Page 50 of The Last Thing You Said

I walk away from her, my heart in my throat, my agate in her hand. God, she has the agate. She always has it with her.

Why do I keep finding ways to fuck this up?

As soon as I get back to the reception, I find Aaron.

“Hey,” I say, “can you vouch for me at the bar?”

My cousin grins and nods as Nate, his best man, says, “I can do ya one better, little man. Come on out to the parking lot.”

Aaron is intercepted by María on our way out, but the best man and I meet up with another groomsman who has a mini-bar set up on the tailgate of a black Silverado pickup.

“What’s your poison?” Nate asks me, and I reach for a smallish bottle of tequila. No sense in fucking around.

“You sure about that?” Nate says.

I nod.

“Take that outta here,” the other groomsman says. “And if anyone asks, you didn’t get it from us.”

I give him a salute and tuck the bottle in the inside pocket of my tux. I find a bench on the Lakewalk, close to where I’d left Lucy, but I figure she won’t still be there and I’m right.

I sit there under the dim light of the streetlamp and listen to the waves of Lake Superior crash against the shore. Over and over. I imagine that the waves wash away the guilt and stupidity and grief, especially the grief. Washing it all away, numbing me. Or maybe it’s the tequila, not the waves.

That bottle of tequila and I become good friends.

We have a really fun time together out on the Lakewalk, me and my friend tequila, and then a bridesmaid, María’s little sister, joins us.

Little Sister: Hey, you.

Me: Hey.

Little Sister: Whatcha got there?

Me (holds up the bottle): This is my good friend, tequila.

Little Sister (grabs the bottle, downs the last few swallows): Nice to meet you, tequila. I’m Alicia.

Me: Ah-lee-see-ah.

Little Sister (dabbing at the corners of her mouth): Your friend is nice, but I’d rather get to know you, Ben.

She knows my name. She has a really wide, beautiful smile. Like the moon glistening on the water. Bright. Blinding.

“I like you,” she says, and that’s enough for me. We make out on the bench for a while and smoke cigarette after cigarette, but when she says she wants to go up to my room with me, I laugh, coughing on the smoke I just inhaled.

“I’m sure my parents would love that,” I say.

“Your parents? How old are you?”

“Does it matter? How old are you?”

She scowls at me and adjusts her dress. She stands up and walks away, and I don’t stop her. She left her pack of cigarettes and that makes us square, I guess, since she drank the last of my tequila.

The rest of the night is hazy, but somehow I make it back up to the hotel suite before my new best friend revolts. I spend a couple of hours on the cool bathroom floor but wake up in the bed, still in my tux with an ashtray mouth, a pounding headache, and a pool of acid in the pit of my stomach.

I deserve it, just like I deserve every bad name Lulu calls me.

I fall asleep or pass out, whichever, with her name on my numb lips.