I don’t tell him that hanging out with him is the only time I feel like I’m not drowning. I don’t tell him his friendship is the one thing keeping me tethered to something good. I don’t tell him that I’d do anything for him.
But I would.
Anything.
And I think he’d say the same.
The party winds down a little after two in the morning, and Art’s too wasted to find his keys, let alone his car, so I drive us both to my family’s estate.
We take the back roads, windows down, the bonfire smoke clinging to our clothes. Art’s got some old rock song playing on the speakers, and he’s slurring the words into his hand like it’s a microphone.
“Jesus, you’re wasted.”
“Not wasted,” he says, pointing at me with an unsteady finger. “I’m celebratingyou, since you’re a wet fucking blanket tonight.”
He drops his head back against the seat and grins at me. “You’re my best friend. Like mybestfriend. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“Probably crash into a ditch,” I reply, swerving to avoid a pothole.
By the time we pull up to my family’s estate, Art’s half asleep, mumbling about how my car smells like the living embodiment of a teenage dirtbag.
“Out,” I tell him, shoving his back. “I’m not carrying your ass.”
“You would if you loved me.”
“Yeah, well, we’ve all got our limits.”
We stumble through the side entrance, the one that leads through the main kitchen, and I’m expecting what normally happens: a note from Beverly about leftovers in the fridge and a passive-aggressive reminder to take off my shoes before I track dirt through the house. But instead, she’s there with her hands on her hips.
“You two smell like a brewery,” she says.
“Happy birthday to me.” I grin, pressing a kiss to her cheek.
“Mmhm.” She crosses to the counter, pulling out a plate covered in foil. “I saved you both some cake. Figured you’d come back hungry.”
Art’s already reaching for it. “Bevie, you’re a goddamn angel.”
“You won’t think that when I tell you why you need to sober up.”
I groan. “Don’t say it.”
“Your fath—”
“La-La-La-La,” Art cuts in, mouth full of icing, and fingers in his ears. “Bevie, we can’t be disappointments if we can’thearthem saying we’re disappointments, right?”
She presses her lips together, and for a second she looks older than I’ve ever seen her. “Your father’s in his study,” she says. “He’s been waiting for both of you.”
Art’s hand freezes over the cake. “Bothof us?”
“He’s not alone.” She doesn’t elaborate, but her eyes flick to Art and something passes over her face. “You need to do whatever they say, you hear me?”
“Bevie… What are you talking about?”
“Go.” She reaches out and squeezes my arm, her grip firm. “You’re a good friend, Lance. He’ll need you to be that for him.”
I don’t know what that means, but suddenly, I think back over the night and my memories fall apart and then re-slot together again. Art showing up late, which is unlike him. Art, not wanting to talk about anything but me. Art, getting so wasted he can’t see straight andmebeing the responsible one.
We walk down the long hallway toward my father’s study, our footsteps echoing off the marble, and I can’t shake the feeling that I’m walking toward something I won’t be able to come back from.
