Co-WRECKER

  “Fine.” I turn away from him so he can’t see my face. I’m on the verge of tears, and there is no way I want him to see that.

  “Okay.” He’s silent for a second before saying, “Not to be a dick or anything but you didn’t seem fine when you came charging in here. I know what fine looks like and that wasn’t fine.”

  This guy.

  “Notice the tone, Andrew. I don’t want company.”

  “Ah, yes, you do sound like you want to be left alone. I’m going to be honest, though. I don’t like seeing people upset but I can hear the tension in your voice. I don’t want to piss you off anymore. Just know, it pains me having to leave you alone right now. I really don’t like it.” He doesn’t like it?

  Where has he come from that despite the bitch I’ve been toward him, he “really doesn’t like” leaving me alone?

  “I’ll be fine. Just give me a minute.” Ugh, I hate that I now want him to stay. Why does he have to be so nice? Why would he not like seeing me upset? He’s so confusing.

  “Okay. Can I just ask you one thing?”

  “What?”

  I hear him step forward and whisper, “Would you like me to bring your cough syrup to you? Seems like a cough syrup kind of moment.”

  Simultaneously, a light snort pops out of me, a tear falls down my cheek, and a laugh bubbles up my throat. Turning toward him, my hand hovering over my face where I snorted, I nod at him. “Cough syrup would be perfect right about now.”

  His smile stretches from ear to ear, causing a warm wave of affection to wash over me. As he winks at me and takes off toward the fountain area where my syrup waits, that’s when it hits me.

  Calm.

  I feel calm.

  How is it possible that one of Andrew’s smiles can make me feel a little more at ease? Is it those kind, sweet eyes of his? Or the way he seems to understand what I need at the moment, even though he presses me further than I would have wished? Whatever it is, it’s possible he’s working his way into my world and I’m not sure I’m ready for that. No spaces available . . . just how I need it to be. Isn’t it?

  Chapter Seven

  ANDREW

  Yup, I’m confirming it right now. I shouldn’t be here.

  This is a mistake.

  A big mistake.

  Maybe they won’t notice I’m here. Maybe, I can quickly turn around and head back to my car without being noticed. Everyone seems to be busy, there is no way they will notice me quietly step back into my—

  “Annnndrew!” Stumbling up to me, Smilly is wearing a giant zebra hat on her head and holding what I’m hoping is a fake sabre in one hand while the other is gripping a thirty-two ounce can of Pabst Blue Ribbon. Operation escape route is aborted. “You came.”

  Yes, like an idiot, I came.

  Earlier when Sadie was outside, being upset—something I’m still not happy about—Smilly kept me company while playing with the straws on the counter, a favorite pastime of hers apparently. Our conversation was slightly awkward . . .

  “So, you from around here?”

  “Grew up in California actually. My parents moved to Albany when I graduated from high school. They are originally from the area.”

  “California, huh? Do you know any celebrities?”

  “None.”

  “That’s boring. Did you surf?”

  “You know California isn’t just about celebrities and surfing, right?”

  “Of course I know that.” She pauses for a second. “So, spend any time in the wine country?”

  Laughing, I shake my head. “Wasn’t twenty-one.”

  She sits up straight and stares me down. “How old were you when you had your first drink?”

  I swallow hard. “Um, twenty-one. I had a beer with my brother. I am actually one of the older kids in my grade so it was kind of exciting that I could drink before all of my peers.”

  “Oh Andrew.” Smilly shakes her head. “You know it’s rare when someone waits until they’re twenty-one to drink? I’m going to guess a percentage of your peers have been drunk for their first half of college.”

  “How old were you when you had your first drink?”

  “Thirteen.” Leaning on the counter while looking into the abyss, she reflects back on her first sip. “It was at Sadie’s house. Her dad had gone to bed and instead of going to sleep, I unzipped my backpack and showed her the Bartles & Jaymes wine cooler I stole from my mom’s special fridge. We shared it that night, giggling under a blanket draped over the both of us. That was the beginning of the end.”

  “Sounds like one hell of a night. I can practically envision the montage in my head.”

  Staring at me, she giggles and says, “Huh, you can be sarcastic. I like that. What are you doing tonight?”

  Confused, I ask, “Don’t you have a boyfriend?”

  “Weird that you know that, but I’m not asking you out. We’re having a bonfire at my mom’s house tonight. You should come.”

  “Oh, I don’t know . . .”

  “I won’t take no for an answer, so you have to come. Give me your phone and I’ll plug in the info and my number in case you get lost. Driving in the backwoods can be confusing.”

  And that’s how I ended up at Smilly’s mom’s house, regretting my decision immensely. What the hell is Sadie going to think if she sees me? Is she even going to be here? For some reason, I really hope not. The thought of seeing her on her turf freaks me the fuck out. Angry eyes wouldn’t even begin to describe it.

  “Hey Smilly.” I stride closer to her, hands tucked in my pockets, trying not to show how nervous I am.

  “Everyone is going to be so excited to meet you.”

  Everyone? The fuck?

  “And I can’t wait for you to meet Emma. I really think she would be perfect for you.”

  “Emma?” I ask. Was this a blind date setup? If so, things just got that much more uncomfortable.

  “Yeah, my friend Emma. She’s single, cute, and looking for a good guy. I believe you fit the good guy prerequisite, you know, since you waited to drink and all.”

  “You’re deciding I’m a good guy by what age I first drank? You know some psycho killers never have a drink in their life but instead get drunk off slaughtering people.”

  Stopping in her tracks, Smilly turns toward me, her sabre raised to the sky. “Now why would you say something creepy like that? Am I going to have to watch over you all night?”

  “No, I just thought you should change your way of diagnosing people. You should really consider creating a combination of a pie chart and Venn diagram for proper evaluation. With thoughtful data input and carefully chosen social standards, you could make yourself one hell of a chart. In fact, if you were interested in moving forward with this idea, I wouldn’t mind helping you. I have a great program on my computer that could help us and with a little tweaking on my end, a laminator, and a three-whole punch, we could have one hell of a time getting down to the nuts and bolts of judging a human.” Why is she smiling at me?

  Patting my arm, she says, “Yeah, I have nothing to worry about. Right this way, Andrew. Or should I call you Sheldon?” Ah, The Big Bang Theory, such a good show, although if I had to identify with one of the characters, I would consider myself more of a Leonard.

  Ignoring my rather generous offer, she guides me to the bonfire where people are milling about, talking, drinking, and playing beer pong.

  “Saddlemire, get your ass over here.”

  A man with a very burly beard, wearing a Yankees hat and Beatles shirt, walks over. He wraps his arm around Smilly’s waist and says, “Is this the guy you recruited for our threesome?” Scanning me up and down, he nods in approval. “Not bad. Hope he knows how to tweak nipples. I’ve been looking for a good nipple bruising from a man lately.”

  You know that emoji on your phone, the one with the incredibly wide eyes and blushing cheeks? Yup, that would describe me right about now.

  Horrified.

  Slapping his chest, she says, “Don’t sc
are him away, he just got here. Say hello to Andrew like a normal human being.”

  Saddlemire reaches out his hand for a shake, but I’m a little too nervous to take it. Is he going to rub the back of my hand with his thumb, asking for me to tweak his nipples right here?

  “I’m just kidding, kid. I only let people I know tweak my nipples. Maybe after a week you might get lucky.”

  Taking my hand, he shakes it as I say, “Just for the record, you terrify me.”

  Chuckling, he nods his head. “I like your honesty. Want a beer?”

  “Yes,” I say a little too eagerly, needing to relax.

  We start walking toward the house when a man with no shirt and the letters USA painted across his chest comes up to us. “Who’s this?” He’s bouncing up and down, looking very excited, possibly incredibly drunk. The two go hand in hand a lot of the times.

  “John, this is Andrew. He works with Sadie. Andrew meet John, our resident solider, home on leave.”

  “Nice to meet—”

  Before I can finish, John scoops me up in a bear hug and spins me around while screaming, “Fuck yeah, America.”

  Not even giving me a chance to respond, he sets me back on the ground and takes off toward the fire where he picks up a branch—an actual tree branch—and starts jabbing at the fire, while making deafening warrior calls.

  Straightening myself, slightly caught off guard, I say, “He seems nice.”

  “John is a good guy. His girlfriend, Bitch, is around here somewhere.”

  “Bitch?” How many of Sadie’s friends have weird nicknames?

  “Yeah, her real name is Jennifer but we call her Bitch.”

  “Does she like the name?” I sure as hell hope so.

  “Oh yeah. If I call her Jennifer she thinks I’m mad at her.” Interesting. Why do I suddenly want an offensive nickname?

  What would my nickname be?

  Penis Breath?

  Scrotum Face?

  Dirty Asshole . . .

  Yeah, I think I’ll stick with Andrew.

  Passing the raging bonfire—thanks to John and his intense poking—we head up a rickety back deck and into a trailer home. The kitchen is quieter than outside with only a few people in the living room next to it. The house is outdated with shades of brown everywhere but you can feel the love inside.

  “What do you drink, kid?” Saddlemire asks, leaning into the fridge.

  “Whatever really.”

  “If you say whatever, I’m going to hand you piss.”

  “Well, I’m not the piss-drinking sort, so let me see what you have.”

  Saddlemire steps to the side and I grab a Pabst to go along with Smilly. I’ve never had one before but reaching for a Bud Light seemed like the easier, dorkier choice.

  “And here I thought you looked like a guy who enjoys being peed on during sex.” Saddlemire nods at my choice of beer.

  “What kind of look is that?” I ask. “If it’s something I can fix cosmetically, I’d like to know. Being the guy who looks like he enjoys a good pissing during coitus doesn’t appeal to me.”

  I pop the can of beer and take a swig. Not bad.

  I go for another sip when Saddlemire slaps me on the back, laughing. “Coitus. Oh fuck, I’m going to say that now. Smilly, want to participate in some coitus tonight?” He starts pelvic thrusting in her direction, but she holds out her sabre to stop him.

  “Say coitus again, see where it gets you.”

  “Who’s saying coitus?” A pretty brunette with blue eyes walks up, her hair dancing with her shoulders, just barely touching the straps of a red and white-checkered dress.

  “Andrew likes to be peed on during coitus,” Saddlemire announces, really putting a blemish on my already soiled image.

  A disgusted look on her face, the brunette looks me up and down just as Smilly starts to laugh.

  “He’s kidding. Emma, this is Andrew.”

  “Andrew, why do I know . . .” she pauses and starts chuckling, “this is sturdy tits?”

  Oh for fuck’s sake.

  “Yeah, Sadie’s coworker,” Smilly says.

  Putting her hair behind her ears, Emma steps forward, and looking like the pristine lady she is, holds out her hand. “Nice to meet you, Andrew.”

  I take her hand in mine and give her a smile. “Nice to meet you, too, Emma.”

  Smiling brightly, she walks past me and reaches for a beer.

  She’s pretty. She also seems a little different from everyone I’ve met so far. A little more refined, a little more soft spoken, a little more reserved despite her use of the word tits.

  “So what are we all doing in here?” she asks, looking around.

  “Just grabbing a drink. Is the table up? I want to play a round,” Smilly says.

  “I think Tucker is about to drown another team.” Turning toward me, Emma asks, “Do you play beer pong?”

  I nod. “Yeah, I’ve played a few times.”

  “Do you want to be my partner? I don’t have a very accurate toss but I’m good at cheering people on.”

  “I would love to.”

  “Awwww,” Smilly drags out, holding onto Saddlemire’s arm. “Look, they’re already in love.”

  Oh Jesus. This is officially awkward.

  As a group, we head out to the beer pong table where one guy is playing against three girls who are already too drunk to stand on their own two feet. I’m assuming that’s why they’re all hanging on to each other.

  The guy they’re playing seems intense with a beer bottle in one hand and his other hand in his pocket, occasionally catching a pong ball that is tossed his way. Barely looking, he takes one of the balls and tosses it at the last cup left on the girls’ side, ending the game. The girls all cry in disappointment and topple over on each other, turning their cries into laughter.

  Working her way toward the drunk girls on the ground, Smilly pokes them with her sabre and tells them to get out of the way. “Andrew, Saddlemire and I will play you and Emma. You don’t mind, Tucker, do you?”

  “Nah, I’m good,” he answers. “Have at it.”

  Stepping to the side, I can feel him keep an eye on me as he sips his beer and observes the game I’m about to partake in.

  “You can ask for one restack. If you make a shot, you get the ball back. We don’t drink from the cups, only from our own drinks, so if you need more beer, we’ll pause the game so you can grab some more. Loser chugs their drink. Got it?” Saddlmire stacks up the cups and I nod.

  “We got this,” Emma says with excitement.

  “Rock, paper, scissors to see who starts. Em, you and me are up,” Smilly calls out.

  Facing off in the middle of the table, the girls go through two games of rock, paper, scissors before Emma takes the win with paper. Smart girl.

  “Paper, smart,” I tell her. “I read an article by the New York Post that said rock is the most chosen object while playing because it signifies the most testosterone in competition.”

  “Are you saying I have a dick, Andrew?” Smilly calls out, pointing her sabre in my direction.

  Not even the least bit threatened, I answer, “Odds of you having a dick are kind of stacked in your favor right about now with your rock, paper, scissor choice, your penchant for erecting your sabre when you have the chance, and the fact that your boyfriend likes a good nipple tweaking from men.” Casually, I take sip from my beer as everyone around me breaks out in laughter, even Smilly.

  “You felt it when I hugged you, didn’t you? You felt my little salami.”

  “Hey, don’t discredit yourself, it didn’t feel little against my leg. Average size at best, but don’t give up, I’m sure with a little more pushing on your end you can pop it out to above average.” I wink at her.

  Turning to Saddlemire, she jumps up and down. “He sees so much potential in me, it’s overwhelming.”

  “Stop acting like you have a mini wiener. Jesus, Samantha.” Saddlemire shakes his head and takes a giant swig of his beer.

  S
amantha? Huh, never would have guessed.

  “Great, now sturdy tits knows my real name. Thanks a lot, Sebastian.”

  Sebastian? If my eyes could pop out of their sockets, they just did. There is no way Saddlemire looks like a Sebastian. Not even in the slightest.

  “All right, enough with this shit. Sturdy Tits, you’re up,” Sebastian, I mean Saddlemire calls out.

  Before I toss, I say, “If we could come up with another name for me, that would be awesome. Sturdy Tits isn’t settling well.”

  Smilly and Saddlemire both look at each other and then back at me. Together they say, “You’re turn, Sturdy Tits.”

  Yeah, I didn’t think that was going to work for me, but I gave it the old Boy Scout try.

  Shaking off the ridiculous nickname, but also feeling like a part of something—something strange—I toss my first ball, sinking it immediately. Saddlemire raises an eyebrow at me in question. “Don’t tell me you’re good at beer pong.”

  “Might be.” I shrug and push my glasses back on my nose.

  “He’s calculating the distance with the wind and his alcohol intake. Look at the gears working in his head. It’s like watching a computer process. He’s going to kill us,” Smilly whines. She’s very accurate in her assessment. What can I say? I like math. It works.

  Emma is up next and tosses her ball nowhere near the general area of the cups. Cringing, she turns to me and says, “Um, looks like you’ll be carrying the team.”

  Chuckling, I say, “Hey, you’ll get it. Don’t give up just yet. That was a warm-up shot.”

  The rest of the game unfolds between the two teams, Emma scoring one cup for us, which causes her to jump up and down in my arms until she collects herself and smooths down her dress. Smilly smacks a cup off the table with her sabre every time she misses, which she gets away with twice until Saddlemire puts her in timeout. Aka, a lawn chair with a giant beer. It comes down to one cup each and luckily I am able to sink my ball before Saddlemire, making Emma and me the winners.

  “I’m impressed, Sturdy Tits. I wasn’t sure if you were going to be any good,” Saddlemire says.

  Feeling the effects of the beer already starting to kick in—since their version of taking a drink of your beer when a ball is sunk is drinking half your drink—I saunter/waddle over to Saddlemire and shake his hand. “Good game, man. With all that nipple-tweaking talk earlier, I thought you were going to be too distracted by my masterful fingers to make any shots. But you gave me a good run.”