She shouts in his ear. “Luke’s waiting for you.” Someone pulls her back into the crowd before he can reply.
Oliver skirts the dance floor. He finds Luke in the same booth they claimed six years ago, the first time their fake IDs got them through the door. Luke’s sandy-blond hair was down to his shoulders then, his square jaw stubbled. He’s sure the Luke from that night wouldn’t recognize the clean-cut man sitting in front of him now.
Luke pushes a bottle of beer across the table. “If it’s warm, it’s because I bought it for you an hour ago.”
“Sorry.” Oliver takes a swig of the warm beer as a peace offering. It goes right to his head.
“It’s all right,” Luke says. “I’m just glad you’re here.”
The melancholy weight of Luke’s words settles in Oliver’s chest. “Are you drunk already?” he asks, even though he means,I’m glad you’re here, too.
Luke grins, and his hazel eyes crinkle at the corners. “Fuck you, I was trying to have a moment.” He means he was trying to say goodbye.
Zoë materializes next to the table. She sets a tray of shots down and slides onto the bench next to Luke. They all take a glass of the clear liquor.
“Who wants to toast first?” she asks, eyeing them.
Oliver raises his glass. “To old friends.”
“And Zoë,” Luke adds, clinking his glass against hers.
She rolls her eyes. “I have known you both for a quarter of your lives, you know.”
It’s true. They met Zoë in the dining hall at freshman orientation, and the rest is history. Her status as the new friend is a running joke, a metric that only works against Luke, Oliver’s best friend since second grade.
“A quarter of my lifeso far,” Luke says. “Please don’t imply this is the end.”
But it is an ending. Luke is moving to New York City to live with his actor boyfriend, Max, and start his doctorate in the fall. Zoë is off to some state-of-the-art research lab outside of Los Angeles, to her new apartment and her new job and her new life.
Zoë raises an eyebrow at Luke. “The end of our friendship, or your life?”
“Either? Both?” The alcohol dulls his typically sharp retorts. “Wait, why am I the one hypothetically dying here? What about you?”
Zoë shrugs. “It’s irrelevant.”
“Uh, how is your hypothetical death irrelevant?” Luke asks.
“I’d haunt you.”
“She’d definitely haunt you,” Oliver agrees.
“I’d haunt you both,” Zoë clarifies.
“Now I don’t feel special.” Luke pouts.
Zoë rolls her eyes again. “To new beginnings,” she toasts.
Oliver clinks his glass against hers and wonders if he has a right to drink to it.
He thought things would be different when he turned eighteen,thought things would get better when he moved out of the house, but neither has turned Theo back into his brother. He hoped moving on to the next chapter of his life would make Theo finally see him as more than the fourteen-year-old boy he had to raise alone. He’s applied to museums and archives all over the world, hoping fate will decide where he should go, what to do next. Fate hasn’t bothered to reply.
Luke raises his glass higher. “To great things to come.”
It’s a simple statement compared with his usual philosophical arguments. Oliver still doesn’t know what it means. It implies moving on, letting go of the past and embracing the future. But what does his future hold? He downs his shot because that seems like the answer. The liquor burns his throat. His vision swims. He blinks away the dark spots.
Zoë slides out of the booth. “Come on! One last dance with my boys.”
She pulls Luke after her, but Oliver is frozen where he sits. He fuckinghatesendings.
