Tyler flinched. I poked the candle again. Last night, Danny had asked me a second time to make it official. I said yes. It just seemed like the thing to do.
Danny spoke again. “Come on. Wine’s great. And I’m sure you don’t have anywhere better to be, right?”
Tyler laughed, although it was not a real one. He looked at me, and I shrugged. And then, because what the hell else was hegoing to do, he took the seat beside me and gave me one more very quick, very unhappy glance. I reached for my glass and swigged the resultant lump in my throat away. Tyler and his feelings were not my problem.
Ten minutes later, Danny was halfway through a very animated story about crushing Villanova in a crew meet his junior year when he topped off my drink and then his own. He eyed Tyler’s untouched glass, then slid his hand onto my knee.
“You too cool for wine? This is a three-hundred-dollar bottle. Not that easy to find. Try it.”
“I’m good, man.”
A little tightness rushed into Danny’s mouth and neck. He squeezed my leg even harder. Everything inside me was all wrong.
“Every time I offer you a drink,” Danny said, “you push back.”
“Because,” Tyler said, “I’m good, all right?”
Danny laughed. “What, are you straight edge? Is that still a thing? All the angst, all the whateverthatis”—he waved at Tyler’s glasses, his forearms, his whole person—“and none of the fun?”
Tyler’s mouth twitched again. His throat wobbled and then steadied. Heat stirred inside me, and higher than I was used to. In my neck, in my fingertips.
“Danny,” I said. “Drop it.”
“Why?”
“Because.”
He tapped his fingers on the table and looked right at Tyler. “You, like, an alcoholic or something?”
“Yeah, actually.”
Danny blinked. “So you don’t drink at all? Like, not even wine?”
“Not even wine.”
“Not even a little?”
“Not even a little.”
“Nothing?” Danny said.
“Nothing,” Tyler said.
“Not even, like, a little weed?”
“Not even, like, a little weed.”
At this point, I’d kicked Danny in the shin a dozen times. It didn’t matter. He kept grabbing my knee, squeezing it, and then cocking his head. I kicked him one last time, and finally, his shoulders dropped. But just as quickly, he smirked.
“That’s great, man,” he said. “Very noble. I’m sure your parents are so proud.”
Tyler clicked his tongue, then shook his head and rose to his feet.
“You know what? This is dumb. I don’t want to be here, and you don’t want me to be here. You think I’m a joke, and I think you’re a joke. So...” He reached for his wallet and tossed Meredith’s credit card on the table. Plus a twenty dollar bill, probably to cover his soda. “Yeah. Fuck off, I guess. And Katie...” He gestured with his arm—a tight and pained sweep of air—as if that might communicate the words he couldn’t find. And then he turned around and left.
“Tyler, wait,” I said, but he was already halfway through the restaurant when I caught up with him. The backs of his shoulder blades were clenched.
“Tyler, come on. He’s just jealous, don’t be upset.”
