“Yeah, sorry. I brought friends,” I say, feeling my cheeks warm. “I hope that’s okay.” Why didn’t it occur to me to ask?
“Yeah, it’s cool. Come in.” He ushers us into the hallway, where it’s bright and warm. There’s a pile of sneakers by the door and I start taking off my heels, thankful I can finally be rid of them, but Danielle gives me a sharp look and continues down the hall, so I leave them on. It smells faintly like stale beer and marijuana smoke, something earthy and rotten, and as we walk, my heels stick to the floor.
“So I live here with my buddy Cody,” Dean says, turning back to me. “We were in the dorms together freshman year.” He leads us into the living room to where a group of about twenty people are gathered. I realize immediately that we’re wearing the wrong thing. It’s all sweaters, sweatpants, and flannel shirts, like everyone is trying so hard to look like they don’t care. I can see the contempt in their shadowy eyes, pierced lips puckered like something tastes sour. I fold my arms, feeling exposed, wishing I brought a sweater to cover my bare back and shoulders.
“I thought this is what everybody wears at frat parties,” Hannah hisses under her breath. She’s in a crop top too, showing off her toned stomach.
“Yeah, well, this isn’t a frat party, is it?” Danielle hisses back. Dean motions us toward a skinny black guy on the couch, who’s rolling a joint on the cover of a History of Film textbook. He has thick horn-rimmed glasses and a knit beanie.
“Hey, Cody, this is the girl I told you about from work.”
I feel myself flush, pleased to be referred to in such a way. The girl I told you about.
“Hey, dude!” Cody says, nodding his head. Dean motions to the girls behind me.
“And this is . . . well.” He notices Hannah and his eyes brighten. “I know you. You came into the store.”
“Hannah,” she says, giving a little curtsy. Ava plops down on the couch next to Cody, her skirt riding up as she crosses her legs.
“I’m Ava. You’re cute.”
Cody lets out a surprised gust of air, smiling wide to show his teeth.
“Oh, really? I like you.” He looks back at Dean. “I like her.”
Danielle grabs Ava’s arm, pulling her back up off the couch. “Don’t be so obvious. Let’s go get a drink. Dean, right?” Danielle gives Dean a glittery smile. “Do you have anything to drink?” It makes me nervous. She’s the one guys are supposed to stare at. Why would Dean want me if he could have her?
“Yeah, sure,” he says. “Follow me.”
“Hold up!” Cody puts a finger in the air to pause us, then lifts the joint off the table, rolling it between his fingers. “I’m coming with.”
Dean walks toward the kitchen and we all follow. He grabs four cans of Bud Light out of the fridge, handing them to each of us. Then he grabs a fifth can and throws it to Cody, who catches it one-handed and cracks open the top with one fluid motion.
I open my own can and take a hesitant sip, trying not to crinkle my nose at the taste. Like always, it tastes like pee. I wish I’d taken Andrew more seriously when he tried to teach me to drink beer. I wish Andrew were here with me now. I’d definitely be freaking out a lot less.
Dean turns to me, leaning forward to speak in a soft voice.
“I have something special for you.” His voice fills me with warmth.
“Really?”
He pulls back from my ear and smiles. “Yeah, come to my room for a sec.” Before I can answer, he turns away from the kitchen and heads down the hall. I follow, throwing a glance back to my friends, who are all grinning stupidly. Ava gives me a thumbs-up. Danielle pulls her phone out of her purse and texts something. I feel my phone buzz in my pocket a moment later and glance at it.
Cool, confident, and experienced, remember? Don’t blow it . . . Or maybe do
Dean walks through his bedroom door and I follow him in, pocketing my phone before he can see it. His room is pretty bare, just a worn dresser and a bed in one corner, sheets unmade and rumpled. There’s a framed poster of The Bicycle Thief on one wall and a Pink Floyd poster on the other, the one with the row of naked women’s backs. A laundry basket sits in the corner, clothes piling out of it and onto the floor. He walks over to a cabinet in his closet and pulls out a bottle of whiskey. It has a seal of red wax at the top.
He holds it up for me. “I know you like whiskey.”
“Oh,” I say, surprised. I clear my throat. “Yeah, I do.” Danielle’s text is etched into my mind: cool, confident, and experienced.
“This is Maker’s Mark. Each individual bottle is sealed with wax by hand, so they’re all unique.” He moves a finger down the red wax at the top of the bottle. “Pretty cool, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“You wanna break it open?”
He hands me the bottle and I hold it gingerly, afraid I’ll drop it. I have no idea how to break open the wax seal. I reach into the purse hanging from my shoulder and dig around for my house key. Pulling it out, I run the jagged edge down the side of the wax. Dean takes the bottle from me, folding my fingers forward so the key is closed in my palm.
“There’s a tab,” he explains. “You just pull it.” He grabs ahold of the tab and the wax peels away, exposing a normal bottle top underneath. “That was a diligent effort though.” I feel my cheeks warm and stuff the key back into my bag. He brings the bottle up to his lips and takes a sip, then hands it back over to me. “Cheers, work buddy.”
I hold my breath and take a small sip. When I breathe out I feel a rush of heat flood my chest. The taste is just as bad as I remember it—sweet and chemical at the same time. Do people actually like the taste of whiskey or is everyone just pretending?
“So how was your date?” Dean asks once I swallow.
“My date?” I ask, and then remember the text Danielle sent. “Right, my date.” I take another sip of whiskey just to stall. “I mean, like I said before, it was boring.” I’m trying to think of something to say, but of course I’ve drawn a huge blank. For a second my mind flashes to Andrew, the silly comment I made to him in art class, and then the worst possible answer falls out of my mouth. “He wouldn’t stop talking about . . . cheese.”
“Cheese,” Dean says, the corner of his mouth turned up. “Really?”
“Yup. He lives on a cheese farm. I mean . . . dairy farm. I mean, cows. You know how it is around here with all the cows.” Oh my god. My brain is actually malfunctioning. Dean’s eyes are twinkling with amusement and I know he’s enjoying witnessing my slow death. I point at his chest, trying to change the subject. “So what’s the deal with your shirts?”