Summer Sons(29)

“It’s just money. He didn’t care about it, so why should I?” Andrew said.

“Okay,” Riley repeated.

This is my roommate, Andrew considered as he sipped his beer. I live with this guy. I’m going to keep living with this guy. Eddie had left him this, all of this. These were his friends, or his enablers, or worse. The road climbed through hills. Riley ascended slower than their last breakneck climb, smooth and powerful through the turns. He took a branch road that passed farm fields and small houses, the occasional trailer. The itching pull at the beds of Andrew’s fingernails increased as the sun coasted near the horizon. He scratched at the seam of his jeans, catching his nails against the stitching and tugging to ease the ache.

“Almost there,” Riley said.

Andrew hung one arm out the window and caught a damp leaf from a branch that whipped past them. He crushed it between his fingers, grinding sticky green life into his knuckles. Riley was smiling when he glanced at him, a pleased tension to his posture, leaning forward to the wheel. Andrew chugged the rest of his beer. As he lowered the empty can, Riley turned onto a paved track cut through sparse trees, a mailbox hanging open, crooked on its post at the curb. The curving driveway opened to a clearing with a single-story ranch house and separate garage, cupped in the hands of the forest. Riley rolled up to the garage and parked among the startling number of ugly-livid cars splayed across the lawn. His engine idled while he finished his beer. Andrew thought about videos on his phone, firecrackers and gasoline. Yeah, he thought as Riley popped out of the car and slammed the door behind him, yeah, it’s a fire night.

He threw his crumpled can in the yard and jogged behind Riley around the side of the house. The summer dusk settling on his shoulders propelled him into the soundscape of raucous voices and pounding trap music. Dull half-light washed out the features of the crowd. The congregation circled around an unlit bonfire, drinking from blue Solo cups and glass bottles, cigarettes in hand, and more bare feet and naked chests than was advisable for the thrum in the air. He knew a pack waiting for nightfall when he stumbled into one.

A welcoming shout went up from some corner of the crowd as the pair came into view, and a handful of curious stares slid past Andrew.

“Hey, kid,” Halse barked from his precarious seat on the deck railing, where he’d been holding court. He hopped off clumsily, a blunt in one hand and a mostly full bottle of bourbon in the other. Liquor splashed over his wrist. “Welcome, welcome!”

He hooked one arm over each of their shoulders, sweat-sticky, dragging both along with him. Riley snagged Halse’s wrist and guided the bottle to his own mouth, messily stealing a swig. Sweet smoke and heat curled under Andrew’s chin. Halse flicked his wrist and proffered the blunt. Andrew took it between his thumb and forefinger. Halse’s hand thumped onto his chest, encouraging, as he took a lung-straining drag.

“Oh, fuck yeah,” Halse crowed. “I’ve been hoping you’d get that stick out of your ass, Blur. We all got our ways of coping, but I bet I know yours.”

“Fuck off,” he slurred through the smoke, voice milky.

“Riley, go make the boy a drink,” Halse said. His cousin stole his bottle and left with a sideways grin, disappearing into the house through the open sliding door. Andrew tried to pass the blunt back. Halse slapped a hand to the side of his head and tousled his hair, yanking strands between his fingers. “Nah, you keep that. That’s yours, guest of honor. Your prize for beating me the other night.”

Andrew inhaled again, filling up his lungs. Halse released him; he swayed toward the retreating hand from old habit. One of the boys on the deck leaned over the rail. His hair was glossy black, combed in a tousled sweep off his forehead. The porchlights enhanced the gold-brown undertones of his skin, the rich depth of his dark eyes, and the painted-on maroon V-neck clinging to every ounce of his defined, slim torso. He gave off an air of willing trouble.

While Andrew took him in, the man said, “Sam, who’s that?”

“Andrew Blur, Ed’s friend,” Halse replied.

“Hey there, I’m Ethan Jung,” he said with a grin. Mirth narrowed his eyes as he smiled.

“Hey,” Andrew said slowly in return, noticing Ethan’s short-heeled leather boots as he shifted foot to foot.

Another round of introductions, a handful of unremarkable young men who could all use each other’s IDs in a pinch, names like David and Jacob and Benjamin all forgotten immediately, finished before Riley returned. He leaned over the railing and passed Andrew a cup, bumping his hip against Ethan’s. Ethan grinned wider and shoved him back, fingers splayed over Riley’s shoulder at the line of his light farmer’s tan. The jacket he’d arrived with had already disappeared while he was in the house.

“Welcome back,” Riley said. He glanced over at Andrew. “Ethan here is in his second year of law school. He’s going to be a goddamn lawyer.”

“That’s sort of what law school is for, dumbass,” Ethan said.

Andrew snorted a slight laugh, looking into his cup. The liquid was a nondescript, tawny brown, fizzing gently. He kept the blunt going with a casual drag and blew a few sloppy rings.

“I hear you have a sick Supra,” Ethan said.

Andrew stared up at him and took a sip: bourbon, soda, something bitter and tart—lemon, possibly. Riley glanced between them with an encouraging nod. Compared to the rest of the men on the porch, Ethan stood out, that was for sure.