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“You’re late.”
“Thirteen minutes.”
“You say that like thirteen minutes doesn’t count.”
Jerry shoved the bottle against my chest as he walked past me. “I brought you a peace offering.”
I looked at the label.
“At least you didn’t embarrass yourself.”
“That cost me a hundred and twenty fucking dollars.”
Jerry made it halfway through the foyer before slowing. He looked around.
“You really haven’t changed shit.”
Jerry walked farther into the living room, looking around like he’d stumbled into a museum dedicated to the years he’d peaked.
“Holy shit. Remember when Mitchell tried to jump from up there?”
He pointed toward the landing.
“He broke his ankle.”
“He almost made it.”
“He landed six feet from the couch.”
I carried the bottle toward the bar. Jerry followed, still looking around. Then his attention moved toward the plastic sheeting on the floor and furniture. He grabbed the plastic covering the couch and lifted it. “Are you selling the place or something?”
“No.”
“Then why does it look like nobody’s supposed to touch anything?”
“Because nobody lives here.”
Jerry looked around again. “You still use it?”
“Sometimes.”
He dropped onto the couch, and the plastic crackled beneath his weight.
“Jesus Christ.” He shifted and looked down at it. “This is fucking awful. You have more money than God and somehow you’re still cheap.”
I smiled as I poured the bourbon.
The furniture wasn’t covered because I cared about preserving it. Blood was considerably easier to remove from plastic than upholstery.
Jerry didn’t need to know that.
For the next forty minutes, I kept his glass full and let him reminisce. It didn’t take much. Jerry had always been a lightweight who drank like he wasn’t one, and by the time he’d finished most of his fourth bourbon, he’d sunk deeper into the couch and started dragging his words together. He went from Mitchell breaking his ankle to some party neither of us remembered particularly well, then somehow landed on Nancy Reynolds, a girl we’d both spent half a semester trying to get into bed.
“You remember Nancy?” Jerry asked, pointing his glass at me. “I was working on her for fucking weeks.”
“You weren’t working on anything. She wasn’t interested in you.”
“Exactly.” He laughed, nearly spilling his drink when he leaned forward. “That was always your fucking problem. You never saved anybody for the rest of us.”
