“Try me.”
I shake my head and have another drink. “Not happening. I mean, you see how charming I am.”
“Well, you can be when you don’t have a stick up your ass.”
I want his stick up my ass right about now.Stop thinking like that!
“But in all seriousness,” he says, “don’t stress about what your dad thinks about what you do. I mean, what does your mom think?”
It’s like he jammed a knife into my chest and twisted it. What was such a light discussion has become a trigger.
“She… she passed away when we were little.”
“Holy shit. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s fine. I was six when it happened, so I can hardly remember her.” Not true, but it’s something that’s easy to tell people to shut down that conversation. Keep it light. Not so painful. “But it… it was really hard on my dad. He was on his own with four kids, and he did a good job raising us. He really did. And he loves us as much as a dad can love his kids, but that’s part of why it gets so stressful when he gets on to me about shit like what I do for a living. I kind of feel like I owe him. I spent college following in the path he wanted me to go down. Majored in accounting. It wasn’t satisfying, and I wasn’t good at it. When I was struggling to get a job as an accountant after I graduated, I took on more freelance graphic design work, and it paid the bills, so gradually, I decided that, hell, if I could make money doing it, I should keep at it.”
“And you were passionate about it. Sounds like you couldn’t have cared less about accounting.”
“Yeah. But he liked the idea of the security of a job like that. Dad’s always worked for a company. Hell, his job’s health insurance is what kept him from having to file for bankruptcy growing up. It’s all he knows. But I question myself enough as it is, so he certainly doesn’t make it any easier.”
He raises his glass.
“To being two guys who are lucky enough to be doing something they love.”
I clink my glass with his and we drink.
As he sets his drink back on the table, he says, “I think I need some shots. Hey, Barb!”
I’d forgotten the bartender had told us her name when we first got here. Mikey sure is a smooth operator. He’s probably gonna work up her number before we leave. He orders some shots, which we down nearly as fast as Barb makes them—so quickly that after about twenty minutes, I'm feeling tipsy. I can tell because I keep running my hands through my hair, a habit I get into—one that others are always eager to point out to me.
I should probably stop, but I’m enjoying this time I’m getting to share with Mikey, and I don’t want to do anything to disrupt it.
7
Damn. Those shots weren’t the best idea in the world.
We stumble up the stairs leading to the main gate of the apartment building.
“This was a really fun night,” Scott says, his speech slurred before his foot catches on one of the steps, and he tumbles forward. “Fuck!” He falls to his knees.
“Oh, dude. You gotta watch it out here.”
“Don’t worry. The cement caught my fall.” He giggles, assuring me that he either didn’t get injured or won’t feel it until tomorrow.
I approach him, squat down, and hook my arms under his, helping him to his feet. He throws an arm around my shoulder and doesn’t seem to even think twice about it. I wonder how many times he and my bro have stumbled down this same path together.
“We didn’t even drink that much,” he says.
“Dude, that’s not even close to true.”
As I guide him to the gate, I retrieve the keycard Jordan left for me, but as I’m about to scan it, Scott loses his balance and catches me off-guard so that I drop it.
“Shit, sorry.” He laughs.
“You don’t sound sorry.” Although, he’s been apologizing since we left the bar. He’s obviously an apologetic drunk.
I kneel down and grab the keycard off the concrete pavement.
