“Get the fuck out,” I mutter.
“What?”
I look at him, smiling. “This is where I’m staying.”
“Shut the fuck up.”
“I’m serious.” I pull my keycard from my pocket to show him. “Twenty-second floor. You?”
“Twenty-nine.”
The doors slide open as we reach them, and we walk into the spacious lobby that is relatively quiet, other than the soft classical music playing over the speakers.
“Let’s grab a drink before we go up?” he asks, nodding in the direction of the bar, that’s down the hall and past the elevators. “I have zero alcohol in my room.”
“I don’t really drink anymore,” I say with a shrug.
“Because you don’t want to, or because you don’twantto?”
I groan and move toward the bar. Trey always was good at getting me to do things that I didn’t want to do. It’s like doingitwithhim made it a little easier. Knowing he was there in case I needed him helped. I neverneededhim, though. At least, not really. There was that time in Vegas when I was drunk as hell and threw up everywhere. He took care of me. I’ve never forgotten that. It meant a lot to me. I’m sure he hardly remembers it at all. Just another drunk night for us.
There’s always been something about Trey that was calming. If I were going to tell anyone about my diagnosis, it would be him. He’d understand. He’d get it. He wouldn’t judge me or look at me differently. But it doesn’t matter because this is only a weekend together, and then we go back to our normal lives. No need to get into personal details when we aren’t going to see each other again for… who knows? Another eight years. Maybe ten. Or maybe never.
“Where is it that you live now?” Trey asks as we take up stools at the bar.
There is a couple sitting on one end, and a few singles scattered around.
“Minnesota.”
“Well, yeah, but where? I keep tabs on everyone, you know? Just wanting to see what everyone is up to, and you never post a damn thing. I wouldn’t even know your birthday if it wasn’t so easy to remember.”
“You remember my birthday?”
“Uh, yeah. One-two, bro.”
I huff a laugh. January second. That’s my birthday.
“What can I get you guys?” the bartender asks as she puts down coasters in front of each of us. She’s a young girl, dark hair up in a ponytail. Pretty. Probably gets really good tips.
“Whatever beer you have on tap,” Trey says.
“I’ll have the same.”
It’s easier than going through all the options and trying to figure out what I’ll like or won’t.
“She’s hot,” Trey mutters, staring at the bartender.
“Uh, sure,” I say, looking anywhere but at him or her. My cheeks get warm. I’m not shy, but I don’t like this subject.
“Think I could get her number?”
“Yeah, probably. I don’t see why not.”
From the corner of my eye, I see his narrow-eyed stare. “Are you sure you’re okay? You’re… different.”
“We all are,” I say quickly. “I mean, it’s been eight years, Trey. We’ve grown up. Our prefrontal cortex is fully developed now.”
Trey shakes his head, giving me a smirk.
