Chapter 1
Tristan and I had been getting along until I peed on his Air Maxes, three Lime-A-Ritas in, during his trip to Texas when Jay and I were freshmen at Rice. Jay had pulled over by a patch of woods on the way from an off-campus party, our bladders bursting. This was seven years ago, not long after Jay and I started dating. I didn’t remember any of it.
In my mind, Tristan was a shadowy figure—Jay’s best friend who, in stories of their California adolescence, was always courting trouble: dumb bar fights, near-death pool accidents, girls on the beach, girls in the desert, general aimless male debauchery cloaked in the cheap mythological gauze of The West. Meanwhile, Jay said things like, “I’m really proud of democracy today!” after voting.
That evening, Jay recounted the pissing incident as we turned down L Street, how Tristan had glowered the whole ride back, avoiding me until his flight. Tristan had moved from LA that summer to start his PhD program at Georgetown. We were on our way to meet him now for drinks while Jay was in DC that weekend.
It was early September, the leaves already changing to yellow after a scorching August. When Jay bent down to tie his shoes at the corner, I mounted him for a piggyback ride. We flew across Massachusetts Avenue, me bouncing like a backpack, squealing with laughter, while he gripped the backs of my thighs. I hadn’t seen him in months since he still lived in LA. I missed his clean, laundry scent, his bony back, at once strong and frail. He had a swimmer’s body, broad up top, narrow waist. I kissed the thick, ropy muscle of his shoulder. He tripped on the curb, yelping in surprise, but found his balance.
Climbing off Jay to enter the hotel, I couldn’t let the story go. Why was Tristan even standing close enough for me to piss on him? Like, back up.
The bar was dim like a dinner napkin had been dropped over it. Pendants leaked puddles of weak light onto the tables. Jay and I sat in velvet armchairs, studying the bizarre mural around the bar: a Black Alice in Wonderland with a sword above her head, preparing to julienne a scaly red snake-dragon. Pointing at the horned demon riding a walrus, Jay said, “Jamal drew me a picture just like that last week.”
“Is this the one who screams in the middle of morning meeting?” Jamal was one of Jay’s second-grade students.
“Yeah, but he’s sweet.”
A deep voice shouted, “Whaddup, Milkman!”
Who the hell was Milkman?
Jay popped up from his seat, laughing. I turned to find Tristan yanking Jay into a big, rocking embrace. Tristan dragged an empty chair to our table, a gold cross spilling from his neck, the chain slicing an ugly Patrick Star tattoo in half. His lashes were straight like the curl had been ironed out of them. I tried to reconcile him with the boy in the picture Jay once showed me, his thicket of black curls like angry toddler scribbles, tiny hands choking a monkey bar with purpose. He was definitely a person I’d never met before.
“Cat.” He nodded. “Hey.”
“Tristan,” I said. “Hey.”
Jay grinned. “Everything’s going as planned.”
We ordered drinks: Jay, a martini, me, a vodka sunrise that looked like egg yolk in a glass, Tristan, a shot of Jack. I hated dark liquor. It was what my father used to drink.
Tristan turned to me. “You’re different than I remember.”
So he remembered. “What do you mean?”
“You’re, like, more…” He did a dance that involved rolling his shoulders.
“I’m sorry, I don’t speak electric slide.”
“Forget it. I can’t explain it.”
Jay said, “He means laid-back.”
“Yes, thank you.”
I had no idea what language they were speaking. I told Tristan I didn’t remember meeting him just to see what he’d say. He lifted his glass to his mouth but didn’t drink, observing me over the rim. “That’s probably for the best.”
Then he elbowed Jay in the ribs. Laughing, Jay ducked under the table. I could tell he was happy we were all together. Reaching down, I stroked the close-shaved top of Jay’s head, soft and slippery with oil, while avoiding Tristan’s alarmingly large eyes. When Jay came back up, they ditched me for their own private world: shit-talking people from fifth grade who’d moved back to LA, some joke involving the Gettysburg Address and a clown suit.
“So, how’re you liking the city?” I asked Tristan. As a native Washingtonian, I was always curious to hear what transplants thought of us even though most of the time they got us all wrong.
Jay said, “He’s lived here before.”
Tristan added, “I went to Howard.”
I rattled off names he didn’t know. Midway through, he noticed the mural. “What the fuck?”
“It’s Alice in Wonderland!”
