“You don’t have to,” she replies, holding my hand tightly.
“Really? You’re not going to be mad?”
“Oh, I’ll be furious. You made a promise. But it’s still your call.”
I stare at the red Solo cup in my hand, at the frothy, amber drink within. “Okay. You’re right. I said I would.” I breathe deeply, let it out slowly, then sip the cold beer. It tastes foul, like water from an old hose. People joke about Coors tasting like piss, but I always thought it was an exaggeration.
“It’s terrible,” I say, spitting most of it back into the cup. “I amnotdrinking this.”
“That’s not fair,” Lydia says, sipping hers. She cringes, but swallows it. “You said you’d have a beer with me tonight.”
Setting down my cup, I shake my head. “I said I’dtrybeer. I tried it.”
“You’re the worst twenty-one-year-old ever.”
I laugh, flicking my tongue, trying to dismiss the flavor. We celebrated my birthday weeks ago, but term papers kept me from drinking and dancing the night away. However, I did promise Lydia we’d make up for it after finals, so when she decided we were going to her sorority’s graduation party I had to honor my word. Still, that doesn’t mean I have to like beer.
“You think they have any wine?” I ask, though it’s a silly question. So far we’ve seen three kegs, huge bottles of liquor and a dozen cases of Coors — one guy even asked us if we’d like some absinthe — but no wine. Hooting from the guys often pierces through the dubstep blaring from the speaker system, usually because they convinced a couple of sorority girls to make out with each other. Two fights have erupted and spilled outside.
This isn’t my scene. Lydia can tell I’m not having a great time, but I’m willing to stay a little longer. I want her to enjoy herself tonight. There’ll be plenty of time for us to binge watch shows later.
“Did you hear back from any of the accounting firms?” I ask her.
“No, but it’s still early. I’m sure I’ll get called for an interview.”
Grinning, I say, “I cannot fucking wait to move. The apartment is going to be beautiful.” I’ve only seen pictures of it online, but the two-bedroom loft is going to be a dream for us. Lydia and I have been ready to move to Philly since the start of our senior year. My job is already lined up, and soon hers will be too. I’d make a toast to our future if I had something to drink that didn’t taste like ass.
“And if not, I’ll do whatever I have to,” Lydia continues. “I’ll wait tables, work in a coffee shop — whatever. I’m not a freeloader.”
I tilt my head and give her a look. “You know I don’t care about that. I’ve got the trust my parents set up to pay living expenses and-”
“And that’s very kind of you,” she interrupts. “But I’m paying my fair share. End of story.”
“All right,” I reply, raising my hands in defeat. “Not gonna argue with that. And it won’t matter anyway, because you’re going to have your pick of firms jumping to hire you.”
“Fuck yeah I will,” she says, finishing her beer. “Come on, let’s go find you something good to drink.”
Getting up from the scratchy, sunken couch, we nearly collide with a group of guys heading toward us.
“Did you say you need a drink?” asks one of them, a man with spiky, bleach blonde hair and a gold chain necklace. He smiles politely, holding out a beer cup. Reeking of cheap body spray, he wears a T-shirt from one of the fraternities over a pair of sandy camo cargo pants. However, they all look too old to be in college — they must be at least thirty. Normally I wouldn’t mind the idea of an older guy, but not someone who cruises college parties for hookups. And there’s no way in hell I’m accepting a drink that they offered me.
“No, thanks,” I say, trying to step back. Liquor wafts from their direction, and his friends totter slightly on their feet. “The beer is terrible,” I give as an excuse.
“That’s adorable,” he replies. “But you’re cute, so you can get away with it. What’s your name, sweetheart?”
“It’s… it’s Quinn. What’s yours?”
“Lance,” he replies. “This is Glenn and Travis.”
“Are you grad students?” I ask, eyes darting around them, looking for an opening to slip away.
He laughs a bit too hard at the question. “Fuck that. We’re alums… alumni? Whatever it is, we used to go here.”
“You crash these frat parties?” Lydia asks. “Or do they actually let you in?”
Lance chuckles, shaking his head. “They know who my father is, so they kinda have to.”
Before I can ask who that would be, Lydia grabs my wrist and yanks me away. “Excuse us, I need the bathroom,” she says.