“I can get you something soft,” Patrick says. He’s alone in the large kitchen, with me lingering awkwardly in the doorway.
“Um,” I manage to say.
“First time at Steve’s?”
“Yeah.”
Patrick crosses the room and presses a Solo cup into my hand.
“I can’t.”
“It’s water,” he assures me. “You should hydrate.”
“I look dehydrated?”
Patrick smiles. “I will give you all my pennies next game if you can tell me the last time you drank a glass of water.”
“Um.”
He laughs. “Safest bet I ever made.”
I sip. “How’d you end up bartender?”
Patrick tugs a dish towel out of the refrigerator door handle. “It’s not official. Steve doesn’t care if people get their own drinks. But between you and me, I don’t really know how to do the party thing.” He wipes down the counter. “I like having something to do.”
That’s a surprise. “You seem like you know everybody.”
“This way I get to talk to everyone, but not for that long.” He tips up one shoulder. “It’s a living.” He grins.
I smile back, and it doesn’t feel as forced now. Patrick’s nice enough. And he knows, which means something. The club thing makes sense, here and now.
Growing more comfortable, I ask, “Do you—”
“O’Hall!” bellows a voice from the space behind me. A rush of bodies brushes past my shoulder. A fresh wave of popular kids surrounds me, slapping greetings with Patrick and rummaging through the alcohol on display. The kitchen goes from refuge to rumpus.
The beer smell combined with the aura of testosterone starts to get to me. I fade backward, through the doorway into the dining room, chased by a rousing chorus of “Chug! Chug! Chug!”