And I really can’t afford to. It’s not like I come from nothing. My parents worked hard, saved their money, and instilled in me the importance of doing the same. And I did—all through high school. I never got into trouble, never rebelled, never so much as dyed my hair. And it’s not like I had dreams of robbing banks or getting a dozen tattoos, I just wanted to have fun last year. Just for a little bit, I wanted to let loose.
Nate clears his throat and wanders over to chat up the old man, and for a second Marcela and I just stand side-by-side at the counter and watch. She uses one fingernail, painted black, to pick at a sticker someone stuck on the counter, and I don’t know what to do. This is where I want to be, even though I shouldn’t.
Story of my life.
“I’m sorry you got arrested,” she says eventually, watching the corners of the sticker peel up. “And I’m sorry I didn’t say anything.”
I keep watching her fingernail. “It’s not your fault.”
“Well, it was my idea.”
“Okay, so it was mostly your fault.”
She laughs a little. “And if I made you fail your classes last year, I’m sorry for that too. I know you have a scholarship and you need to keep your grades up.”
I glance at her. I’m terrible at confrontation, if last night’s events weren’t proof enough. “You didn’t make me fail. I failed all by myself. I was just embarrassed.”
“Do you really never go out anymore?”
“Never.”
“Where’d you stay the night of Kellan’s birthday?”
I sigh. “Don’t laugh.”
“Did you hide in the closet and spy?”
I smile. “No. I stayed in Crosbie’s room at the frat house.”
Her mouth opens.
“He wasn’t there,” I say hastily. “He stayed at my place.” I assume he did, anyway. Perhaps he’d been in the library all night.
“Do you like him?”
I shrug. “I thought I did. A little bit. But…no. I can’t. I need to focus on getting my grades up and staying out of trouble.”
“Last year was fun.”
“It was awesome.”
“And this year has been terrible. I hang out with Nate, like, all the time.”
“Outside of work?”
“Yes. He makes me go to vegan restaurants and buy candles and watch foreign films. He’s a hipster stereotype and it’s killing me.”
“He’s in love with you.”
“It doesn’t change anything.”
I watch Nate show the old man the newest set of nesting dolls. We all know the guy’s never going to buy anything; he comes in three days a week and doesn’t order so much as a coffee. But still Nate holds out hope.
“What do I do?” I ask. Marcela has stopped picking at the sticker and now I take over. I’ve been dying to ask her that very question all month, and now I feel like I can barely breathe as I wait for her answer.
“You just get on with your life,” she says, eyes on Nate. “And you forget all about the other person.”
“Sounds simple.”
Her red lips curve. “Nate,” she calls. “We’re closing shop early. Lock it up.”
Nate looks surprised but doesn’t argue, and fifteen minutes later we’re out the door, the three of us bundled up against a chilly fall wind as we hustle down the street in the direction of the bank and the nearest bar. Marcela and I stand guard as Nate drops off the small deposit, then we dart across the street into Marvin’s, a crowded pub that’s popular with Burnham’s older students.
The music is muted, the air is warm, and everyone’s wearing cords and cardigans. In her silver sequined top, black tights, and thigh-high white pleather boots, Marcela makes a statement. As usual, all eyes are on her as she picks her way through the crowd and finds us a tall table in the corner. Nate heads up to the bar to grab a round of shots, and I take a deep breath. I know I shouldn’t be here, but I miss this. Not the alcohol, but the atmosphere. The people. Not being home alone by myself. Again.
Nate returns a few minutes later with six shot glasses precariously clustered in his hand and Marcela helps arrange them on the table. “What are you going to drink?” she asks, blinking at him, deadpan.
He makes a face and she grins and I do too, then we all take a glass. “What are we toasting?” Nate asks. “The end of the Cold War?”
“Yeah,” Marcela says. “And bygones being bygones, and fuck Crosbie Lucas.”
Nate shrugs, not fully comprehending, but gamely echoes, “Fuck Crosbie Lucas.”
I didn’t think I’d laugh again for a long time, but I’m laughing when I say, “Fuck Crosbie Lucas,” and we all toast to it.
*
It’s shortly after midnight when I stumble in the front door. The stumbling has more to do with the fact that my legs and fingers are numb from the bike ride home than the alcohol. I mean, don’t get me wrong—I’m a little bit drunk, but nothing crazy. Not out of control.
“Middle ground drunk,” Marcela called it, when I lamented my inability to hang out in the center of the spectrum. “You will only be middle ground drunk this evening, I will see to it.”