Page 44 of All Our Almosts

“No.”

“It’s true!” she shouted, again too loud.

But I didn’t believe it. It was June on campus, sure, but even during the lows of summer break, if it was really her birthday there was no doubt in my mind people would be clamoring to celebrate with her.

“Ok then,” I replied, overcompensating for her loudness with a low whisper. “Prove it. Show me your ID. If it’s really your birthday, I will… I don’t know, buy you dinner.”

“And if it’s not, do I have to buy you dinner?”

I shrugged. “Seems fair.”

Wordlessly, even smugly, she reached into her purse and pulled out a piece of shiny plastic proof.

I frowned down at the card, then pulled out my phone to double check the date. June 1st. Shit. And there was nothing I could do but hand it back to her with a stammered, “Oh. Sorry, I… happy birthday.”

“Thanks.” She smiled a little as she took it back and tucked it into her purse, but the gesture was hollow. It fucking bothered me.

“So,” I said, “dinner’s on me.”

And the way her face brightened when she asked “Really?” made me feel like a goddamn superhero. She was so full of brightness, so easy to please. Certainly everyone felt that way around her, but to experience it… it felt like she reacted that way just for me. Like I was worthy of it.

By the time Sophie clocked out of her shift, I’d put together a list of restaurants for her to pick from, since I had no idea what she liked yet. She picked a pub nearby because she heard from a friend that they never carded there. And so it began.

We walked a few blocks, then down narrow stairs into a dark basement. Green Day played over the speakers and my shoes stuck to the floor. The server didn’t blink an eye when newly 19-year-old Sophie ordered an absinthe cocktail, and I—no more legal than she at 20—decided to get the same. Neither of us had ever tried it before, but it was a special night.

The drinks arrived, and it was so easy. Listening to her, talking to her, even just existing across the table from her. She grasped the helm of the conversation with both hands and guided it expertly, offering up so much of herself that it tempted me to do the same.

The absinthe reminded her of the Lost Generation, and that was a full hour of conversation alone. I told her that I’ve always liked Hemingway’s straightforward language. When she laughed and said she hated him—because “who wants to read boring prose about loathsome people?”—I wasn’t even embarrassed to disagree. We ordered another round of drinks to help settle the debate, along with our food orders.

Sophie, I learned, believed that birthdays were for ordering “weird food” you didn’t let yourself order on other days. So, instead of a main dish, she ordered three different types of fries: straight, curly, and waffle. We split the three orders between us, and were in perfect agreement that absinthe and fried potatoes paired perfectly. We ordered another drink for the consensus.

Then, when the fries were too cold to eat, Sophie built little houses out of what remained. Waffle fry floors, straight fry walls, waffle fry roofs, and curly fry chimneys. She said we absolutely had to get another drink to celebrate her architectural genius. I really didn’t need another, but when she reached across the table—squeezing one of my hands in both of hers and pouting that bottom lip that I suddenly wanted to feel between my own—I found I couldn’t refuse.

The hours passed quickly, and then it was last call. She tried to split the bill but that wasn’t happening, both because it was her birthday and because I’d lost the bet. Fair was fair.

She rocketed out of the bar like a champagne cork, all sparkles and momentum, then looped her arm through mine. Her summer dorm wasn’t in the same direction as mine, but drunk as we were I could hardly let her walk home alone.

“I’m glad I ran into you today,” she said, slurring the slightest bit. “I was gonna be really depressed.”

“I’m glad, too.”

“Sometimes I just feel so lonely, yanno?”

“Yeah,” I said, knowing exactly.

“I thought college would be better,” she continued, leaning most of her body weight on me by then. “And I mean okay yeah I guess I have friends here, but they suck. I mean, they don’t suck. Lia is great. But everyone else, pfft. They don’t care about me.”

She was a rambling kind of drunk, I realized, but it was cute.

“Or it’s just a bunch of guys who only want to hook up. And I’m sorry, but I’m not about to have my first time with a random dude I barely know who doesn’t care about me.”

Her shoe snagged on a crack and suddenly she was tumbling forwards. I barely caught her around the middle before she could hit the ground, then pulled her up to standing.

“I might be drunk,” she giggled, folding forward until her face was pressed over my heart. There was no way she was making it home unassisted.

“Okay, come here,” I said, hoisting her up into my arms. Her ensuing shriek of laughter was lightning bright in the darkness. Several passers-by turned their heads, and I walked more quickly to clear their stares.

“You’re my friend, right Andy?” she asked from my arms. “Like my real friend who actually cares about me?”