“I like her, too. She’s intense.”
“It’s the only way she knows how to be.”
We step into the den again and it feels like home.
Tek opens a door off to the side, and inside it is a queen-sized bed, a desk, and a bedside table. “This is you,” he says, and leans in the doorway. "Next door is the bathroom. There are towels in there. They're clean. She changes them every week even if no one comes over."
I stand in the middle of the room, not sure if I'm supposed to sit or compliment it in some way, and eventually Tek clears his throat. “Do you want another drink?"
The den is always colder than the rest of the house, no matter how many bodies are packed into it or if the heater's turned on. I used to think my parents designed it that way on purpose to force us out of the basement and into the sights of their ever watching eyes. But it never stopped me from seeking refuge here.
Carey stands on the other side of the pool table, cue in hand, his pupils blown out so much from being drunk that they almost eclipse the freakshow blue and grey of his irises.
He lines up a shot, tongue out, left eye squinting.
He misses. The cue scrapes along the felt and the cue ball skips off the table to thud against the bottom of the bar.
"Shit," he snorts, nearly dropping the stick. "Foul?"
I reach down to pick up the ball. "There's no way you're getting a do over," I say, trying to act sober, but I've had so much soju my lips feel numb.
Carey takes a step back, wobbles, then shuffles forward to steady himself against the table. "You're gonna miss."
"You're talking shit again, kid," I tell him and place the cue ball into position. Leaning over, I take my shot. The purple four cracks hard, but it veers right, missing the pocket by an inch.
Carey howls, "Told you," and throws his head back, his hair taking on a mind of its own.
He's radiant in the shittiest way possible. His cheeks are blotchy, he's slurring his words, and he's stripped down to only a t-shirt and jeans like alcohol makes him allergic to clothes. He looks like the morning after a frat party personified, except there's no one here but me to see it.
"Your turn," I grunt.
He steps into position, squares his hips, lines up the shot—then pauses, blinks, and looks up at me through his eyelashes. "Does it sting to keep losing to a kid?"
"Just hurry up. I've got a whole night of fuck all to get through." I shoot back, pretending to hate the banter.
Carey lines up the twelve and sends it home. Then the thirteen in quick succession like he didn't just trip over his own feet. He could clear the table in a few more shots if he wanted to, but he loses focus and starts humming the same mystery tune he does in the shop.
I take my next go and sink the four, then the five by accident; playing it off like it was skill but knowing I'll probably lose this game too.
Carey comes near to take a shot, and he smells like soju and that same beachy scent he carries everywhere.
I try to keep my eyes on the game, but it's impossible. He's a goddamn spectacle, full of energy and movement; every reaction bigger than it needs to be. It's not just the liquor, he's always like this. Like his body can't contain the energy inside it.
By some miracle I clear the last two solids and set myself up for the eighth. "You ready to lose, Novak?"
"You can't psych me out. I'm immune."
I shoot. The eight ball circles the rim, hangs for a heartbeat, then drops.
Carey claps, twice, slow and sarcastic. “Wow. Impressive. Old man finally gets it done.”
“You need to respect your elders.”
He cocks an eyebrow. “I will when you deserve it.”
I ignore him and rack up the balls for another round.
Carey pulls himself up to sit on the bar, legs swinging as he watches me. “Did you ever think this is what you’d be doing on Thanksgiving?”
