small gang of hoodlums with no curfew and fewer rules. We’d play Bloody Murder and Ghosts in the Graveyard and ride our bikes around the block until the rubber wore off.
Val had one little girl across the street named Jessie, whose mother didn’t want them playing together after “The Incident.” It’s not like Val was a sassy brat—I remember her being pretty chill for a kid.
Except for that one time.
One afternoon, Val gave Jessie’s long hair a cut without permission. Granted, they were six years old and barely out of kindergarten at the time, so someone should have been watching them.
No one was. No one was ever watching us—our parents couldn’t afford babysitters or childcare. Valerie and I survived on common sense and by the grace of God.
After the horrifying haircut, the two weren’t allowed to play together; us guys didn’t want my little sister tagging along after us, either. It wasn’t the cool thing to do.
So Val had no one. And now? We don’t speak and rarely see each other.
I frown down into my glass.
Shit. I should call my little sister.
Or text. See how she’s doing and what she’s been up to lately.
“B, b, b…” Phillip’s fumbling interrupts my drunken, morose internal monologue. Somehow I missed the fact that my buddies are sitting here, repeating the same letter and B words over and over. “Basket, blanket, blaze.”
“Blowhard, bedazzle, booze.”
Christ, where are they coming up with these so fast? It’s like they’re playing a name game and trying to win a competition.
No. None of those pair well with the word bastard.
“Business, ballbusters, blasted.”
“Break, breaking, breakup.”
Breakup? Hmm, that gives me pause. “Bastard breakup. Bastard…batches.”
We all keep talking at the same time.
“Bastard Bachelor’s Club,” Phillip suggests. It’s a stroke of genius.
Shit, I actually like the sound of that. “Fucking love it.”
Blaine’s nose wrinkles. “Meh. Not loving the word club. That belongs on a treehouse, and we’re not five.”
Has he conveniently forgotten that he was in a fraternity in college, which is a glorified club? One you pay to be a member of?
Still, I humor him. “Fine, come up with a better word than club and that’s what we’ll call it.”
He stares at me like I’m an idiot, raises his glass in the air as if he’s a victorious gladiator. “Society. Boom shakalaka, nailed iiit.”
And the Bastard Bachelor Society is born.
“What’s the club for?” Phillip is palming a handful of nuts, shoving them in his mouth. “Like, why are we doing this when it’s just the three of us?”
“We’re socializing. Relishing the fact that we’re single and ready to mingle. Doing manly things, like smoking cigars and drinking scotch.”
“We’re not all single.” Phillip looks pointedly at Blaine. “And we do those things literally a few times a month.”
No, we’re not all single—but we should be.
Who needs a relationship? Who needs to be coupled?
Not Phillip.
Certainly not me.
We look at Blaine.
“Can we talk about Bambi for a quick second?”
Blaine pauses, glass of liquid halfway to his lips. “What about her?”
Bambi is the girl he’s been seeing. It’s not serious, but I think this one might eventually stick, though she’s a complete Yoko Ono intent on breaking up the band.
“I mean…dude. Bro.” I soften my tone as I break it to him gently. “You can’t really see her anymore.”
“You want me to break up with her?” His voice rises a few octaves.
“Bastard Bachelor Society—the word bachelor is in the name. It won’t work if we’re exclusively dating people.”
“Then why can’t we just change the name?”
“Because.” I sigh, frustrated by his lack of enthusiasm. “It won’t have the same ring to it. Your options are: to not be a member of the society, or to become single.”
Phillip clinks his glass with the fork from the olive bowl. “Guys, we’ve been in business for a whole two seconds—why are you being pricks?”
“We’re bastards, not pricks.” I’m being stubbornly literal, fanning the flames of Blaine’s pity party. I’m kind of drunk and in the mood to be an ass.
My friend’s features contort, mouth a serious line of annoyance. “I like this girl. What the hell would I break up with her for?”
I pick an imaginary piece of lint off the front of my button-down dress shirt. “You won’t win any bets if you’re not single. That makes you ineligible.” My knowledge sounds superior.
“What bets?” he inquires, unsure.
“Back in the day, they had betting books in these gentlemen’s clubs—we can use the notepad in Blaine’s’ phone for keeping track of our bets—and noble blue-blooded dudes would keep track of who