“Probably for the best,” I tell her. “Guys in their twenties aren’t that great.”
She peers up at me from her drink, and her eyes narrow, a curious, inquisitive perusal that has her eyes roaming over my face. Something tells me that between the drinks we’ve shared,the condensation rings drawing whimsical patterns where our elbows are bumping, this is the first time she’s actually seeing me tonight. I’m no longer Teeny’s younger brother but just Andrew. “Are you not a guy in your twenties?”
“No, I am. I’m twenty-nine.”
She nearly chokes on her drink.
“I’ll be thirty in a few weeks.”
“You know, I forget how young you were when I first met you.”
“I wasn’t that young.”
“I believe you weren’t old enough to drink yet.”
“I was plenty old enough to drink.”
“Legally.”
“Yeah, okay. Technicalities. What’s your point?”
Her teeth clamp on her bottom lip, and I see the haze of alcohol sweep across her glassy eyes. That, along with the vodka-laced flush making her cheeks pink. She reaches up to pinch my cheeks, and I flinch. “You were such a baby. And you’re all grown up now.”
The contents of my drink trickle down my throat with an icy burn. Like a bed of coals being doused with cold water. A piqued sting starts to gnaw at my insides, and I have a feeling it has something to do with the way Grace just wrote me off as immature and juvenile, much like those fuckboys she swore off, even as we share our third drink of the night. “Yeah, well. I’m not a baby anymore,” I mutter under my breath. My jaw tics, and my tie suddenly feels stifling.
“Hey.” She offers a consoling touch to my forearm at the same time her brow pinches together, regret plaited in the single-syllable word. Her fingers graze over the thin material of my shirt, exposing all the stress and wrinkles, an attempt to smooth her rough words that weren’t meant to be rough at all. They were meant to fit the mood, an honest and hasty backdropsurrounded by loud noise and impulsive decisions. “I didn’t mean anything by that. It’s just that…seeing how grown up, you’ve gotten makes me realize how old I am, and?—”
My jaw tics again. A Pavlovian reaction, it seems, when age—a sequence of irrelevant numbers we use to gauge just about anything worth quantifying—is the topic at hand. “News flash, Grace. You aren’t old.”
She rolls her eyes. “I’m almost forty, Andrew.”
“Again, you. Are. Not. Old.” I lean forward, letting her hand pull me closer, though I’m not sure if it’s her tugging at me, or if it’s the gravitational pull of what lies between us bringing me inches from her face.
I watch her breaths leave her in sharp staccato-like gasps. Her chest rises and falls, and her lips part, causing my eyes to flit to them. The sweet smell of vodka lingers on her tongue, as does something else that’s characteristically her. Something soft yet noteworthy.
“We should order another drink.”
I don’t argue that maybe I’ve met my limit. That the third drink I just tossed back is the harsh line I’ve drawn for myself before I cross over from buzzed to shitfaced. But like a twig dragged across a bed of fine sand, lines can be erased. Swiped away with a determined hand and a precarious compulsion for something more daring. So, I nod. And I opt for something bolder.
I flag the bartender down, and order our drinks, aware of Grace’s wary yet intrigued gaze.
“Tequila?” she asks, her voice taut with doubt. “I was just going to order another round of cocktails.”
“Come on, Grace. Live a little.”
CHAPTER THREE
Grace
Tequilato me doesn’t feel like alcohol. Not the distilled blue agave plant used as an excuse for bad decisions and the lousiest hangovers. To me, it feels like a vial of my own truth serum. Sometimes it’s covertly disguised with some lime juice and a rim of salt. And on rare occasions, it’s presented to me in plain sight. One point five ounces chased by a lime wedge and regret. To say it lowers my inhibitions would be an understatement. Instead, it seems to develop an impulsive tic where my control thins, and my curiosity deepens. Though the compunction that usually follows the string of brazenly spoken words under the incantation of tequila is expected, I don’t seem to notice it with Andrew. Whatever flagrant confessions I make, he seems to match, setting aside my need to censure my thoughts.
A second round, and I may have him help diagnose the questionable mole on my thigh. And he may become a very willing novice pathologist.
“So, was there a reason you asked me to join you for a drink?” I ask, diving in headfirst.
“Yeah,” he answers with a sincere smile. “To make up for your shitty date.” His eyes glisten, and I’ve been noticing the flush creeping up his neck to his cheeks. What was a mere blushis transitioning into a light crimson, and it makes him look surprisingly fallible yet oddly charming.
“I poured my entire heart out for you, right down to the fact that I’ve dated fuckboys, and you’re not even going to be honest with me?” The words spill out of me like my lips have been squished and folded into a neat little spout. The tequila is doing its job efficiently.
