Christina winks at me and leans in for a brief hug before I can respond. She gives me a quick kiss on the cheek and I’m reminded how much I adore this chick. We don’t spend enough time together, and at this point, that’s on me. I’ve turned her down at least four times in the past few months alone. She’s been trying, I need to start pulling my weight here.
“Thanks, Chrissy. I love you, you know.”
She grins. “I know. So what’s this new place you’re taking me to for brunch this weekend anyway? If we’re not talking about whatever is obviously going on in your life, I will absolutely vent to you about mine over too many mimosas.”
“Maybe you can have too many, I’m on hiatus,” I tell her, giggling. “But I was thinking we could try this new place downtown.”
We make plans to de-stress, giggle and plot for world domination over carbs and mimosas, like we did for years, and it feels like another piece of my soul clicks back into place. One more piece of my life that feels complete again.
You know those people who make you feel more you? The ones your light is brightest around? You make theirs shine brighter, too? Those are your people. And I’ve got not one, but two of ’em in my life now. The haters better put on sunglasses.
Damn, it feels good to be back.
TWENTY-NINE
ASHER
We did a group costume this year. Like every year. After I got in the mood for Happy Gilmore at TopGolf that day, Mark and I did a little Sandler-a-thon with some of the crew over a few-week period. Little selfish of me, helped keep him off my ass for all those times I was disappearing. But also, it got us to decide to do an Adam Sandler theme for our costumes this year, but that’s the last thing we could agree on.
What we couldn’t decide on waswhichmovie to do.
So we each dressed up as a different Sandler character. Which explains why there’s a dozen different horribly dressed people running through Mark’s parents’ house tonight. They got a hotel room, let Mark and I use it to throw our fifth-annual Halloween party. Nice folks. Not sure it’s rubbed off on their son. I’m wrapping the last of the party prep by myself when I hear his dulcet tone, my cherished nickname.
“MOTHERFUCKER!” His voice roars long before I can see the source of it.
My best friend rounds the corner to the kitchen like he owns the joint, head cocked, limbs full of swagger. I break out in laughter, unable to stop from damn near doubling over with it when I see how ham he went on his costume this year. He finished getting ready here, wanting his big reveal to have full impact, and he did not disappoint. A crowd has followed him and stands in the hallway behind him, taking pictures, live-streaming to social, and screaming various raunchy pickup lines at him.
He’s showing off his long, dark,hairylegs in the shortest jean shorts I’ve ever seen on a dude. Obviously homemade, they’ve been cut all janky, strings hanging off the bottom, where the pockets are peeking through. He does a turn for me, so I can see the way his ass cheeks pop out of the handmade hem in the back, and now I’m actually crying, eyes literally leaking joy at the sight.
When he turns back around, I see the shirt he’s cut up is a Mariah Carey one, sleeves removed, showing off his guns and ample armpit hair. He’s got this fucking wig on that gives him more volume than a Harry Styles concert, and in his hand, brandished like a weapon, is a hair dryer.
He’s the best Zohan I’ve ever seen.
I need to get it together, stop laughing, stop crying with it, or my costume is going to becometoobelievable.
He points his (unplugged) hair dryer at my crotch and gives me his best Israeli accent, just like his character did in the movie. “Your bush is wet.”
“All the cool kids are doin’ it,” I tell him in my best impression, and turn around for him to see my getup.
It’s a lot less awful than what Mark is wearing. Old school, loose-fitting acid-wash jeans, a white tee, an open shirt overtop, and this flat-brim hat I had to find in a thrift store, from like, the nineties. And, of course, a giant wet spot between my legs, water bottle with a sports cap in my hand to keep the look going all night.
A half an hour later, and all nearly a dozen of us are lining up for photos together.
Jay, the only one of us who’s actually Jewish, went forEight Crazy Nights, while Livvy and Talia went for the football movies—WaterboyandThe Longest Yard, respectively—probably just so they could wear tiny jerseys (orange and blue, respectively) and even tinier “football” shorts, the sexiest of the available options as this costume category would allow. Brooklyn went forThat’s My Boy, rocking basketball shorts, a tee with a tie, a suit jacket overtop and some God-awful sunglasses. We’ve also got Tiny dressed up as the wedding singer, Sabrina as Little Nicky, which shoots my respect for her up to a twelve, and some of our other friends in costumes fromGrown Ups,Big Daddy,Mr. Deeds, and even a canteen boy. Some of our Adams went a little lazier than others, but as a group, we did pretty fucking good.
We pose for loads of pictures, taking progressively stupider ones the longer we stand there. At one point, Mark is front and center, holding the hairdryer in front of his dick, whipping it around like it’s a part of him, and we take a series of ridiculous pics crowded around his magnificent hairdryer, face in his crotch, taking turns getting “styled” as he blows us with it.
In a couple of them Livvy tried to hold onto me a little too close, her hands wandering over my chest in a way that’s way too familiar for someone I haven’t hooked up with in as long as it’s been between us. That cuts the photoshoot short for me, I step out of the formation despite her whiny pleas, and it breaks up from there.
Mark, Jay and I scroll through the photos, laughing at some of the best ones this year, comparing them to the last few years of pics. Once they’re shared to all of us, I send a couple to the girl I wish was by my side right now, and promise her I’ll be taking off as early as possible to have our own private party.
NSYNC4eva
lmao you even have the wet pants
I can’t
So hot, Asher
