‘Heineken? You got into classy beers?’ I say.
Charlie picks a table with an ashtray. ‘Heineken’s hardly fancy. You got a light, yeah?’
I flinch. ‘Oh, I never smoke anymore. Not since the old hostel days.’
Charlie peers at my hand. ‘Coulda sworn you were holding a lighter.’
I unfurl my clenched fist sheepishly to reveal the bottle of Jungle Juice Gold that’s been sweatily pressed into my palm since the dark room. ‘Not quite.’
Charlie guffaws. ‘Wow! Little Zekey is into poppers, ay? Ya dirty little monkey.’
‘I’m notintopoppers,’ I say. ‘Just use ’em if I come here …’
It’s one of the more extravagant lies I’ve ever told. I am a massive poppers fiend and I’m pretty sure it’ll be what kills me.
Charlie smirks and says, ‘Sure, sure,’ while lighting his cigarette with his green Bic. That’s always irritated me about smokers – why ask for a light if you have one?
He takes a puff and holds up his Heineken to my vodka. ‘To old mates,’ he says. ‘Burying the hatchet.’
‘To old mates,’ I confirm, clinking his glass.
I think I’ve buried the hatchet, too. Once, thinking about Charlie made me furious and bitter. But if time doesn’t heal, it softens. The past few years, I just felt sad when I thought of him. We should have been best mates and we lost it all in one stupid fight.
‘So, come on, spit it out,’ Charlie barks, waving his cigarette so vigorously ash flutters to the table. ‘Seven years, dude, and not a word. I know we blocked each other and shit, but still, seven years! What you been up to? All I know is you’re still a massive homo.’
I tip an imaginary hat at him. ‘Guilty as charged, squire. Had a phase where I thought I might be bi, but it didn’t take. And since you saw me last … what, 2018, wasn’t it? Well, I went back to Gero. Passed year eleven. Dad’s chemo worked and he went into remission. Year twelve was smoother. I studied hard, nailed the exams. I was runner-up dux.’
‘Classic you, ya big nerd. Who got dux if not you?’
‘Sabrina Sefton.’
Charlie nods. ‘Yeah, that tracks. Always thought she had a crush on you, to be honest.’
I grimace unintentionally. ‘Well, uh, you were right,’ I say. ‘I took Sabrina to the ball in year twelve. We hooked up and were … sorta together, for a while.’
‘Look at you go,’ Charlie says, smirking. ‘Bisexual king over here.’
‘I’m not bi,’ I insist. ‘We never had sex. Third base, that’s it. I eventually came out and we agreed to be friends.’
Charlie’s smirk broadens. ‘Oh yeah, that always pans out well. Lemme guess: you never saw each other again.’
My momentary guilt must show up on my face, because Charlie clocks it. ‘Or … you did?’
‘Uh. Well. Me and Sabrina live together now.’
Charlie nearly chokes on his Heineken. He can’t swallow fast enough before blurting out, ‘Youwhat?! Yikes, dude.’
I’ve always suspected people see mine and Sabrina’s living arrangement as odd, but most people never say anything.
Charlie Roth was never most people.
‘Is that weird?’ I ask, hating that I’m giving him the floor to pass judgement, but also really wanting to hear it.
‘Uh, little bit,’ Charlie says, straight-up. ‘Gotta cramp your style … you can’t bring guys home, right?’
‘It’s fine – I just hook up with guys who can host, or I come here,’ I say. I’ve long accepted this as part of my life.
Charlie’s already moved on. ‘How’d it happen, but? You moved down from Gero together and shacked up?’
