The way he grabs for my arm feels desperate. “You can’t leave, man. I mean it.”
“I thought you didn’t want to be anywhere near me tonight!”
His voice lowers. “Look, earlier, what I said, when you were with that girl—it came out all wrong.”
“I guess it did.”
“Come on. I really don’t think you should be alone. Not now.”
I can’t help but pause. This is so unfair. Out of everyone in the entire world, how can it be that Lex Emil is the only one who knows? It’s a cruel joke, and I hate irony more than anything. I really do.
Through gritted teeth, I manage, “Why do you say that?”
His eyes are so pale that as the moonlight catches them, they appear near white. Like the center of the hottest flame. “Just stay with me, Win. It’s a long time until morning.”
That doesn’t answer my question. But in the same way I couldn’t voluntarily break away from Jordan earlier, I can’t walk away from Lex. Neither of us looks at the other. We’re both looking at the moon. It’s the celestial twin to the large stone sitting right inside my gut. Only my inner moon refuses to wax and wane. It’s taken on an orbit of its own, rotating in toward my core, slowly anchoring me to the ground.
“Come on,” Lex says finally. “You need a drink.”
It’s a command, not a request.
“You know I don’t do that.”
“I know you don’t do a lot of things,” he says. “Don’t be an asshole. Tonight of all nights is when you should be letting your guard down. Releasing those inhibitions. Being free for once.”
“I see.”
“You should try hooking up, too, you know. There are some girls over there”—he jabs his thumb back toward the party—“that would love to get a shot at you. They think you’re cute but aloof or some bullshit. Apparently being a douche passes for sex appeal these days. Fucking girls, how do they work, am I right?” His thundering guffaw rolls across Eden. Lex is always one to laugh at his own jokes, but this time I can tell he’s forcing it.
“How about that drink?” I say.
“Oh, absolutely,” he replies. “Let’s do it.”
“Just one.”
He begins to walk back toward the music. The laughter. The voices. I’m glad we don’t head for the bonfire because Jordan is still there. I’m watching her. She’s gotten another beer and moved beside a group of other juniors headed up by Penn Riggsdale. Poor girl. They won’t straight-up ignore her or anything, but really, she’s barking up the wrong tree. Riggsdale and his crowd are Manhattan trust fund kids. The elite. The entitled. The annoying-as-hell.
I think of the way they’ll laugh at Jordan when she’s out of earshot. The jokes they’ll make about her family. Her lack of money. Her lack of status. Her lack of beauty. She’s low value to the kind of people who care about stuff like that. Good only for cracks about paper bags or affirmative action and turning dykes straight.
I’m ashamed of the way I spoke to her earlier. I should have been nicer.
“Can’t you stop thinking how you’re better than everyone else for like one goddamn second?” Lex asks.
I tighten my jaw. “Not likely.”
“See, this is why I hate you sometimes.”
Well, I thought he hated me all of the time, so I definitely take note of the qualifier. I also change the subject. I point at the bottle of liquor he’s holding. Brown liquid. Economy-sized. The script on the label is supposed to be old-fashioned and classy, but how classy can a drink be when it’s got a name like Early Times? I feel ill looking at it, and the stress of how it will affect my training is so not worth it, but I snatch a red plastic cup from the stack on the card table and hold it out.
Lex tips the whiskey in.
“Enough,” I bark, but he keeps pouring until I yank the cup away. Early Times splashes off our shoes. Lex gives a whoop of laughter.
“Sloppy already, Winters. I’m liking your style tonight. C’mon. Cheers.” He bumps the bottle to my cup, leading to more splashing and, well, I know the drill. I tip the cup back and swallow.
Terrible. It’s absolutely terrible. I hold my composure and manage not to gag or cough or curse even though I want to do all three. A lit fuse runs from my sinuses to the bottom of my stomach. I should have held out for a shot of Pucker. Or strychnine.
Lex watches me closely. “More,” he says, so I drink more. But something goes wrong. It’s too much or too strong or I swallow too much air. Before I know what’s happening, I throw up on the ground.
People around us clap and cheer, as if my throwing up means they’re having a good time. My cheeks burn, but I’m uncomfortable more than embarrassed because it still feels like there’s a bubble stuck in my windpipe. I’m afraid if I try to belch it out, I’ll just end up retching again.
Lex should be the one laughing the loudest and cracking jokes. That’s what he’s always done. That’s who he’s always been. But instead he’s putting his hand on my back, keeping me balanced, asking, “You okay, man?”