Never traveling west of the Rockies was possible. When Malcolm’s parents divorced, Iggy heard that Malcolm and his mother moved east to be closer to her folks. But the butt tattoo…as much as he wanted that to be true, for the sheer visual aesthetic…
Malcolm began humming theJeopardy!theme.
“The lie is the tattoo,” Iggy finally said. “There’s no tattoo on your butt.”
A slow grin spread across Malcolm’s face, and Iggy knew he’d lost. “I went to Boston for my twenty-third birthday. Made a bad bet on a Celtics game, and I woke up with a shamrock tattooed on my ass.”
Iggy crossed his arms. “I’m not drinking until you prove it.”
“You want me to flash my ass at you?”
“Yes.”
“So, you refuse to believe this is the farthest west I’ve ever traveled?”
“I mean, it’s not impossible, just highly unlikely. You’ve really never gone to Seattle or San Francisco, or even Vegas?”
“No, I haven’t. I’ve honestly not lived in many places besides here. Why? Have you?”
“Yes.” Iggy stared at the brown liquid in his glass, in no hurry to drink it without a mixer, but mixers were cheating in this sort of game. “I’ve lived all over the country. I suppose I never put down roots as an adult because I never had roots at a kid. Other than here. Okay. Fine.” He tossed back the shot. His entire body shuddered as the liquor slid down his esophagus to warm his stomach.
Malcolm poured Iggy’s second shot, which Iggy estimated was off by a half-ounce. “Your turn.”
This game had been easier to play as teenagers, when their lived experiences were much smaller and narrower in scope. Then again, Iggy admitted to traveling a lot, so he could make hisresponses as outrageous as possible just to mess with Malcolm’s head. His adult life had been pretty nuts, at points.
“I know someone who once tried out forMasterChefand didn’t get on the show.” Iggy worked hard not to flinch at the memory of Darren’s rejection and reaction later in their hotel room. “I got divorced when I was twenty-nine. One of my drink recipes was stolen by a mixologist who later featured it at an expo in Aspen without giving me credit.”
“You aren’t divorced,” Malcolm said without pause.
Iggy stared. “How are you so sure?”
“Because we both agreed that marriage was a scam that led to bitterness and anger, and we each swore off ever doing it. My parents ended up in a war. Your parents enabled each other into prison sentences for drugs and violence.” Malcolm frowned. “Unless you married for money, but that doesn’t feel like you.”
“I’d never marry for money, I’ve made my own way.” Iggy threw back the second shot of whiskey fast so he didn’t taste it as much. Or see the smug look on Malcolm’s face. “No, I’m not divorced. Never was married, but I was semi-engaged once.”
Malcolm grunted. Was that annoyance? “Semi-engaged?”
“We made promises about a life together.” Iggy took the bottle and refilled his own glass, under-pouring a little to make up for Malcolm’s slight over-pour. “No rings or fancy declarations, just plans and promises.” Plans and promises that Darren had made with no intention of keeping, not according to his journals. Darren thought it would make everything hurt less for Iggy later.
“He get cold feet?” Malcolm asked.
“Something like that. Well, we’re two-zero in your favor. You’re way too sober.”
“Hey, I had some beers tonight. You’re catching up.”
“You still haven’t proven you have a tattoo on your ass.”
“You catch my next lie and I’ll do a double-shot and show you my bare ass.”
Iggy added another shot of whiskey to Malcolm’s glass. “Deal. And don’t make it easy on me.”
Malcolm gently spun his glass in a circle, the liquid inside barely sloshing up the sides, his eyes seeming to go distant. Thinking. That quiet, contemplative look that always preceded Malcolm saying something incredibly insightful, or morbidly shocking. Iggy had no idea what to expect tonight, after they’d both had long days, consumed alcohol, and were sharing secrets previously unknown to the other.
Not so different from two closeted teens trying to get to know each other, while hiding what they shared from the outside world. Except neither of them was in the closet anymore, and while both were tired and loose, no one was drunk on stolen vodka.
“I’ve had one surgery,” Malcolm said with zero inflection or emotion. “I’ve had two surgeries. I beat cancer over a decade ago.”
Iggy nearly sent his glass flying off the table. He didn’t want any of those three things to be true, and two of them were, which meant—“You had cancer?”
