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I ask the brothers how they and their other bandmates are enjoying living in LA now, and they regale me with some funny stories involving their unpredictable lead singer, Savage.
After a while, though, Reed abruptly ends the conversation with a curt but playful, “Okay, stop fraternizing with the enemy, Peter. It’s time for us to show these two kiddies why we used to dominate at this game in college.”
He’s having a false memory, apparently. Reed and I never dominated together at this or any game. That was Reed and Josh. Those two were unstoppable in everything they played, whether individually or as a team. But, still, I’m drunk, and Reed’s a powerful motivational speaker, so I reply with a fist in the air and a resounding, “Fuck yeah. Let’s do it!”
Forty-five minutes later . . .
Reed and I have not, in fact, shown the kiddies why we used to dominate at this game in college. On the contrary, the Cook brothers have crushed Reed and me to a bloody, Patron-infused pulp in three straight games. In our defense, the Cook boys apparently grew up playing beer pong with their older brother and his friends, whereas Reed and I used to play, only now and again, over a decade ago in our fraternity house. But whatever. The end result is that I’ve never downed so many tequila shots in such a short timeframe in my life. Jesus God. Help me.
“You want to show us kiddies how it’s done again?” Kendrick, the jovial drummer, teases. He spreads his muscular arms toward Reed as if to say, “Come at me, bro!” And, of course, his older brother, Kai, laughs his ass off.
“Fuck yeah, we do!” I shout. “Come on, Reed! Fourth time’s the charm!”
Thank God, Reed grabs my shoulders and saves me from myself. “Rain check, little buddy. I need to get some food and water into you before we play again.”
“I’m fine. Let’s beat their cocky asses!”
“You’re not fine. Thanks for the games, boys. And fuck you.” As the Cook brothers laugh, Reed grabs my arm and pulls my listless body toward the kitchen. “Come on, Pietro.”
“Thank you,” I whisper to Reed. “So fucking much.” As I salute the Cook brothers, Reed hurls my slack body onto his back and carries me into my kitchen like a human backpack. “How are you still sober?” I ask from my perch on Reed’s back. “You downed as much tequila as I did.”
“You mean, why have I not turned into a living Jell-o mold? Because I can hold my liquor, unlike you.”
“Well, that explains it.”
In the kitchen, Reed sets me down in a chair and pours me a huge cup of water. “Drink this,” he commands. “I’ll get you some food.”
As I drink, I marvel at all the attractive and hip people crammed into my new kitchen, many of whom are serving themselves food from large, disposable takeout trays spread out across the island counter. Out of curiosity, I put down my water cup and pop up to peruse the food offerings. Wow. Thanks to Hannah, there’s a virtual smorgasbord here: lobster macaroni ‘n’ cheese, cheeseburger sliders, sushi, tacos, and more. Plus, all kinds of booze with mixers. Cookies and cupcakes, too. It’s damned impressive.
“Can you believe Hannah did all this?” I say to no one in particular, since Reed has gotten distracted and is now chatting with someone I don’t know. “She’s so amazing,” I add with a happy sigh. “So nurturing and thoughtful.” I jerk my head up. “You know what? I’m going to propose to her right fucking now!” I haphazardly pull out the ring box from my pocket—the one I’ve been carrying around with me for months now. “Hannah!” I shout. “Where are you, baby? I have something important to ask youuuuu!”
“What the fuck?” Reed shouts. In two seconds flat, he’s at my side, snatching the ring box out of my drunken hand. “No, Peter,” he chastises. “Bad boy.”
I laugh.
“You can’t drunkenly propose to her at a spontaneous house-warming party, dumbass! We’ve already talked about this. You’re gonna do it in Paris, remember?”
My shoulders slump. “I said that when I thought I could take Hannah to Paris next month. Turns out, she doesn’t have vacation time from work till early summer.”
“Okay, then you’ll do it then. The Paris Plan is perfect. Don’t mess with it.”
“But it’s too long to wait. I’m dying to ask her.”
“You’ll survive. There’s no better plan than proposing to her at the top of the Eiffel Tower, exactly like you said. Remember? Now, pull yourself together.”
I flap my lips together. “I guess you’re right.”
Reed rolls his eyes. “Jesus. You’re so impulsive when you get shitfaced—a goddamned loose cannon.”
“That’s because I have to be so fucking methodical and careful all the time for work. It feels good to let loose sometimes.”
