"You barely had any!" I say. "And it's not just nice. It was delish."
"Now it's time for you to taste Curtis's beer," Kennedy says, grabbing the tall glass from him and passes it across the table.
I shake my head so fast, I almost crick my neck. "Nah. Nah-uh-uh. That's disgusting."
"You've never had any!" Kennedy says.
"My first kiss tasted of beer, and that was enough for me. And it was disgusting, by the way. The taste of beer, that is. Well — that and the kiss."
"I didn't know you had your first kiss," Bonnie says.
"Oh, yeah," I say, nodding excessively. "I've had a kiss or two."
"Or three or four or five," Kennedy says. "I've had to hear all about them."
"You love discussing them with me." I waggle a finger at her before turning to Bonnie. "Did you think I was a kiss virgin?"
"There's nothing wrong with never being kissed," Curtis says.
I give him a look. He's one to talk when he probably has the most prolific sex lives of all of us. "Obviously. I didn't have my first kiss for the longest time. Because, in the beginning, there were only girls who'd —"
"And that's enough talking for you," Kennedy says, poking a finger into my side and giving me a meaningful look. "You don't want to go saying things you'll later regret."
I do have an unfortunate history of spilling my secrets when drunk. But now, even though I know that I've had a fair amount to drink, I don't feel that drunk. I thought I could control my mouth. Maybe not.
We sip on our drinks, now drinking more slowly, and talk about people in the bar, and the holidays, and nothing in particular.
Bonnie and Kennedy stand up to go to the bathroom, leaving their empty glasses.
"I'm coming over," I say, standing up and squeezing around the table to Curtis. "We look like strangers, sitting like this —"
My foot catches on the leg of the table and I trip, my hands shooting out to stop myself from falling face-first onto the table. Something catches me by the forearm and my face gets buried in something warm and soft, yet kind of hard at the same time.
I smell something nice, and when I realise it's Curtis's cologne, I rip myself away from Curtis.
"Shit, sorry —" I begin, and look at Curtis, his face close to mine. His eyes are the prettiest shade of blue.
"Are you okay?" he asks. It's too dark to read his expression, but he sounds concerned.
"Yeah. Sorry. Thanks." I move away from Curtis so he's not holding my arm anymore.
"Must be the alcohol," Curtis says.
"Must be," I echo. I sit and then move away. Then a bit more. I don't want to get too close.
The girls take a while to return, so Curtis and I people watch and make up stories about their lives. Curtis singles out a pink-haired girl from a group of people our age. "She keeps looking at you," he says.
I don't spare her a glance. "Okay."
Curtis lets out a laugh, deep and soft like honey. "Do you even know?"
Now I'm confused. "Know what?"
He shakes his head. "She's interested. You should go talk to her."
I stare at him, then slump back in the booth seat. "Oh, Curtis. Do you even know?"
"What?"
