Page 2
“Mmm, a mind reader,” he said, eyeing the whiskey. “And maybe something virgin for my sister?”
We both made a face. I laughed and slid the shots over to him. Back to work.
The bar was pure chaos within the hour, and we were slinging pints of Guinness like we were saving lives. Endless toasts and drunken songs cheered a short life well-lived.
“I have to pee like a racehorse,” I yelled to Mike over the din.
He didn’t look up, so I wiped my hands on my apron and fished around for the candy I’d stolen from his coat pocket earlier, pushing through the bar gate with my ass.
I turned the corner into the hallway, the noise of the bar instantly dimming. One of the lightbulbs was out, but Liam was leaning against the wall. Sleeves rolled up, hands in his pockets. Head down. I pushed my glasses up where they’d slipped down my nose.
“You okay?” I asked him.
He startled like he’d been lost in thought and looked over at me, but he didn’t say anything right away. Sighing heavily, he faced forward again, this time letting his head fall back against the wall. Do I just keep walking?
“Can I tell you a secret?” he asked. I watched his Adam’s apple move. “I feel like he’s talking to me all the time. Like the angel on my shoulder.” He exhaled sharply, shooting me a haunted smile.
Seeing the grief all over his face, I felt relieved—not for the first time—that I didn’t have any parents to die on me. I looked back over my shoulder at the muffled sound of a glass breaking.
Fuck it.
Moving closer, I put my hand on his forearm and turned it over. It looked like he worked with his hands.
“You going to read my palm or something?” he asked.
“Are you profiling me because of my purple hair?” I teased. He watched me pour some of my rainbow candies into his hand, and his eyes met mine as I closed his fingers around them.
“Lavender,” he said.
I smiled, my tooth snagging on my lip. He cleared his throat.
“Is he… good to you in your head?” I asked quietly, leaning a shoulder against the wall beside him. “Your dad?” Too many fathers ruin their sons. I always looked out for my foster brothers.
“The best,” he said, tossing the candy into his mouth to hide the emotion in his voice. Then he wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, chuckling sadly. “You’re so fucking hot, and I’m really drunk. Can we pretend this never happened?”
I nodded, trying not to laugh. “I have to pee.” Our eyes met briefly before I turned for the bathroom, smiling at him. “Don’t be here when I get back.”
1
The Smoothie Incident
Boston University, August 2012
Will
Tucking a cigarette between my lips, I flicked the starter, sucked it soul-deep, and leaned against the old brick wall to watch the fucktards on parade. Move-In Day on campus. Round two. I hadn’t smoked at all freshman year, but as soon as the Green Weenie came knocking again, I caved like a bitch to every one of my vices: nicotine, alcohol, Girl Scout Cookies, sexual partners chosen based on proximity rather than genuine interest. All the best decisions.
The smoke curled up in the late morning air, and I mentally prepared to listen to 18-year-old, entitled assholes boss their parents around for the next two days. It doesn’t even need to be said, but shit felt pretty dire. I took another drag, and my phone vibrated in my pocket.
SSGT Dickface
Unit check-in by 1300. UOD Service Alphas.
I stubbed out my cigarette with my boot, grabbed my bags, and held the door open, offering a tight-lipped smile to another misty-eyed mom with a nice ass.
Eyes front, lad.
Living in civilian dorms, especially the engineering floor, wasn’t all that different from the various barracks and hooches I’d called home since I stood on those yellow footprints. Cramped rooms, chaos, collective idiocy. They’re both sausage-fests marked by nerd posturing and what Dad would’ve said was “not enough shame to forge good men.” Somehow, simultaneously, the last place you’d ever want to be and where you feel most like yourself in the world.
