Madeleine parades me around the room making fake trumpet noises, ensuring that every single person in attendance knows I’ve arrived. I try to catalogue the changes in my mind: who looks different than they did in high school, whose ring fingers are now bling fingers. Most everyone looks about the same as I remember.
The party has extended into the backyard where some guys have set up makeshift beer pong tables, and I even find myself intrigued by a stranger with his back turned to me. We’ll call him NiceAss. Mr. Tall NiceAss. Madeleine hands me my third and final shot, I down it, and I point to him like I’m calling dibs. That one. The sting from the whisky still lingers as I saunter toward Mr. TN (for short). I’m prepared to lay on the charm when suddenly he turns and I catch sight of something other than his derriere. His profile stops me dead in my tracks. I’m sickened by the surprise.
Lucas?!
Madeleine is tittering behind me, more than pleased with herself.
Lucas turns to look over his shoulder, sees me. I half-wave with my casted hand. He frowns, clearly not pleased to see me, but I am pleased to see him—thanks to the whisky. It’s the only way I can explain away how I feel about his amply filled navy blue pants and white button-up. He wore the ensemble to work, but with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, he’s transitioned into play mode…and maybe I have too.
I consider berating Madeleine for inviting Lucas, but I know her response will involve cries of sibling guilt. She’s chock full of it. Me? I count myself lucky to be an only child. No nasty older brothers to drag me down.
“Having fun Lucas?” I ask, interrupting the game of beer pong he was playing with our old classmate, Jimmy Mathers.
Jimmy pauses mid-shot. “Oh hey, Daisy. Happy homecoming.”
Neither of them seem very happy to see me, but I don’t let that ruin my fun.
“How about I play winner?”
Jimmy laughs. “Well considering Lucas is about to beat me for the second time in a row, I’ll just concede. The game is yours.”
Lucas reaches for his beer and shakes his head. “Don’t think it’s a good idea. Why don’t you go back inside?”
I bawk like a chicken, earning me a few laughs from the party guests lingering outside.
Lucas wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and there is an itty bitty smile there. I just know it.
“Fine. Grab a few beers, Jimmy. Daisy must be thirsty.”
For the record, I have never in my life played a game of beer pong. My college days were spent at the library, studying, but it wouldn’t be the first time competition with Lucas has forced me to be a quick learner. In the summer before junior year of high school, I condensed three years of Spanish into three months after finding out he took secret lessons to beef up his college applications. Lo siento, Lucasito.
Lucas sets up ten red Solo Cups in a triangle in front of me, and I nod with approval.
“Very good formation. My preferred arrangement.”
“Do you even know the rules?”
I laugh. “Pfft. Pah. Do I know the rules? Enough about the rules, sissy boy. Let’s get started.”
I feel lucky that my cast is on my non-dominant hand, but I am fooling no one. By my third turn, I haven’t even managed to sink a ball within a foot of the table. Lucas, meanwhile, has sunk almost every one of his shots, forcing me to drink the tepid beer in the cups.
“You can forfeit whenever you want,” he says, his eyes rife with mischief.
“I would rather jump off a million bridges.”
Those are the words my brain tells my mouth to say, but there is a distinct slur that accompanies them that even I notice. He probably hears something like I drather pump my britches.
“Let’s make this a half game,” Lucas says, eyeing my empty cups. “First person to five.”
He’s being a tricky-trickster but I see right through him.
“You don’t think I can actually beat you,” I say, taking aim for my next shot. I try a different tactic, closing one eye and trying to line up the trajectory of my ball using only the sound of the wind. I throw and the ball flies over Lucas’ head…and hits Jimmy Mathers right above his ear.
“HEY! Watch it!”
“Ha!” I clap. “I play by East Coast rules. If you hit the last loser in the head, you automatically win.”
“Nice try. You do realize the objective of the game is to get the ball inside the cups, right?”
He takes his turn and then I down another few ounces of beer.
“Okay I think that’s pretty much game. Did you eat dinner tonight?”
“Yep. I had a sexy date. He bought me lots of fancy food. Let me eat it off his abs.”
Another one of my balls goes flying across the backyard. Note to self: Spanish is easier to learn than beer pong.
I start to regret challenging Lucas, but then a loud crash sounds from inside, bailing me out. The music stops and someone is shouting about calling 9-1-1, about needing a doctor.