I'll Stop the World (32)

Along with Dave and his dad, the sheriff is also here, thick arms folded just above the spot where the buttons of his uniform fight valiantly to hold back the swelling tide of his growing beer gut. I don’t know what’s going on, but I’m 100 percent certain it is not good for me.

Dave nods, and before I can ask what on earth they’re talking about, his dad is in my face, grabbing my arm. “You’ve been going through my liquor cabinet, son?”

“Huh?”

“Don’t lie to me, kid; I can smell it on your breath.”

My thoughts are sluggish from the whiskey, but even with my brain functioning on power-saver mode, a few things are crystal clear.

Son of a bitch. I narrow my eyes at Dave, who hovers behind the adults, a Joker grin stretched across his face. “I didn’t do anything,” I say through gritted teeth.

“Check his pockets,” Dave suggests, nearly jumping up and down in excitement. “I think I saw him take one of your flasks.”

I’m going to kill him. Not in a metaphorical way. I’m going to literally put my hands around his neck and wring the life out of him.

“Let’s see what’s in those pockets, son,” the sheriff says, puffing himself up like a blowfish. Sheriff Gibson has always struck me as one of those guys who peaked in high school and has been chasing the glory days of his youth ever since.

I weigh my options and decide there’s no use in stalling. They’ll find it sooner or later. Sighing, I pull the flask out of my pocket and hand it to the sheriff, who in turn hands it to Mr. Derrin.

“I didn’t take it,” I can’t help myself from saying.

The sheriff chuckles, shaking his head. “This is Lissa Warren’s boy,” he says under his breath to Mr. Derrin, like I’m not even here. “Like mother, like son, I guess.”

“I know the kind,” Mr. Derrin mutters as he sniffs at the flask and wrinkles his nose, as though I’ve somehow contaminated it. I fight an urge to grab it out of his hands, tear through the yard, and hurl it into the fire. He finds me and my “kind” offensive? How about we let the fire burn every trace of me off his precious flask? See how he likes it then.

Mr. Derrin turns to me. “I’m going to need to ask you to leave, son.”

“But—”

He frowns, holding up a hand. “I don’t want to hear it. I’m cutting you a break here. I could have Sheriff Gibson take you down to the station.”

“But I didn’t do anything!”

Mr. Derrin narrows his eyes at me. “Everyone’s done something,” he says ominously. “You’d do well not to fight me on this. I could make your life very difficult.”

I look from him to the sheriff, my mouth agape. Is he seriously threatening to have me arrested over this stupid flask? “Fine,” I say through gritted teeth. “I’ll go.”

“Want me to get you a Lyft?” Dave asks, his eyes filled with fake concern. His shoulders shake in barely contained laughter.

“No, thanks, I’m here with someone,” I say pointedly. “I’ll go home with her.”

The satisfaction I feel at watching Dave’s smug smile crack is almost, almost enough to make this whole thing worth it.

I hurry away from the house, my ears ringing with Sheriff Gibson’s warning that if I’m not gone in five minutes, he’ll have to “take measures,” whatever that means. Alyssa is probably still over by the fire. We can go back to her house, watch Netflix, warm up a frozen pizza, and pretend today never happened.

But my steps slow as I get closer. Alyssa and Danny are still sitting side by side on the cooler, but they’ve been joined by Brian Bruhe and Kennedy Ramberstein and Mikayla Jenkins and a few other kids I can’t recognize from this distance. They’re clustered in a loose knot, some sitting in folding camping chairs, others on the ground, talking and laughing and having fun.

Danny, who’d been so nervous to come to this thing, seems like he’s having a good time, leaning into the conversation, his elbows braced on his knees, his smile relaxed. And Alyssa is beaming, talking a mile a minute as the others hang on her every word. This is the experience she wanted tonight, one where she could laugh and unwind from the stress I continually dump in her lap.

I can’t ask her to leave.

Alyssa glances up and squints in my general direction, but I turn away, shoving my hands in my pockets as I head toward my car. I’ve nearly convinced myself she didn’t see me, when I hear footsteps on the grass behind me.

“Justin?”

For a second, I seriously consider breaking into a sprint. My car is only one row over. I could probably be in it and halfway out of the parking lot before she has time to process just how much of an asshole I am.

“Are you leaving? Without me?”

“You looked like you were having fun,” I mutter, not wanting to turn around. “I’m sure Danny can give you a ride.”

“That’s not the point.”

“I was gonna text you.”

“Are you serious? You can’t just ditch me and then think—come on, Justin, will you please look at me?” She grabs my arm, spinning me to face her, and frowns as, despite my best efforts, I sway slightly. “You can’t drive like this. You’re drunk.”

“Therapeutically intoxicated.”