“Hey, Charlie, can you match me?” I take a drink and pass him the bottle.
“Aw, Lil, you’re talking to the master here.” He takes two and passes it back.
My turn.
“You okay, Lil?” Charlie may be drunk, but he knows me well enough to know that something is wrong. I don’t normally act like this, drinking straight out of a bottle, matching Charlie, shot for shot. I’m acting like trash. It’s embarrassing. But I guess that’s where I live now. Might as well get used to it.
“I’m good,” I say. “Just pissed at Max.”
“Yeah, he can be an asshole sometimes, you know?”
I’ve never heard Charlie say anything bad about Max before. He’s loyal to a fault. I wonder if that’s just the alcohol talking.
“He sure as shit can,” I say.
Maybe something happened to him. Maybe I’m so caught up in my own stuff, I can’t think straight about Max. Nah, I doubt it. I’m pretty sure he’s just bailed on senior night. Lately, he’s been sort of cold. I can’t help thinking this is about another girl. With Max, everything is usually about sex or squash. Maybe he’s fucking someone on the squash court. Probably Marsha Spittman. Or, better yet, Lacey Garson. That little bitch. She’s wanted to get into Max’s pants for as long as she’s known him. And, come to think of it, I haven’t seen her here.
“Screw him.” And that’s when I take Charlie’s face and pull him to me. I kiss him hard. He’s too drunk to protest. His lips are bitter, like vinegar, and his breath is sour. Charlie’s tongue is in my mouth, forceful, poking, like he’s doing root canal work. It’s not particularly pleasant. Nothing like Max, but I’m here. No way out now.
I take Charlie’s hands that are hanging limply at his side, seemingly looking for direction, and I shove them under my shirt. He fumbles around on my breasts like he’s never been to this place before, like it’s unfamiliar territory. What’s up with that? I thought Charlie was quite the swordsman. Maybe he’s too wasted to know what he’s doing. Or maybe he just can’t do this to his best friend, he’s too good of a person. Not vengeful, petty, or bitter. Like me.
We make out for a few more minutes, but it’s not working.
For either of us. I pull away and crumple onto the sand. I don’t want to look at Charlie ever again. What was I thinking?
Charlie stares down at me, dumbfounded. “What just happened?”
I can’t help myself, I start crying.
Charlie falls to the sand beside me. He gently rubs my back. Now, at least, he seems to know what to do with his hands.
“We made a mistake. We were drunk. It didn’t mean anything. Max never has to know about it. Promise.”
“That’s not what I’m crying about,” I cough out, in between tears.
Neither of us says anything as we stare at the fire.
And then Charlie’s phone rings. He takes it out of his pocket and answers.
“Max…hey.”
Charlie looks at me, and I look away. Speak of the devil.
“Yo no hablo español,” I say. I’m not in the mood for a lengthy conversation with Augusto, who may or may not be celebrating his birthday. I glance over at him as he sways precariously. Jesus, I really hope he doesn’t fall over on me.
Max saunters back from the phone booth, smiling at me. I wonder what it’s like being Lily. Always having Max walking toward you, looking like that. Must be nice. Really nice.
“Everything good at your house?” I ask.
“No problemos.”
“Lucky you,” I say. I don’t think it’ll be quite the same at my house.
I stand up as Max takes a seat next to Augusto.
“I’m going to call my mom. I would advise you to move over a few seats. Augusto here is getting ready to take a tumble,” I tell Max.
“Don’t worry about me. I can handle myself.”
And then, as if on cue, Augusto falls over onto Max, and they both go down. Max is laughing.
“Wow. You called it,” Max says.
“I’m psychic.”
Augusto is snoring. Jesus.
“What are we supposed to do with him?” I ask.
“Let’s put him in a chair in the back.”
Max and I drag Augusto to a worn leather chair in the corner of the bar.
“He can sleep it off here,” Max says. “Go call your mom.”
As I head into the phone booth, I can’t help thinking that Max is a really decent guy. Possibly even a better person than me. All I wanted to do was run fast and far from Augusto, but Max wanted to make sure he was okay. Do I have everyone else at Freiburg wrong as well? I push that out of my mind as I dial Mom’s cell. I can only focus on fixing one problem at a time. Mom is up. Then I can revisit my social miscalculations from the past six years.
I never lie to my mom, but there’s a first time for everything, so here goes. I brace myself for the conversation, but she doesn’t pick up, which is weird. She always picks up my calls. I am calling from a different number, so maybe that’s the reason.
“Uh, hi, Mom. It’s me. I just wanted to let you know that the meeting went kind of late and I’m going to spend the night at Will’s, okay? I’ll call you in the morning.” And then I hang up fast. I’ve just dropped a bomb. She’s going to be, among other things, pissed. Really pissed. I’ve never done anything like this, but maybe it’s finally time I did.
“So?” Max asks as I slip onto a stool next to him, having passed Augusto along the way, who is curled up on the chair, fast asleep, covered in a colorful blanket. Did Max find a blanket for him as well? Who is he, Gandhi?
“I left her a message. She didn’t pick up. Second time today. She almost always picks up her cell.”
“I’m sure everything’s fine. She’s working, right?”
“Yeah, that’s probably it,” I say. But in the back of my mind, I can’t help worrying that something’s gone horribly wrong in my absence, because that’s my job. I hold things together for my family. But, you know what? I can’t do it forever. They need to learn how to take care of themselves, starting tonight. I’m leaving in less than three months. We’ve all got to learn how to let go, otherwise I might as well just call the whole thing off and go to UCSD.
I make a decision to put everything out of my head except for the here and now. For one night I want to be totally, unconscionably, downright selfish. Does that make me a bad person? I don’t think so. I’ll deal with everything else tomorrow. Maybe I’m just buzzed enough to pull it off.
“Manuel says we can crash at his house. On the floor or something. And then we’ll head out first thing in the morning.”
“Yeah. Definitely,” I say. But I can’t help wondering what the larger meaning is here. I mean, Max and I are spending the night together, in a manner of speaking.
“Don’t worry. We’re going to get to graduation on time,” Max says.
That’s the last thing on my mind at the moment.
“Dos cervezas, por favor,” Max says to an old bartender who’s helping out Manuel.
I laugh at Max’s accent.
“What?” Max asks.