“Hi, Sasha!” I shout at Brijesh’s face, stumbling a little bit.
When he hangs up, Alex stands. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get in the middle of—”
“No, it’s not his fault!” I jump in. “Put all the blame on me, Brij.”
He holds up a hand. “You’re both grown-ups. It’s just that we’re all each other has on this island, you know? Better safe than sorry.”
Alex nods, setting his mouth into a firm line. “I get that.”
“Anyway.” Brijesh peeks into my cocktail. “What are we drinking?”
I hold up the Jack and Jill for him to taste. He sips it, then passes it to the guy behind him, who I didn’t realize waswithBrijesh until now. The dude is huge, well over six feet tall, wearing dark jeans and a plain white muscle tee.
“This is delicious,” the giant groans, handing my glass back to Brijesh. “So delicately balanced.”
“Thank you!” Freddy shouts from behind the bar. “I’ll make you one!”
Brijesh leans toward me. “The CrossFit buff is my backup Casey. Convincing, no?”
“I’m irreplaceable,” I retort, grabbing for my drink.
“First, remind me what it is I always say about lateness.”
I roll my eyes. “Being late all the time isn’t a cute personality trait, it’s just rude.”
He smiles. “You’re forgiven. But I’m keeping the drink.”
Freddy whips up another round, and then before I know it, he’s clocking out, shouting the recipe for the J&J into the late-night bartender’s ear. I sign a tab. It’s less money than I thought—exactly eleven dollars. I think there’s only one drink on it, but I’m not sober enough to question anything.
We pour out of the bar in a tumble of drunken stupor, and Brijesh is humming, “Casey and the boys, Casey and the boys.” Alex and I find street hot dogs to devour while Brijesh describes in intimate detail the meal I missed.
“Tantalizingly tender tamales—”
“Shut up.”
“The huitlacoche was to die for—”
“I said I was sorry, didn’t I?”
“And thepozole.”
“You really screwed up,” Alex tells me. “This hot dog’s only descriptor is average.”
Still, the food sobers me up a little, and I chug a bottle of water for good measure. Then all five of us head toward Miriam’s favorite karaoke bar. (It took next to no convincing to get everyone on board.)
Halfway there, Freddy sidles up between me and Alex. “Want to know a song that Alex knows every single word of?”
“Don’t tell her that!”
“Hips. Don’t. Lie.”
It is obviously the first song I request when we arrive.
The bar is a grungy basement haunt, but there’s still a waitlist, and we have to get through Dolly Parton’s “9 to 5,” sung by a bachelorette party in purple feather tutus, and then Ariana Grande’s “Santa Tell Me,” performed by an Australian woman in all black. All five of us line the sticky, overrun bar as we watch.
“Dude.” Alex pushes away my elbow, knocking half the liquor out of the shot I just ordered to get him primed for his performance. “This smells like rubbing alcohol.”
“Welcome to the bourgeoisie.” I fix him with a stern look.
