Teardrop Shot(2)

He knew the reason. I knew the reason. Even Lucas knew the reason. None of us were talking about it.

“Charlie, uh,” he coughed. “The grandpa. The boyfriend.” He frowned, shaking his head. “This is a new boyfriend, right? I don’t recognize that name.”

“Oh, yeah.” My throat burned.

Somewhere an elephant was doing whatever sound they do, raising their trunk up, spraying water everywhere.

A bad taste rose up in my throat, and I clamped a hand on my stomach. “Oh no.”

I knew more were coming. They were never pretty.

“Do camels’ backs actually break?”

The words rushed out of me. I couldn’t stop them. I was biting my tongue, suppressing the rest.

I wanted to ask if he ever wondered if mimes enjoyed making sexual gestures more than the others?

What was the name of his imaginary pet chicken?

Did he actually have an imaginary pet chicken because everyone should have an imaginary pet chicken. Pros and cons, please.

Trent was eyeing me sideways. “You still do those, huh?”

I nodded. When things got too much for me, weird and random things came out of my mouth.

“So.” Another big sigh from him. He folded his head down, his hands in his pockets and he asked, “Wanna go get drunk?”

“If Jesus were alive, you think he’d be good at Jerkin dance?”

He just shook his head.

? ? ?

He yelled in my ear as we were dancing, “You should come with me.”

We were at the bar two blocks from my apartment.

For whatever reason, Trent decided to give me a break and not push for explanations and apologies that he deserved. Instead, he’d been on this new persuasion of getting me to go with him when he’d go back to our stomping grounds in the morning.

The music was now blaring, and I’d already sweated out two of the tequila shots, so I’d moved on to a Long Island Iced Tea. Which wasn’t much better alcohol-wise because dammmn they were tasty. And when I say dancing, I really mean we were bobbing up and down like apples floating in a barrel for a bad Halloween game—with random arm flailing.

I liked to pretend it was the surprise grouse attack. You’re walking, walking, things are great, calm, the world is beautiful, and whoosh—a grouse shoots up from the ground and you just peed your pants. It was that kind of arm flailing. Trent had it down perfectly. He was convinced he should be in a dance crew.

“What?” I stuck a finger in my ear, yelling back, but I was lying. Again.

I was a bad friend because I knew what he was asking me to do.

Echo Island Camp.

The name is deceptive. It wasn’t a total island, smack in the middle of the largest lake in Minnesota—well, the largest inland lake. Not Lake Superior. But it was scary big.

Despite all this, I did have a soft spot for Echo Island Camp.

It was a sanctuary place, kinda, for me. I went there as a kid, graduated to junior counselor in training during high school, then joined their summer staff full time after that. My family didn’t live far, so it’d been a second home to me. Kitchen. A brief stint on the maintenance crew. A counselor. I did it all.

That group of friends I ran from, they continued to get together every year—without me.

And Trent was asking me to go back. He was hired for a speaking event there tomorrow night.

The tequila had made all my thoughts and feelings fuzzy.

Is there such a thing as a tequila meltdown? Because I was nearing it.

I tapped his shoulder, and as he leaned down, I yelled into his ear, “Pee.”

He nodded, flashing me a smile. I started moving toward the bathroom, and when I glanced back, Trent was already angling toward a hot blonde back on the dance floor. Judging by the smile on her face, I knew he wouldn’t miss me any time soon.

Knowing that, I slipped out to the sitting area. A few tables were full, but I grabbed one toward the edge. Though we were outdoors, there were plenty of televisions and games like foosball and air hockey. There were a couple pool tables too, but they were at the other end. They tended to be surrounded by serious players, i.e., douchebags trying to look all tough and manly. Newt had probably been one of them in his younger days.

At the thought of him, I started growling. To myself. Because I was demented now. But he’d stolen my Reese Forster shirt. That pretty face didn’t belong over Newt’s saggy chest and balls. He deserved to be resting over me, keeping me warm—I had to stop myself. I noticed I’d started to caress my drink like it was Reese Forster.

And sitting alone at a table, that wasn’t a good look.

“…...Forster’s brother is going to damage his season? What do you think, Kat?”

I snapped around, hearing the sportscaster’s voice.

A few other guys were standing in front of the TV, one pointing a remote control and upping the volume level.

I went over, standing behind them to hear Kat’s response. “We all have to remember that this scandal isn’t Reese Forster’s scandal. It’s his brother’s. It’s getting coverage because of his relation to Reese, and I hope it doesn’t affect his season this year, but who knows? It very well could.”

On the screen, one of the other men at the desk leaned forward, his suit wrinkling. “You have to feel for the guy. Reese Forster is known to be private. He’s intense on the court. He’s a leader for that team, and now his name is being connected to what his brother—”