“Come on! That’s Nic!”
Jamie grins as we move toward their table.
The guys seem drunk already, like they’ve been here for at least an hour or two, which in Niccolo’s case isn’t even possible. The table is littered with beer bottles, and almost as soon as we sit down, the arrogant guy we met last night—Michael—starts trying to convince me to share a beer bowl with him.
“It’s like a fish bowl, but with beer, and it’s craft beer. Really good shit.”
I decline his offer twice in the first ten minutes. After that, I walk toward the bathroom, getting distracted as I pass a wooden door on the side of the building that’s painted with the word SMOKE and bears a pitifully rendered, hand-painted cigarette.
I haven’t smoked for years—it’s terrible for the voice—but I’m just bored and desperate enough to slip outside despite that.
It’s snowing hard, and the building only has a small awning on this side. I stand with my back against the wall and wonder why I’m so unhappy. Two girls burst out, laughing.
“He looked grumpy!”
“But that hair…”
They’re paying so little attention to where they’re going, one of them crashes into me.
“Oh my God!”
The other girl looks me up and down. “Do I know you? Is she— Sheri, she looks like—”
They both shriek, “Jessica!”
Half an hour—and two cigarettes, and six swigs from a rhinestone flask later—I teeter back inside, feeling pleasantly buzzed.
Before returning to our table, I call Elvie from the women’s bathroom. He’s in New York. Times Square, where his parents are part of the celebrity countdown. The first time I call, someone hits the “fuck you” button. I call right back and someone answers wordlessly. I can hear the roar of guitar amps and laughing. I hear some girl’s voice coo “Elvie.”
I hang up the phone and run my hands under the cold sink water till my heart stops racing.
TWENTY-TWO
Barrett
November 7, 2015
A bright, twinkling rainbow. Something tickling along my jaw. I smell a hint of fruit and feel…a face. Her hair tickles my neck. Warmth floods through me. I crack my eyes and see the Christmas lights. And I realize she is Gwenna.
“Wake up, you…” I feel her soft brow against my beard, her warm lips pressed against my chin. “I brought you dinner in bed,” she whispers in a husky voice.
Even in my groggy state, her voice makes me hard. I reach out, wrapping an arm around her neck and pulling her down beside me on the mattress.
I let out a soft sigh and turn from my back onto my side, where I can wrap myself around her.
Gwenna laughs. I like her laugh. It’s rough and unrepentant: nothing veiled, nothing held back.
“You woke up snuggly,” she murmurs as I wrap an arm around her.
I woke up wanting to be inside her.
“You cooked?” I ask her in a sleep-graveled voice.
Before she can answer, I hook my leg over one of hers and move closer to her, close enough to wrap my arm around her.
“This feels good,” she whispers.
Gwenna pulls my head against her chest and starts to stroke my nape and shoulders. I fix my attention on the sweet sensation. Gentle fingers… Her other hand is wrapped around my shoulder, holding me against her.