Page 4 of Wingmen

“Yeah, she’s like a–” Reef swayed, hiccuping. “What’s the opposite of a cougar?”

“I think she was just relieved to be talking to a grownup,” said Dustin, flagging down the barman for another glass of water.

Rodriguez pointed to a blonde on the other side of the room. “Bet you can’t getthatone.”

“I bet I could.” Dustin picked up the glass the barman slid over the counter. “But I’m gonna quit while I’m ahead.”

Rodriguez grinned and jostled the toothpick with his tongue, which was blue from the antifreeze or whatever he was drinking. “Okay Abuelo, tell Abuelita I said hello! Don’t forget to put your dentures in the–” He waved a woozy hand, frowning. “What is that stuff they call it? The blue stuff?”

“Pretty sure you’re drinking it,” said Dustin.

To his surprise, Rodriguez laughed. His arm landed heavily around Dustin’s shoulders as he made a bid for the exit. “Aw, come on Papi, don’t leave! We’re just getting started! What’s next? How about her?” He leveled his gaze at another girl across the room, but he was so drunk his eyes kept roaming together.

Dustin removed the arm from his shoulders. “You got a ride home? Where are you staying?”

“Some hotel in downtown. I don’t have a car, I’ll get an Uber.” Rodriguez waved the fishbowl, patting down his pockets. “Shit, man, where the fuck is my… Yo, what time is it?”

Dustin checked his watch. “Ten minutes to one. Are you at The Nines? There’s a little brewery called Pineapple near there if you need a lunch spot tomorrow.”

“Nah, man, I gotta catch my flight.” Rodriguez paused. “What time’d you say?One?Shit, it’searly, man.” He slung his arm back around Dustin’s shoulders and gestured with the half-empty glass of Windex. “You don’t wanna leave now. What about her? Or her? Or that one by the buffet?”

Dustin firmly removed the arm and stepped back. “Next time. Don’t forget that Uber, little man.”

CHAPTER TWO

Elliot

Elliot woke face-down on top of the comforter, with the inside of his mouth feeling like a street dog’s roasted asshole.

With his eyes closed, he took stock of the situation. Head: not good. Stomach: not good. Left foot: still laced into the uncomfortable dress shoe he’d rented yesterday. Right foot: bare? Somehow?

He cracked open one eye to find the hotel’s blackout curtains doing God’s work. The only light in the room came from the crack under the door and the green dot of the smoke detector. His phone buzzed on the nightstand and lit up the room. Closing his eyes again, Elliot swung his arm until he located it.

Five notifications. Three from Reef, one from his mother, one from Diego. He rolled onto his back with a groan – “Coño” – and opened Reef’s.

Brooooo.A video attachment.tell me you got home

Elliot remembered the hotel lobby, and before that, the inside of a taxi, and before that, nothing. He tapped the video. Itwas Reef, arm-wrestling someone at the charity event. The camera panned, and there was Elliot in the background, holding a glass of something blue, laughing his ass off. The inside of his mouth was the same color as his drink.

He scrubbed his face with one hand and texted Reef back.

alive. barely

my boyyyy. what time u fly out

Elliot lifted his head to peer down his nose at the dark room. He’d meant to pack last night.

not sure

He locked the phone and sat up, which was a mistake. Lurching off the bed, he made it to the bathroom with just enough time to slam the door closed with his foot before he was sick. Afterward he sat with his cheek against the rim of the toilet and thought about the life choices that had brought him to this moment. He was pretty sure Dustin Bennet was to blame. He remembered a smug look and a glass of water.

His curls were stuck to his forehead when he stood and peered into the mirror. There was a toothpick behind his ear he had no memory of putting there. He removed it and dropped it in the trash and said, to his reflection, in Spanish, what his mother would say to him if she could see him right now, and then he got in the shower.

By the timehe was downstairs in search of coffee, it was almost noon and he felt sixty percent human. The barista at the coffee stand by the concierge was a white guy in his twenties with a mustache like a topiary. He didn’t make eye contact as Elliot ordered from behind his sunglasses, which Elliot appreciated.

His flight didn’t leave until four, so with a couple hours to kill, he walked. Portland in July wasn’t what he’d expected. He’dexpected rain, but the sky was a vivid blue and the breeze was warm and fresh. Back home the air in July hit you like a wet rag.

He peered through the dark window of a bookstore and stopped at a place selling soaps to get a gift for his mom. A woman jogged by in head-to-toe lavender as two guys on electric unicycles glided past in the bike lane. Everyone looked like they’d slept eight-plus hours and was on their way to yoga, or soul-healing, or yo-yo class or didgeridoo, or whatever else white people in Portland did on a Saturday.