"Whoa. Chill out, bro. There's no need for character assaults,” he says, feigning horror.
"Not when we have literal ones, huh?" I gesture to my head before I reach to push the door all the way open, but he catches my wrist.
"Don't tell anybody how you got that."
"What is that, a threat?" My heart is beating harder as my eyes hold his.
"I said don't talk about it. That's a command, not a threat. It doesn't have to be a threat, because you won't tell."
Something in my stomach sinks. I feel like I can’t breathe as I murmur, "Won't I?"
"I don't think so.” He looks cocky. “Not if you enjoy sleeping, using your toothbrush in the comfort of your bathroom, trusting that it's clean." He lifts one of his shoulders.
"You're a dick, dude."
He grins. "Your mom doesn't think so."
Ezra
Mission accomplished. DG makes a beeline for what I soon find is the living room. I'm not sure why you'd have a formal living area open to a pool deck, but whatever. It’s not my problem. There are people everywhere, in swimsuits, dripping on rugs and smoking right inside the house like it's a frat house. Lots of red Solo cups, big drunk grins, and chicks in short shorts and half shirts.
I find the hunch punch where I figured I would—in the kitchen, in a big, white cooler swarmed by people. I don't like parties, but I made this shitty choice and I'm following through with it. Can't have Do Gooder thinking I've gone chicken shit.
I fill a Solo cup so high it's almost spilling. Then I slurp some of the liquid down so I can take a few steps with it. I move into the mini hall that leads into the living room and collide with something pink. Someone—a tall, blonde girl in a short, fluffy looking pink dress.
"Whoa there, Anna Pavlova."
"Oh my god." Her red lips twist into a huge, sparkling white grin. "You know Anna Pavlova. And you're hot." She giggles, and I smell a waft of vodka. "Do I know you?" She screws her pretty face up.
"What do you think?"
"I think I am druuuuunk."
"Druuuunk, huh?"
Her face twists again, in exaggerated confusion. "You don't have a Southern accent."
"I do,” I tell her. “I'm from the South."
"What city?" Her eyebrows draw together like she’s skeptical. "Are you an Army brat? My dad was in the Army." She's so drunk, she's swaying slightly. I put my hand on her arm and steer her carefully into the living room. The place has two peach couches topped by the frilliest pillows I've ever seen, and a big, brick fireplace with a mantle displaying some sort of cotton vase arrangement. I note it with puzzlement, wondering if cotton ought to be centerpiece material in these modern times. Then again, it’s Alabama.
"What were we talking about?" she asks as she sits heavily beside me. She looks into my eyes. Hers are glazed but pretty hazel, reminding me of another girl and another pair of pretty hazel eyes.
"You were accusing me of being a damned Yankee.”
"Oh, that's right. Because you are a Yankee! Your voice isn't Southern." She pulls a flask from her purse and twists the cap off.
"Hey, now. I don't know about that." I give the flask some side-eye, and then aim the look at her, so she’ll notice my disapproval.
"You're a fuckin' stranger. There's no boys around who care if you get shitfaced.” Shit, she’s really drawling.
"Nobody in Fairplay that would watch your back? Try to be sure you don’t get sick?" I ask.
She shakes her head, looking crestfallen. "Only Josh Miller, but I think he might be gay because he never wants to kiss me." Her hand slaps over her mouth. "Oh my God, I didn't say that."
"You didn't?"
She lowers her voice, leaning toward me. "I'm an awful person,” she says sadly. “The worst."
"Nah. And I won't tell."
"He might just not like me. But he's tall. Like you. I like the tall guys. Like me."
"Short guys can't get play?" I ask.
She looks forlorn. "They don't want to."
"I bet that's not true."
She brightens. "Hey you want to go get in the pool?" Her eyes widen like a child’s, and I laugh.
"I think you should stay out of the pool tonight."
"Is something bad in the pool?" She looks alarmed.
I decide to roll with it. "Yeah. I heard there was black mold or something."
"Mold is bad." She nods.
I nod with her. "Mold is so bad."
A few more minutes talking to her, and she tells me her best friend, a girl named Cara, is dating a guy she likes.
“He’s tall, too.” She gives an exaggerated frown, almost like she’s miming.
It takes some effort to hold in a laugh.
“There’ll be other tall guys,” I tell her. “Or what about the short ones? That might work out okay.”
“Maybe.” She looks unconvinced.