Edgar had called it, was back up and running and she'd be damned if she let it go to waste.