“Well, yeah.” I hear him shift behind me. “But I don’t want you to get so drunk that you stop asking questions.”
Right. Questions. The reason we’re here. Why does that make me feel disappointed?
“I’ll be fine,” I say, pouring myself a glass. “Do you want some?”
He’s quiet for so long that I turn to face him. I don’t know why he’s staring at me so hard. All I did was offer him wine. Of course, he might think I’m being childish.
When our eyes meet, I’m the first to look away, barely lasting a few seconds.
“See?” My voice is hoarse. It’s embarrassing. “This definitely counts as an awkward silence.”
“Sorry.” His voice is low. I watch him shove off his jacket, hang it over a chair. “I’d like some, yeah. As long as you feel okay with it.”
“Why wouldn’t I?” I pour another glass. “It was my idea.”
“I know.” He stands next to me, shoulder brushing against mine. I try to ignore it. “But I don’t want you to, like, feel like I’m taking advantage of you.”
“No.” I push his glass toward him jerkily. “It’ll make us feel fancy. I always feel like Olivia Pope when I drink, and we can just pretend Olivia is interviewing a talented young actor.”
He blushes, taking the glass. Some of his wine—or maybe mine—has sloshed out. I wipe it up with the sleeve of my shirt. I’m guessing he doesn’t notice. It drives Mom crazy when I do it at home.
I hold the glass to my lips. To my surprise, wine is nice, a million times better than the beer I’ve swiped at family parties. It tastes like strong, bitter juice, cranberry without the sugar. If only we had wineglasses—then I’d really be Olivia.
“So.” Marius gestures between the two of us, at our glasses. “I’m guessing this part is off the record?”
“Oh, yeah.” I glance at the recorder on my nightstand. “Just for right now. I’ll turn on the recorder in a little bit.”
He nods, sipping more from his glass. The wine stains his lips a darker red. I watch him lick the juice off until I realize he’s staring at me. My face burns. I shift my gaze to my feet.
I can’t read him and I hate it. Is he messing with me? When he stops and stares, is it some sort of act? He’s an actor, after all.
“I’ve never been drunk before,” he says, breaking the silence. I must look surprised, because he shrugs. “I’ve been high and everything, but never drunk.”
“How?” I ask. “How do you make it to nineteen without getting drunk at least once?”
I never go anywhere and I’ve been drunk before. It was New Year’s Eve, I was sixteen, and Mom and Dad left the champagne out when we were supposed to go to bed. I was curious and drank all that was left. When Maggie found me, I was stumbling over my feet. I would probably still be grounded right now if she hadn’t covered for me.
“I don’t know,” he says. “Guess I never really got around to it.”
“But you got around to getting high?”
“Well…” He pauses. “I used to drink a little, with my boyfriend, but he didn’t like it too much. His dad was an alcoholic, and it freaked him out. So we just smoked weed instead.”
I’m not sure how to respond, since he’s just told me a million things at once. He used to drink with his boyfriend. He had a boyfriend. Okay. That doesn’t necessarily mean he doesn’t like girls. But that doesn’t tell me if the boyfriend is still around or not. And I don’t know how to ask without fumbling my words.
God, I hate that this is the first thing I think of.
“What?” Something in his face steels at my silence. “Do you have a problem?”
“No, no, of course not.” I grip my glass. “Wow. I, uh, don’t mean to be weird. I had a crush on a girl once, last year. That’s what I was thinking about.”
Crushing on Tasha, the nice girl involved in every school activity, was easy. She was the only one who talked to me. She invited me to sit with her friends and always partnered up with me before I could be left for last. I didn’t realize it was a crush until Alice started making fun of me—“Josie has a crush on Brooke White’s little sister”—but then it didn’t matter, because we were making out in her bedroom and in the locker room and almost anywhere we wouldn’t be spotted by people we knew.
I’m not sure if it’s harder to have crushes on boys or girls. Maybe it depends on the person. All the boys I’ve liked were brutal. They walked away or laughed when I told them I liked them. They pretended I didn’t exist, even after I’d poured my heart out. But Tasha hugged me and gave away soft touches and kisses like it cost her nothing. She called other girls pretty and smart and smelled like perfume and lotion and genuine kindness. Which is easier—someone who is too nice or someone who is too harsh?
I’ve tried not to think about it, but it’s hard. Sometimes I go on Twitter and see nonbinary people and something tugs in my stomach, too. The world is big and wide; there are so many people to choose from. It’s overwhelming.
“I didn’t have a lot of crushes,” Marius says, breaking me out of my thoughts. “Wes and I, we’ve known each other since we were little. He lives in my building—used to, before he went to college upstate.”
“Oh,” I say. “That’s probably good—that you didn’t have a lot of crushes. They never really work out. I think they just suck.”
“Well, I was with him for most of high school and it didn’t work out.” He puts his glass down. “Maybe high school just sucks in general.”
“Now you’re getting the idea.”
He smiles, shaking his head. I want to ask if he also likes
