one
“The World Series of binge drinking.”
That’s how Kat first described tonight, like a cultural event we’d be stupid to miss. Blackout Wednesday, she insisted, wasn’t just any night out; it was a tradition, a legacy, a rite of passage we were practically obligated to undergo. In fairness, no one has ever accused her of beingunderdramatic.
This was months ago, back before she packed up and transferred to the University of Illinois, leaving me behind for a surprise fifth semester at Weymouth Community College. We were crouched on her bedroom floor, shoving a semester’s worth of going-out tops into too few suitcases and talking about our upcoming birthdays, the first in a decade we’d be celebrating apart. Not just any birthday, either—thebirthday. Kat’s twenty-first was just days before mine. I could drive down to visit her in Champaign-Urbana, or Kat could make a trip back for a weekend…or what about waiting until she was home on break? What about Blackout Wednesday?
Kat’s eyes lit up as she described the drunken high school reunion hosted on Thanksgiving Eve in hometown bars nationwide. She painted the night with a sheen of sticky nostalgia—what better way to celebrate the retirement of our fake IDs than over two of our favorite hobbies: drinking and judging former classmates? Thus, the plan for Murphy and Kat’s 21st Birthday Blowout was born: we’d meet at my house, walk to the bar, drink like it’s the end of the world, and head back home to inhale Oreos and watch trash TV till we both konked out on my parents’ air mattress, then head over to her parents’ for Thanksgiving the next day. If you subtract the bar and the holiday, it’s roughly how she and I have spent every weekend for the last ten years. My parents didn’tlovemy pitch to hang back from our annual Thanksgiving Florida trip, but when I reminded Mom and Dad that I’d spent my actual twenty-first drinking a single Heineken and watchingWheel of Fortunewith the two of them, they gave in.
Now, the night in question has arrived, and this usually divey bar is dressed for the occasion. A section of the sticky, beer-soaked floor has been designated for dancing, and the low ceilings are draped with Christmas lights that cast a red and green glow on the faces of townies and Geneva High School grads. The music is loud, but the crowd is louder, all of them shouting and slurring through their “how have you beens.” Everything is just as Kat promised, except that we’re short one critical element: Kat.
I sigh as I readjust the folded scrap of cardboard balancing the wobbly leg of this two-top table, then check my texts forthe thousandth time. Still no word from our girl. I wasn’t surprised when Kat said she was running behind and would meet me at the bar—it’ll be a cold day in hell when she’s on time for something—but I was…annoyed. Justifiably so, I think, considering this wasn’t the first change to our weekend plans.
In a moment of self-pity, I scroll back through our text thread, hurting my own feelings all over again as I reread last week’s breaking news: Kat’s new boyfriend will be joining us for Thanksgiving dinner. Over the last three months, she’s spared no detail about Hot Daniel from Music History, so I knew she was pretty serious about the guy. What I didn’t know was that my Thanksgiving with the Flemings was being rewritten into a remake ofMeet the Parents, and that I’d be playing the esteemed role of third wheel.
Not tonight though. We promised that tonight would be about me and Kat, endlessDrag Racereruns, and a borderline-lethal amount of vodka. Or it will be, if she ever shows up.
“Hey, are you using this chair?”
A semifamiliar voice crackles across the table, and I look up from my phone, carefully placing the thick brows and crooked smile on my mental game board ofGuess Who? Geneva High School Edition. Bryce Chandler, former Geneva Vikings point guard, frequent gay slur user, and, apparently, current spokesman for early-onset male pattern baldness. Bummer. He’s gripping the back of the pleather stool across from me with meaty hands that probably haven’t touched a basketball in years. A washed-up former athlete. We have more in common than he thinks.
“Sorry,” I say, feeling not particularly sorry. “I have a friend coming.” At least I hope I have a friend coming. I look like a loser sitting here alone.
“Cool, my bad.” Bryce makes a clicking sound with the side of his mouth before wandering to the next table, leaving me to nurse what’s left of my vodka soda and craft the perfect joke to text Kat about Bryce’s receding hairline. Before I can decide on a punch line, my phone buzzes with a notification. One new text from Big Booty, aka Kat. Her contact name is a leftover joke from a long-forgotten Jason Derulo song, but I can’t bring myself to change it.
walking in now!!!!!
Relief and excitement bubble beneath my tongue, and my eyes stay locked on the door as more already-tipsy twentysomethings trickle in, bringing the late-November chill with them. In a sea of black winter coats, Kat’s deep-brown corkscrew curls and signature red puffer jacket stand out like a beacon of hope. My stomach trampolines up to my throat. There she is.
“Over here!” My arm rockets into the air, flagging her toward our table. She doesn’t hear me over the noise; instead, she turns over her shoulder and stretches a hand behind her. “Kat!” I yell again. “Kat Fleming, over here!”
This time, her head snaps toward me, eyes wide and sparkling as she points repeatedly in my direction, like she’s pressing an invisible elevator button. Her lips mouth the words, “That’s her, oh my God, that’s her!” and for a split second, I wonder when she started talking to herself, but as the crowd shifts, mystomach plummets, and all the pieces fall into place. On the other end of Kat’s outstretched arm is an ultra-tall Asian guy buttoned into the same wool pea coat I recognize from dozens of text-thread photos. Hot Daniel from Music History. You’ve gotta be kidding me.
Even after the unforgiving mob of drunk twentysomethings spits them out, I’m still firmly stuck in denial. I haven’t finished grieving the loss of what Thanksgiving was supposed to be; no way am I ready to mourn tonight too. I can’t even scare up a smile when Kathryn half runs, half dances up to me, curls bouncing around her face with every step. “Holy shit, HI!” she squeals, launching herself at me in a hug so tight, I’m at risk of suffocating within the folds of her puffer coat.
“Welcome home,” I say. Or at least try to say. My face is so smushed against her shoulder, the words barely leak out. By the time she lets go, Daniel has somehow already hunted down another barstool, an unwelcome addition to our two-top table. “This”—Kat gestures dramatically toward him—“is Daniel!”
Daniel ducks beneath a low-hanging strand of Christmas lights and extends a hand, which I take hesitantly, confirming that he’s not some tragic hallucination. Unfortunately, Hot Daniel from Music History is actually here, in the flesh, ruining my night.
“I’m Murphy,” I mutter. Hopefully he already knows that.
“I’ve heard so much about you,” he assures me with a big dumb grin.
“Yeah. Same.” I look down at my hand, which Daniel hasn’t let go of for some reason, then back up at his kind, clueless eyes. “But I, uh, didn’t know you were joining us tonight.”
I glance in Kat’s direction just in time to catch her smile slip. “I told you he was coming to Thanksgiving,” she says.
“Yeah. Thanksgiving,” I echo. “Which is tomorrow.”
Her smile snaps back into place, but it’s more indignant this time. “Same thing.”
“No, not the same thing.” I can hear my voice pitch up in that horrible, pre-yelling way. Daniel must hear it too, because he finally drops my hand and takes a seat, making himself as small as a six foot six man can in a bar with ceilings this low. “Tonight you’re sleeping over, Kat. Remember?”
Kat’s eyebrows huddle together like they’re trying to strategize how to navigate this conversation. “I was going to, but when I told you like a week ago that Daniel was coming home with me for Thanksgiving, I said we’d have to rearrange some plans.Remember?”
I grit my teeth, holding back all the things Iremember. For example, Irememberthat Daniel grew up in a suburb about ten miles from here, meaning he could’ve stayed with his own parents tonight. Irememberthat six blocks away there’s an air mattress ready to be inflated and a stockpile of our favorite snacks that I used the last of my paycheck to buy. Irememberthat this whole night was supposed to be Murphy and Kat’s 21st Birthday Blowout, and there was never any discussion of guest stars. But I guess Kat’s memory isn’t quite as airtight as mine.
“Plus, I thought it’d be good for you and Daniel to meet before tomorrow,” Kat goes on, her voice as hopeful as it is desperate. “Since, you know, we’ll have to tone it down in front of Bubby and my parents and all my little cousins. I’m sorry if I wasn’t totally clear. I just wanted him to meet therealMurph.”Her gaze ricochets between me and Daniel, who is nodding along, silently affirming her like a good boyfriend should.
