“You want a drink? With me?”
“Yes, ma’am. Though we might need more than one drink.”
“And who’ll drive us back?”
“Don’t be such a buzzkill.”
She sways from foot to foot, unsure. After what seems like an age, she nods.
“Okay. Let’s do it.”
I drop her hand and offer her my arm. We hit the street, our shoulders grazing as we drift along to the first bar we see.
We’re giggling like two kids over the dumbest stuff. This evening is nothing like I planned. Since Mike died, November 12 usuallyalways goes the exact same way: a black pit of despair and a healthy measure of heavy liquor, followed by me breaking shit and trying to rein in my anger. But tonight, I’m feeling lighthearted, and it’s nothing to do with the whiskey or the noise, or anything around us. The light blanking out my darkest memories is Lois and her nineteenth birthday. Lois and her goofy laugh. Lois and the knowing glances we exchange as we watch a bunch of guys shoot their shots and get shut down.
“I totally disagree with what you said earlier,” I say, sliding my empty glass across the table.
“Care to narrow it down? We never agree on anything.”
“That’s because you’re always wrong.”
“It’s my birthday and I’ll cry if I want to!”
“Sorry, it’s past one in the morning, Heartbreak. The birthday excuse just expired.”
She rolls her eyes. “So hit me with it. What do you disagree with this time?”
“Wearefriends.”
She parts her lips, my words catching her off guard.
“You’re drunk.” She laughs, sinking back deeper into the booth.
If only…I’m not drunk, though, not in the slightest. In fact, I’ve never felt so clearheaded in my life.
18LOIS
Yesterday afternoon, before heading home to spend Thanksgiving with her parents and little sister, Becca dropped by to lend me one of her dresses. I never asked for the help, but she’s definitely taking her job as my personal style guru seriously, shoving the bag into my arms and promising to disown me if I dare wear it with leggings—or worse still, if I forget to do my brows. I swore I wouldn’t, but I must not have sounded very convincing, because this morning when I checked the mailbox, I found her favorite lip gloss tucked away among the letters. Guilt-ridden, I ran out to buy a nice pair of boots to pull the look together. Just as I’m struggling to put them on, a message pops up on my phone.
MOM: Happy Thanksgiving, honey!
The message is followed by a photo of my dad struggling with a jar of pickles, while my baby brother is bent over laughing in the background. It makes me sad not to be home, and I can’t help but wonder whether staying here was a mistake.
My phone beeps again. This time it’s Lane. He’s been with the others since noon.
LANE: Don’s finishing up a ride. He’ll come by for you. 15 min. Hope you’re starving, Adam is on fire!
Another photo follows—this time a selfie. Lane laughing into the camera and Adam with his back turned, cooking up a storm, totally unaware that Lewis is right behind him, miming something gross. I start to laugh, and my stress levels drop a notch. Tonight will be fun. I’m pretty sure I’ll end up having a bunch of stories to share with my family when I see them over Christmas.
LOIS: Ready when you are.
LANE: He’s gonna honk three times when he’s outside.
LOIS: Classy.
LANE: Campus Drivers, baby!
I tap out a reply to my mom.
