“Right, that’s what I said.” He takes a sip of beer and then looks at Emily and shrugs. Emily purses her lips and looks back and forth between Ryan and Chase.
“He wasn’t talking about you, Ryan,” she says finally.
Ryan looks stung. Even Chase’s mouth drops open. Emily and Ryan have always defended each other. Always.
“You weren’t there,” Ryan says finally. He rises and Chelsea touches his arm.
“Ryan, he was just telling a story.” She nods her head toward his seat.
“No, he wasn’t.” He looks at the rest of us. “You know he wasn’t.”
Chase studies the fire. “Ryan, why don’t you tell the rest.”
“I had to lay immobile on the ground for two hours waiting for a tow truck while the rest of the guys alternated between playing a pathetic practice game and bitching about how life isn’t fair and they could have been getting laid right now. That’s the rest of the story.” Ryan taps his fingers on the table. “Did I tell it right?”
Chase sighs. “Whatever.”
Ryan heads back toward the house. Chelsea and I exchange a weary look, and she takes my hand.
“Pick out a board game,” I call after him with an encouraging smile. I wrap my sweater around me more tightly. It’s getting colder by the minute. I put my glass down on the ground. The world is starting to waltz.
“He has no spirit,” Chase mutters.
“I don’t know if I agree,” Mila says.
Emily begins to refill Mila’s glass, and it suddenly shatters in her hand.
All four of us stare down in shock at the red wine soaking Mila’s skin, the glittering shards of glass catching fragments of moonlight.
“I’m not hurt,” Mila says slowly, as if not quite convinced.
It isn’t necessarily a sign.
But it feels like one.