The Wedding Gift - Chapter 6 - Harrison

Perhaps I overreacted a little, but in my defense, I was completely drunk. It was my wedding, so I had every right to get wasted and pissed at people who aimed to ruin my day. My life, even.

Yes, I did smash an expensive bottle of Scottish whiskey against the Irish guy’s fucking head. And I would do it again because the guy is an asshole.

Normally, I’m a friendly and harmless guy—everyone would confirm that. But not when I lose a shit load of money—I am not!

You see, I like money, but not for the reason most people do. I don’t really care about having a fucking Porsche in my garage, a huge house with a pool, or any of that shit. I want enough zeros in my bank account so everyone will leave me the fuck alone and just let me be. Especially my boss. And any of my potential future bosses too.

Ever since high school, I thought I’d become a judge. I don’t know whether it was TV that influenced my decision or whether I just had it in me from the day I was born, but none of the family members I knew has ever graduated from law school. I was the first to do it. Studies were a real grind, and pulling an all-nighter before the exam wasn’t anything unusual. On top of that, writing a fifty-five-page thesis on criminal law, which by the way was pure gibberish no sane person would ever want to read, was a nightmare and a complete waste of my time. But every time I was ready to give up, I told myself to suck it up and suffer through a few more years till I’d finally start making good money. That one day, I’ll be thanking the younger me for making this sacrifice.

Bullshit.

After getting my master’s degree, I applied for judicial clerkship and . . . didn’t pass the interviews. Then I waited a few months, only to get rejected again and again, because some of these assholes got in thanks to their family connections. In that exact moment, I decided to ditch this path for good and start making money a different way. I became a corporate lawyer.

I used to like my job, but now I’m mostly frustrated, tired, or bored. The days of interesting and challenging are long gone. Not to mention the raise. That one hasn’t happened for quite a while now. And no . . . switching companies doesn’t help.

So I took matters into my own hands. Two of my friends and I got into playing poker a while ago, and, as I quickly found out, I was pretty good at it. The first time I made any money from it, I won my monthly salary in a few hours. It suddenly hit me—that job was going nowhere, so I thought, Fuck it; I might as well go all in and chase the life I actually want.

Not to mention, there were poker tournaments held around the world that could make me a millionaire.

Playing poker allowed me to feel excitement and purpose I haven’t felt for years. It meant that I didn’t have to work for these or any other assholes for the rest of my life. I could be the master of my own fate. And time.

But my wife, Paulina, thinks that I’m addicted, like some kind of junkie. I wish she understood that I also do it for her—for our future. She’s happy at her job, doing her little projects, almost never stressed out, hardly ever complaining, and hardly ever having to deal with stupid people like I do.

But she’s not a saint. She’s the reason I attacked the Irish guy in the first place.

The night we met Conor for the first time, I noticed that my wife enjoyed spending time with the new guy a little too much—she constantly smiled at him and laughed at everything he said. So much so that they ended up making out somewhere in the corner of the club. I know because I saw them, but they were so focused on each other that they failed to notice me walking by.

It was just a few weeks before the wedding, so I didn’t feel like bringing it up. I love her—and it wouldn’t change anything between us anyway.

 I was just waiting for my wife to confess. But she never did. She insisted on starting fresh and going into this marriage with a clean slate, to forget anything that happened before our wedding day. I would have nothing against it, except that she and Conor kept texting each other days after that night.  

Anyway, fuck that lottery ticket and fuck the Irish guy. Everyone thinks I’m the bad guy, but the truth is that I am the victim here.