“Same, thanks!”
I belatedly realize that he’s stopped trying to convince his brother to leave.
“I’ll have a whiskey!” Jonas calls after him.
Dirk is finishing up serving Anders when I’m on my way back from the bathroom, so I help him carry the drinks to the others.
“I saidwhiskey,” Jonas complains when Anders hands him a beer.
“You’re too heavy to carry home,” Anders replies.
Jonas tuts with disgust and raises his bottle, preparing to drink. “You guys can go first.”
I offer Anders the cue. He shakes his head.
“You want to see me make a fool of myself?”
“Why stop now?” He smirks and folds his arms across his chest, his biceps filling out the sleeves of his T-shirt.
I narrow my eyes at him.
“But I bet you don’t make a fool of yourself often,” he concedes.
My insides sparkle because he’s right. I’m almost always quite composed. Unless I’m drunk. And then I really can’t account for my behavior.
I jab my cue at the white ball as hard as I can, but it barely makes a dent in the triangle of colored balls. As I bury my head in my hand in shame, those bloody brothersand my own sisterlaugh at me.
“How did you get to be so good?” I demand to know when Bailey strikes the balls and sends them bouncing off cushions and all over the place.
“Dad taught me,” she replies, taking another shot because one went in.
The happy bubbles in my stomach all pop at once. She said it so nonchalantly.
I catch Anders’s eye, but he’s no longer smiling. I blink and look away, retrieving my drink from a nearby table.
“Ineed to pee now,” Bailey declares to the table after Anders and Jonas have taken their turns.
“Me too,” Jonas says, leaning his pool cue against the table. “Don’t cheat!” he yells back at us, following Bailey as she practically runs off through the bar.
I force a laugh that I’m not really feeling and go to take my shot.
“Do you want some help?” Anders asks me.
I’ve already given him a mock dirty look before I realizethat he’s not being sarcastic. He’s standing between two framed tour posters, one for Wolf Alice and the other for Radiohead. Lana Del Rey’s “Blue Jeans” is spilling from the speakers, its beat slow and sultry.
“Doesn’t really matter if I can play, does it?” I reply shakily. “You do well enough for both of us.”
He shrugs and leans against the exposed brick wall, crossing his feet at his ankles. It’s a casual gesture, but his eyes remain trained on me, his gaze calm and knowing.
I have a sudden change of heart.
“Go on, then, show me what I’m doing wrong.”
He lazily pushes off from the wall and I swear the temperature of the room rises as he approaches me.
“Put your left hand on the table and hold the cue at your waist with your right hand,” he quietly instructs. “Relax. You’re too tense. Now spread your fingers.” He nods at my left hand. “Thumb out. No, your bridge isn’t strong enough, you won’t be able to shoot straight like that. Look.”
I move aside and he puts his left hand on the table, showing me how to create a better rest for the cue.
