“Never doubted you for a fuckin’ second.” Donny slaps my shoulder and holds a shot in front of me. “Brynn said it’s her specialty.”
“You had no faith in me and told me so.” I remind him of our car ride that he couldn’t have forgotten, given it was only two days ago. “I thought Brynn only does tequila shots?”
The guests left an hour ago. Mrs. Rafter left an hour before that, refusing to let me take her home because she’s “old, but not incapable.” And a few of us stuck around to help clean up.
And by that, I mean tidying up the bar.
And by that, I mean drinking vodka tonics.
After Quinton’s declaration, Brynn seemed to lose her distaste for the drink. I guess being the drink choice of a full-fledged activist made it more appealing. And maybe it does? I don’t own a bar, so what do I know?
“I do!” Brynn shouts from behind a balloon tower she’s dissecting. “Just slam it!”
Tequila shots are not my favorite, but because tonight ended up getting me on Mr. Mahler’s good side with another job for him, I do just that.
“Eeeeek!” My entire face puckers as the bitter burn of tequila hits my throat. “It’s so bad! I need a lime.”
This is why I stopped taking shots in college. Now I get drunk the classy way. Slowly and generally hating myself during the process.
“Training wheels are for wimps and you’re no fuckin’ wimp, Reed!” Donny puts another shot in my hand. “You’re the fuckin’ boss who just put together one of the most memorable nights in sports!”
Wow.
I totally get why these guys hired Donny. If Donny was my alarm, telling me what a boss-ass bitch I was every morning, I feel like my life would improve drastically.
“You’re right! I am a fucking boss!” I snatch the small glass from his hand and throw it back.
Bottoms up, bitches!
“Fuck yes!” Donny punches the air before yelling—or just talking? I can never tell with him—to anyone who will listen, “Reed’s taking shots! Turn-up time has arrived!”
I regret agreeing to shenanigans with him for a split second before I decide, what the hell? Live a little.
I can’t even remember the last time I got drunk for a reason that wasn’t sad. Not only do I deserve to celebrate after a job well done, if I know anything, it’s that life’s too short to wait to celebrate.
Donny is walking back holding glasses. Not shot glasses, water glasses—filled with what I can only assume is tequila. Is he insane?
I take the glass from Donny and pour some of it into the shot glass I just used.
Because while turning up is a party, alcohol poisoning is not.
“It’s starting to not taste as bad,” I tell Donny. I learned my lesson on this my senior year. It tasting better does not mean it’s actually tasting better, it means I’m fully inebriated. “That means I have to tap out soon.”
“But you just fuckin’ turned up!”
“Yeah,” I agree. “But I’m not very good at this. I don’t have a Donny-level tolerance.”
“Funny.” Quinton slides into the empty seat next to me. “And I just don’t have Donny tolerance.”
“Ha-fucking-ha.” Donny rolls his eyes. “I don’t know why you Denver people always want to act like you don’t love me. Everyone loves me!”
Quinton and I both look at each other, but neither of us say anything at all until Donny walks away mumbling how the altitude has ruined us.
“Tequila, huh?” He points at my empty shot glass. “I didn’t peg you as a shot girl.”
I don’t know if it’s the adrenaline rush I get after an event, the vodka tonics, the tequila, or all of the above, but the response I would’ve lassoed in yesterday just falls right out of my mouth.
“Well, considering you didn’t peg me for a girl at all when we first met, this doesn’t surprise me.”
And then—definitely from the tequila—I laugh really hard . . . at my own joke. Lucky for me, it’s not long before Quinton’s thick, raspy laughter is mixing with mine.
“Oh shit!” He leans back in his chair, covering his mouth with a fist. “You got jokes?”
“I got a few.” I bounce my shoulders a few times, and the urge not to brush them off is just obtainable in my drunken haze.
I’ve obviously seen him all throughout this event . . . and after too. But it’s in this moment, with all of the overhead lights on and the top buttons of his shirt undone, that I realize I’ve never seen Quinton look like this before. The shadows and edges usually covering his face are gone and there’s a softness to him. It’s the first time I’ve seen him look happy and relaxed. And it makes him even better looking.
He opens his mouth to say something, but doesn’t get it out.
“Elliot!” Brynn yells from across the room, her arms stuffed with balloons. “Are you sure you don’t need a ride?”
“Yeah, I’m just going to get an Uber. Thanks, though.”
“Okay, if you’re sure! We’re going to fill up our cars with these bad boys and then stuff them in Poppy’s living room.” She uses her head to nod in Paisley’s direction and I see that she’s also holding balloons. “TK hates balloons for some reason, but Posie’s obsessed with them. She’s going to be so excited and TK can’t say no to her. It’s going to be epic. You sure you don’t want to join?”
Not to sound like a total fucking creep, but hell yes I want to go to TK Moore’s house! He was my favorite Mustangs player ever. He did these ridiculous dances and just always seemed like he was having the best time. I get why he retired, but I’m still kinda bummed I don’t get to watch him on the field anymore.
I don’t say any of this because I don’t want to get booted from the cool kids table. But also because I’m ninety percent sure that I’m not just drunk, but I’m druuunnnnk. And
