“I’m not with Julia,” Dave said. Across the party, Julia was trying to unpop the Kapoors’ collars, yelling something. “It’s not like that.”
Gretchen looked up at him just for a second. Her expression gave nothing away. Or it did, and he simply wasn’t familiar enough with her face to catch its subtle changes; he couldn’t read her silences the way he could read Julia’s. “You kind of act like you’re together,” Gretchen said with another shrug that spilled a blob of foamy beer down to the grass. “You don’t have to feel sorry for me. It’s okay. I’ll learn how to pull pranks some other way.”
Dave had never seen someone who smiled this often, in such a variety of ways. She looked sad and embarrassed and still managed an honest smile. It felt insane, all of a sudden, how long he’d been reaching for Julia. And if not insane, then too long by exactly four days. Tuesday night, watching a movie with Gretchen, that was the exact moment he should have let go for good. “I’m not with Julia,” he said again.
“Dave, it’s okay—” she said, but he didn’t let her continue. He dropped his beer to the ground, ignoring the way it splashed at his feet and soaked his legs, and he finally kissed Gretchen.
She tasted like honey, too. Her lips were warm and soft and wet, all the descriptions he’d read and heard and imagined a thousand times, sure. But they were so much more than that. They were real, and wonderful.
AGAINST THE CURRENT
WHEN THE PARTY had mostly cleared out—excepting the few people passed out on couches or in the pillow fort at the foot of the stairs, plus a couple making out in the yard—Dave and Julia started going about the task of making the house somewhat presentable before the dads returned from Napa in the morning.
“I’d say that was a success,” Julia said, grabbing cans and tossing them into a garbage bag. Dave was searching the house for cups that people had tossed aside, the taste of Gretchen’s kiss still on his lips, a warmth inside him that loomed much larger than the buzzed, in-love-with-the-world feeling from the Kapoor party. That had been a flame, and this was a fire.
“Yeah, pretty great turnout. Maybe we’ve been wrong all this time about what makes someone a good beer host. I thought being from Bangladesh and having hundreds of siblings was a requirement, but it turns out you have what it takes, too.”
“I think the only real requirement is vast quantities of alcohol and a house to put it all in. And the attendance of a man on the cusp of celebrity such as yourself to lure in the masses, of course.” Julia kicked at the charred remains of the bonfire, then used a log that hadn’t been burned to scoop some of the cans into her bag. “The dads are going to empty my college fund when they see this. Good thing they already emptied it out for their restaurant venture! Student loans here I come.”
When Dave didn’t say anything—he was still recalling how he’d kissed Gretchen good night at the front door before she left, the smile on her face—Julia said, “Just kidding, I’m a little drunk. I’m sure they were always planning on making me get student loans.”
Dave took their garbage bags to the curb, then came back and grabbed new ones from beneath the sink. Julia was already in the kitchen, examining the remains of the chips and dips. “Gnarly, someone ate all of the butter.” She brought the bowls to the sink and dropped them in with a clatter. Whoever it was that had fallen asleep on the couch moaned in complaint at the sound. “Never mind, it’s all right here on the carpet.”