In short, it’s a card game where every card carries a different alcohol-related action. I’m not gonna complain, at least until Questionmaster Sabrina trips me up and has me downing my drink as some kind of sick punishment.
But hey, that gets Ian laughing. God, he sounds so cute and graceful and confident and?—
Oh, awesome. Nick draws an ace.
Laura turns to her girlfriend. “You better not get me messed up.”
Nick scoffs. “Yo, chill. You’re drinking wine.”
“Bro, this is fucking port!” Laura replies, thrusting the bottle into Nick’s face.
“Laura, why did you bring port to a house party?” Ian asks. “Don’t tell me those pompous business students are influencing you.”
Sabrina waves her hands. “Guys, shut up. It’s time to waterfall.”
The room quiets, and she presses her bottle of regular wine to her lips and tips it perpendicular to the ground, the rest of us dutifully doing the same with our own drinks. One by one, Nick, then Sabrina, then Laura, put their drinks down and tap out, and then it’s only me, with Ian to my right.
I don’t know what it is, but something compels me to have a little fun with him. It seems like a friendly thing to do.
So, with my lips still pressed to my seltzer, I continue taking the shallowest, slowest sips I can muster. Ian’s screwing his face into an exasperated expression, and when I don’t let up, he gives me the finger.
That does it for me, and I pull the can away, smiling.
“Jesus fuck, man, are you trying to kill me?” Ian groans, punching my shoulder and snickering.
I punch him back and smile, my three-ish drinks warming mycore and lowering my walls. “Nah, I’m kind of used to someone baking for me all the time.”
Ian gasps, placing a hand on his chest. “Is that all I am to you?”
No, you’re my deep-seated crush, too.
“Anyway, Cal, it’s your turn,” says my deep-seated crush.
Ooh, distraction. I need one of those.
I draw a card, and I release a snort as soon as I see what it is.
Nick stretches across the table to peek at the card. “Oh, shit, did Callum get the last king?”
I sure did. I reach for the cup at the center of the card pile and inspect its contents, trying to remember what exactly went into it. With four pairs of eyes focused expectantly on me, I take a sip.
It’svile.
“Holy crap, what the hell is in this?” I ask, sputtering.
“Beer, whiskey, and vodka,” Laura supplies.
“And pickle juice.” Ian’s confession makes me snort.
Still, I’m not one to back down from anything, so I hold my nose and continue to chug. The group cheers when I empty the cup, and Ian hands me a can of pop to wash the taste down.
“Want any more?” Ian teases, shaking the almost-empty jar of pickles at me.
“Keep your pickle far, far away from me,” I warn, shooting him a glare.
That makes the group burst into laughter, and it takes me far too long to realize that I made a sex joke without even trying.
Ian doesn’t need reminding to keep his pickle away from me.
