I can’t believe I thought Marco’s bathroom was over-the-top with the bear theme. Because this room is bear-ier than anything I’ve ever seen. Bedspread, pillows, wall art, curtains… all bear!
But there’s also a human in the room.
“I presume you’re Will?” I ask him in an attempt to break the awkward silence between us. Did I really just say presume out loud? This vodka-pamplemousse has truly transformed me. I make an inverted-lip monkey face and rock back on the heels of my sneakers. “I’m Joey.”
“I’m gonna kill her,” he replies from his corduroy love seat nook by the window. He doesn’t even bother looking up from his giant-ass book. Grand Expectations: The United States, 1945–1974. Seriously! This is what he’s reading.
“Yeah.” I make an uncomfortable chuckle and reach for the doorknob. “I can go…”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to sound rude.” Will closes his book and looks at me for a second before relaxing his shoulders a little. He laughs quietly to himself. I can’t tell if I should be flattered or offended. “Leave it to my sister.”
“So Shayla is your sister,” I say — half to Will and half to myself. I’ve been trying to figure out how they could be friends despite clearly having so little in common. “That explains it.”
He scrunches his face up and tilts his head slightly. “Explains what?”
“Why she’s getting high in the kitchen and you’re in here reading a book about —”
“She’s smoking out there? I’ll kill her.”
“Sorry — kidding!” No need to insert myself in family drama. “It wasn’t actually Shayla. Just two of her friends.”
Will does another face scrunch, this time in numerous directions. I’ll admit he’s kinda cute — short brown hair, hipster glasses, slightly larger-than-normal ears that give him this quirky intelligent look — but his energy is more thoughtful nerd than tattooed heartthrob. No need to worry about accidental eye-fuckage here.
“Her friends. Right.” He cracks a low-key smile that almost makes me think he might be trying to flirt. Oh, no. “Now I’m gonna have to go out there and be a dick. I swear to God. She’s literally my twin but sometimes I feel like I’m her parent.” He sighs and looks back at me before taking any action. “Do you have any siblings? Or — whoa! Hey! You okay?”
Apparently I just lost my balance standing here listening to him. This might be the drunkest I’ve ever been? I don’t know! All I know is that I’m currently shoulder-to-wall, with my entire body weight just daring me to embrace a total collapse. Will runs over and grabs my arms, moves me to a sitting position on the bed. He plops down next to me. I notice that he’s wearing these light khaki shorts that stop at about the halfway point of his tan, thick, hairy thighs.
Okay, so his thighs are hot. (Did you hear that in a Shania-Twain-That-Don’t-Impress-Me-Much voice just now? Because that’s fully how I intended it.)
“I’m fine,” I say. “Just lost my balance.”
Will’s hand is on my back, which seems like a bold choice for someone who literally just met me two minutes ago. But I’d be lying if I said it didn’t feel kinda nice to have a guy in here with me exhibiting signs of concern for my well-being, so I’ll take it. Even if he’s clearly a total Nice Guy.
“Here.” He grabs a large bottle of room temperature Evian from the nightstand. “Drink this.”
“Thanks.” I take a sip. “I’m really not that drunk.”
“Of course not,” Will says in a tone that conveys he means the opposite of what he just said. “So are you a friend of Shayla’s or something? She’s never mentioned you. Did you just come up from the city tonight? How come I’ve never seen you before?”
I put my hand up and finish my current swig of water. “Just met her tonight.” I explain the whole Marco–Mom connection and try to make it extra clear that coming up to the lake was a spontaneous last-minute decision and certainly not the result of being on the run from the police. “This is all extremely random for me. I had no idea when I woke up in New Jersey this morning that I’d be going to a party with a bunch of rich kids in the middle of nowhere.” Will narrows his light-brown eyes at me. “No offense.”
“Where in New Jersey are you from?” he asks. “My uncle has a house in Short Hills.”
It takes a second to register. And then I’m like, of course. Of course this guy would have family in the same town where Mom and I recently deep fried a McMansion! Naturally.
It’s probably just a coincidence, right? But still. Hearing the words “short” and “hills” out loud in sequential order right now feels a little too close for comfort. If I were sober I’d probably be having a full-on meltdown.
“Short Hills? I have never been there.” I enunciate every syllable in an attempt to make it as clear as possible that I am completely unaware of any hypothetical fires his uncle may or may not have seen on the local news within the past twenty-four hours. “We live in Bayonne.”
“I know where that is,” Will replies. “My dad’s a member of Liberty National Golf Club in Jersey City. Right down the road.”
“Fuck golf,” I blurt. Just hearing that word reminds me of Luke. “No offense.”
“None taken.” Will laughs. “I’m not a huge fan myself.” I’ll admit his laugh is endearing. It conveys genuine amusement — basically the opposite of the Luke-laugh I’d become accustomed to during our relationship, which usually came off as cocky and somehow mean. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, totally.” I’m still drunk but the water is making my head feel at least a little less… spinny. “Sorry I interrupted your history lesson. I should probably get back —”
“Are you sure?” he asks. “You’re welcome to… uh.” He stops himself as he seems to have a realization. “Yeah, no. You seem tired.”
“I am.”
“How long are you gonna be up here? Maybe we can hang out… on purpose… tomorrow?” Yep. He’s definitely hitting on me. Except he’s doing it in a way that sounds like he’s asking for my permission — which basically nails the coffin shut on any chance we might have had for a potential lake-romance. I need a man who’s going to tell me we’re hanging out tomorrow. You know? An aggressor. “Do you have your phone?” he continues. “I can put my number in it —”
“I’m sorry.” I let out a wildly uncomfortable defense-mechanism laugh. “I’m way too fucked up for you.”
“No, yeah, I know — obviously,” he fumbles. “I’m talking about tomorrow. When you’re sober —”
“I don’t mean fucked up from drinking.” Ugh. I feel bad for this dude. He deserves an emotionally healthy surprise party guest to hit on! Not someone like me. “I mean I’m fucked up, like… you know. In general.” I flop my hands out in the air. “Overall.”
“Oh.” Will lowers his head slightly. “Gotcha.”
He scratches his leg, which momentarily draws my attention back to his manly-beyond-his-years thighs. They almost look like they could belong to a totally different guy.
You know what? Fuck it.
“Here.” I pull my phone out of my pocket and gently toss it in his direction after touching the fingerprint lock. It lands on the bed, right between his legs, and — oh. Okay. He’s sitting in such a way that his shorts display a rather intriguing bulge. “Send yourself a text.”
He gives a confused chuckle — like he’s maybe about to be like, just forget about it — but then he shrugs and picks it up.
“Whoa,” he says. “What’s this?”
His baffled tone sends a shockwave to my brain.
Shit! How did I not think to check the phone myself first before tossing it to him? There could be any number of nightmares on that screen right now. I don’t think I’ve felt any notable vibrations since I got to this party, but what the hell do I know? I’ve been stumbling around and crashing into walls this whole time. I could have easily missed a call from the police notifying me of an arrest warrant. Or a text from Luke saying that he cracked the Short Hills fire case with the GPS tag I sent him. Or a —
My chest plummets down to my balls as I reach over to grab the phone out of Will’s hand.
“Wait!” He swats me away and continues staring at the screen. He’s laughing, which seems like kind of a rude response to whatever electronic proof of my imminent demise he’s looking at. I try again, this time basically getting halfway on top of him. “Okay!” he finally relents. “Sorry. I wasn’t trying to snoop. It was open when you gave me the phone.”
Turns out I didn’t miss any nightmare texts.
He was just looking at my Notes app.
I exhale in relief. But then I tense back up in panic. Another human has just glimpsed my list of mediocre half-baked jokes.
I close out of the screen immediately and just ask Will to recite his number aloud. I enter it myself and shoot him a text with a jumble of letters that autocorrect miraculously changes to Joey before I hit send.
“Were those your jokes?” Will asks. “Are you a comedian or —”
“No,” I say reflexively. “I mean. I want to be.”
“Why?”
“Why? My jokes are really that unfunny?”
“I didn’t say that!” he says. “You freaked out and snatched the phone away before I could even get to a punchline. I just meant, like… I’ve never met anyone who wants to be a comedian. I was curious how you got into it. That’s all.”
“I don’t know.” I’ve just always loved the feeling of making people laugh. Isn’t that why anybody gets into comedy? And lately I’ve been obsessed with the structure of jokes — cracking them open and dissecting their words, investigating what makes them work (or not work), trying to replicate the magic of my favorite stand-up specials in my head. “It’s just a dream I’ve had since I was a kid, I guess. It’s dumb.”
Will puts his hand on my knee. “It’s not dumb.”
Apparently that’s all it takes for me to throw myself at him. I lean over and sloppily attach my mouth to his. Which is crazy! I never make the first move. I’m going to blame this on a combination of pamplemousse, wine, sleep deprivation, and a desperate need to change the subject from my nonexistent comedy career.
Will jerks his head away. “I’m sorry.” He straightens his posture. “You’re still super drunk.”
“Right.” So now I’ve been rejected by a Nice Guy who I swear I didn’t even want to kiss in the first place. Who even am I? “My bad.”
“Here.” He grabs the now-empty Evian bottle. “I’ll go get you some more water.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I say. “I should leave anyway.”
His face falls for a second, but then he nods in agreement. “Want me to walk you back to Marco’s?” he asks.
“Nope!” I say, a little too defensively, as I lift myself off the bed and head for the door. “I’m fine.”
“At least let me walk you out.” He gets up and grabs my shoulder, which helps to steady my wobbly steps. He guides me through the Cracker Barrel hallway and back toward the living room, which is empty. The party is now concentrated in the kitchen. “Here. I’ll let you out the back way so we don’t have to deal with everyone.”
That Evian really didn’t help as much as I’d thought it did. I’m definitely still spinny. My legs feel like a pair of silicone stilts. If it weren’t for Will’s support, I’d have totally toppled over by now. Which is why it’s quite inconvenient when he lets go of me.
“Whoa.” I hobble to the nearest wall and lean against it.
“I’ll be right back,” he says. “If you’re not gonna let me walk you home, then you should at least have another bottle of water. Wait here.”
He heads toward the kitchen. I stare at him for a moment before shifting my gaze back up toward the looming wagon. I still can’t get over this thing. It’s ridiculous! I steady myself as best I can and meander my way back to the center of the living room so I can get another up-close look at it. I stare at the giant wheel hovering above my head and wonder if this monstrosity has ever actually been a functioning wagon, or if it was created purely as a piece of décor meant to look like it was once a functioning wagon. For reasons only the vodka can explain at this point, the wheel beckons me to spin it again.
Right as my finger makes contact, I’m interrupted by Will’s voice calling my name from behind. This startles me and causes my wobbly legs to lose their balance yet again. So in a split second, without thinking, my hand grips onto the wheel for dear life. I know! This thing could barely withstand a tentative little tap earlier, let alone the full body weight of a drunken gay arsonist. But it’s my knee-jerk reaction and I can’t take it back.
A splinter of wood digs into my hand as the wagon immediately jerks downward from the ceiling above. I have the distinct feeling that I’m yanking out a tooth. And yet I can’t let go, because drunk-logic is telling me that if I do then I’ll fall face down on the floor. Never mind the fact that a giant antique is about to crush me from above.
“Joey!” Will repeats as he runs toward me. There’s a piercing snap sound in the air, and for a moment it’s raining wood chips on my head. Will grabs me by the waist and drags me to the wall. “What the hell are you doing?”
“I… uh.” I blink aggressively and open my eyes to see that every single party guest is now scattered across the perimeter of the living room — frozen like a group of rubberneckers at the scene of a car crash. It’s almost enough to jolt me into instant sobriety. “I’m sorr —”
Before I can finish my apology, Shayla storms forward from the crowd and slams her hands into my chest.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” she barks. “Look what you did!”
Every nerve ending in my body trembles with shame and embarrassment as I follow her instructions and survey the damage I’ve just caused. One of the four chains that was holding the wagon up has popped off entirely — taking a literal chunk of the wooden beam it was attached to with it — and the one next to it looks like it’s ready to snap any second now. A small pile of wooden debris from the ceiling has pooled on the area rug directly below it, which is almost as disturbing as the sight of the partially unhinged wagon itself.
“I don’t understand,” Will says. He sounds more disappointed than pissed, which makes me feel even worse. “I left you alone for two seconds.”
“I’m seriously so, so, so sorry.” I dig my knuckles into my eyes and blink some more. “I lost my balance, and then I don’t know —”
“You’re gonna have to pay for this,” Shayla and the vein popping out of her head tell me. “I hope you know that.”
Robbie steps in and starts rubbing her back. “It was an accident,” he says. I should mention that he is still extremely fuckable — perhaps even more so now that he’s defending me with that strong, masculine voice of his. “Dude lost his balance. Calm down, babe.”
“Calm down?” She slaps his hand away and shoots her furious eyes over at Will. “Dad is gonna kill us!”
Will opens his mouth to respond, but he’s interrupted by a loud crack from above.
The room explodes into a cacophony of gasps and screams as another chain rips itself from the ceiling right before our eyes. More wood chips sprinkle down as the wagon jerks and flips into a lopsided position — like a stalled amusement park ride. The seats, which were previously facing the ceiling, are now facing the wall. Two of the side wheels are lodged against the ceiling, and the two wheels on the other side are parallel to the floor — taunting the room like a pair of circular wooden storm clouds.
I’m positive the other two chains are going to snap any second now. The entire wagon is gonna come crashing down. I can already see the shrapnel flying, the furniture destroyed, the party guests stunned. And it’s all my fault.
But somehow this doesn’t happen. I narrow my gaze and notice that the remaining chains are attached to a different wooden beam than the other two were. And this one seems like it might be able to sustain the extra weight.
For now, at least.
“Please don’t hate me,” I whisper — to everyone and no one — and tiptoe my way to the back door.