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“Anyways, what do you want? I can do a strawberry margarita or,” he shuffles around in some cabinets, “I can totally do a lemon drop.”
“Oh,” I say, feeling slightly overwhelmed. “How about both?”
Avery smiles widely at me.
“Fabulous taste,” he says and gets to work on making us both drinks. I sink down into a kitchen chair and watch him work, his lithe body moving back and forth, almost like he’s dancing. When he’s finally done, setting both drinks in front of me, he lowers himself down opposite me and waggles his eyebrows.
“So, Benjamin, what’s the deal? Why were you having an existential crisis in that car of yours?”
I take a large gulp of margarita and then chase it with one of the lemon drop.
“I can’t tell you details, but I can tell you that I’m in a bit of a pickle.”
“Oh, I love pickles,” Avery says, leaning his elbow on the table and taking a large sip of his drink.
“I do too.”
“Especially when they’re dick pickles.”
I snort a laugh at that, and Avery smiles widely.
“So, who’s pickle are you on?”
“Two pickles,” I say, and Avery chokes on his drink.
“Two?”
I nod. “You cannot tell my dad.”
He pretends to zip his lips and then smiles widely at me.
“Two. How is it?”
“Oh god. I mean, yes, two but not together, not yet, but…oh hell.”
“Not yet?” Avery says, catching my slip.
I sigh and gulp some more lemon drop. “I wish.”
“Oh, Benjamin. I know.”
He makes the sign of the cross over his chest.
We continue drinking, and I open up slightly, telling him vague details about what my predicament is. I think I’m desperate to have someone to talk to, someone who doesn’t joke constantly about my asshole, like Tatum. And Avery is a good listener.
“Oh, god, you do have a predicament,” he says as he brings us our third set of drinks. My head is spinning slightly, and I lean my cheek down on my arm, peering up at a bleary Avery.
“I do. Told you. Two pickles. And one doesn’t want me anymore. And I think the other one doesn’t either. They don’t want to stick their dick pickles in me.”
“You know what you need to do?” Avery asks, waggling his finger around my face.
“What?”
“Communicate.”
“Pfft,” I snort and then let my eyes close. “What I really need is a straw. The cup is too far away.”
“I know. Who made these? Not alcoholics,” he says as he stands up and wobbles toward the kitchen, but he doesn’t quite make it and slumps onto the ground.
