Wicked Restless

“I have a test in the morning. And then we’re going to the tutoring lab. You show up hung over, and I guarantee you that’ll be worse than telling coach you’re two hours short on your time,” Trent says.

I keep my eyes level with his, reach for his shot on the tray, and drink it.

“Two more,” I tell the girl. She smiles at me uncomfortably and heads back to the bar.

“Fuck,” Trent breathes, shaking his head in disappointment.

I sit back on my stool while he works most of his balls from the table, missing with only two left. I take over and sink three before missing—just in time for my next two shots to arrive. Trent reaches for one of them.

“Hey, hands off, bitch!” I say, smacking the top of his hand. He flips me off and drinks it down, leaving me with only one to grab and follow suit. “Two more!” I shout, holding up two fingers.

“What are you doing?”

“Drinking.” I don’t look at him, instead circling the table like an animal.

Nicest thing anyone has ever done for me.

Is she fucking serious? I bet someone lent her a penny once when she was short. Is that guy higher on the list, too? I guess I shouldn’t complain, at least she thanked me for returning her missing ID.

Emma wouldn’t have had to go to a place like Lake Crest.

“Are you going to shoot or what?” Trent asks. I’m irritating him. Good. Melissa, our waitress—whose name I got from the nametag pressed against her tits—has brought more Jack. I think I’ll drink these two first.

I grip the first glass between my finger and thumb. Trent takes my stick from my hand when I do.

“Andrew,” he says, leveling me with the kind of look I should only get from my father. If I had one. I have Dwayne. Fuck Dwayne. And fuck Owen.

I push his chest so hard he stumbles backward, knocking over one of the high-top tables. The bar isn’t crowded, but the dozen or so people around us get quiet, and one of the security guys walks over.

“It’s fine,” I say, raising my hand up. “Go on, get back to the front door with your stupid tight black T-shirt and flashlight, like that really helps you spot fake IDs.”

Trent’s face falls into a look of disgust, and he sighs, shaking his head and tossing both of our sticks on the pool table before walking away.

“Come on,” the bouncer says, his arms folded in front of his body as he steps into my personal space. “You’re done for the night, kid.”

I hate being called kid. I haven’t been a kid in years, since I ran after an ice cream truck with a crumpled dollar bill. I spit on the floor, and for a brief second, I consider taking a swing at him. Luckily, I’m not drunk enough for that yet. This place—it’s my favorite bar. Trent and I come here after games and tough practices. I’d hate myself more than I already do if I fucked that up, too.

“Yeah, yeah,” I say, pulling my beanie from my back pocket and sliding it on my head. I toss two twenties on the pool table, then shove my hands into my jacket pockets when I leave, stopping a few steps from the bar’s front door. Trent didn’t wait for me; he’s already a block away. I let him go, because if I caught up with him I’d only keep being an asshole, and he didn’t do anything wrong.

He’s right. I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m lost. I was barely with it before, but then I saw her. Now I’m done.

I lean to the side and spit again before looking up into the eyes of the dickhead who kicked me out. I thrust my chest toward him, juking him with my arms out wide. He doesn’t flinch.

“Fuck this place,” I say…to no one.

I walk the long way home, circling through campus, by the lake. A few students are out running, and others are walking quickly from the library in the center of campus out to cars or to their dorms. I bet they’re walking fast because they’re afraid of me. I pause at a bench that’s shadowed by the only tree around that seems to still have its leaves. I sit down and pull my phone out to check the time. I notice a few texts from Owen.

Are you making it to mom’s and Dwayne’s for dinner Sunday?

He sent it only a few minutes ago, so I respond.

Yeah. I’ll be there.

I don’t want to go. But I don’t want to hear the mountain of shit I’ll get for not going more. He writes back a minute later.

Good. Mom’s really freaking out because Kens and I are going to Germany. Try not to be an asshole, K?

Yep.

I lean my head forward into my hand, my arm rested on my knee. Owen and his girlfriend are spending a year in Germany thanks to some offer my brother got to play basketball there. His girlfriend Kensi plays…like…a dozen instruments or something. She got into some master’s program over there to study with the national symphony. They’ve lived together in the city since graduation—Owen coaches at some prep school and Kens plays in an orchestra. I think they’ll probably end up getting married, which is good because I like Kensi; she’s good to my brother and my mom. Better than I am.