My breath eases, now that I know he has living family who love him.
“Cooler than Freddy?”
He blanches. “Freddy is my lamest acquaintance.”
“And yet.” I smile just a little, tracing the rim of my newly topped-up cocktail. “He’s what you led with.”
The way Alex looks at me then, his eyes sparkling, it’s almost like he’s thinking, Finally, you’re playing with me.
Some unfathomable amount of time later, only measured by the drinks I consume—conspiratorially nicknamed the Jack and Jill and advertised as Sleight of Hand’s drink of the night—there’s a tap on my shoulder. When I turn around, Brijesh is standing there.
He’s the last person I’m expecting to see.
“Brijy!”
I fling myself into his arms, but he doesn’t hug me back. He pulls away and puts his palms on either side of my face. My cheeks get pushed together.
“I’ve been trying to reach you for three hours, Case. You were supposed to meet me at the restaurant at eight o’clock. I literally had to track you down on Find My Friends to make sure you were okay.”
I cringe away from him. “I—I forgot.”
Brijesh blinks. “Casey Maitland doesn’t forget things. You once wrote out thirty-three decimals of pi to win a drinking game.”
“We were just…” On reflex, I point my thumb at Alex, but I don’t know how to finish that sentence.
Brijesh follows my finger, and when he sees Alex, his whole body visibly relaxes. “Oh, hey, man. I didn’t realize that was—” Brijesh shifts. Scratches his head. “Okay, so this is, um—I’m sorry.”
“Why are you sorry?” I ask. “This is perfect. Are we still getting dinner? I’m starving.”
“Casey.” Brijesh pinches the bridge of his nose. “It’s ten o’clock. I literally found a stray gay walking past and invited him inside the restaurant because I couldn’t bear to cancel the reservation and lose my opportunity to review the chef first.”
“You could have just eaten alone?”
His nose wrinkles. “Fuck no. I am way too narcissistic to eat a nice meal without someone I can explain the dish to.”
Outside, the daylight is completely gone. In a mad scramble, I reach for my purse hooked under the bar and fumble for my phone. Missed calls. Dozens of texts from Sasha and Brijesh. When I turn back around, Brijesh is on the phone, one hand on his hip in a fatherly fashion.
“Yeah, I found her. She’s fine.” There’s a pause, and then Brijesh says, “Alex Harrison, the guy from—yeah.”
“Who is that?”
“Sasha. She’s meeting us later.”
“Hi, Sasha!” I shout at Brijesh’s face, stumbling a little bit.
When he hangs up, Alex stands. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get in the middle of—”
“No, it’s not his fault!” I jump in. “Put all the blame on me, Brij.”
He holds up a hand. “You’re both grown-ups. It’s just that we’re all each other has on this island, you know? Better safe than sorry.”
Alex nods, setting his mouth into a firm line. “I get that.”
“Anyway.” Brijesh peeks into my cocktail. “What are we drinking?”
I hold up the Jack and Jill for him to taste. He sips it, then passes it to the guy behind him, who I didn’t realize was with Brijesh until now. The dude is huge, well over six feet tall, wearing dark jeans and a plain white muscle tee.
“This is delicious,” the giant groans, handing my glass back to Brijesh. “So delicately balanced.”
“Thank you!” Freddy shouts from behind the bar. “I’ll make you one!”
Brijesh leans toward me. “The CrossFit buff is my backup Casey. Convincing, no?”
“I’m irreplaceable,” I retort, grabbing for my drink.
“First, remind me what it is I always say about lateness.”
I roll my eyes. “Being late all the time isn’t a cute personality trait, it’s just rude.”
He smiles. “You’re forgiven. But I’m keeping the drink.”
Freddy whips up another round, and then before I know it, he’s clocking out, shouting the recipe for the J&J into the late-night bartender’s ear. I sign a tab. It’s less money than I thought—exactly eleven dollars. I think there’s only one drink on it, but I’m not sober enough to question anything.
We pour out of the bar in a tumble of drunken stupor, and Brijesh is humming, “Casey and the boys, Casey and the boys.” Alex and I find street hot dogs to devour while Brijesh describes in intimate detail the meal I missed.
“Tantalizingly tender tamales—”
“Shut up.”
“The huitlacoche was to die for—”
“I said I was sorry, didn’t I?”
“And the pozole.”
“You really screwed up,” Alex tells me. “This hot dog’s only descriptor is average.”
Still, the food sobers me up a little, and I chug a bottle of water for good measure. Then all five of us head toward Miriam’s favorite karaoke bar. （It took next to no convincing to get everyone on board.）
Halfway there, Freddy sidles up between me and Alex. “Want to know a song that Alex knows every single word of?”
“Don’t tell her that!”
“Hips. Don’t. Lie.”
It is obviously the first song I request when we arrive.
The bar is a grungy basement haunt, but there’s still a waitlist, and we have to get through Dolly Parton’s “9 to 5,” sung by a bachelorette party in purple feather tutus, and then Ariana Grande’s “Santa Tell Me,” performed by an Australian woman in all black. All five of us line the sticky, overrun bar as we watch.
“Dude.” Alex pushes away my elbow, knocking half the liquor out of the shot I just ordered to get him primed for his performance. “This smells like rubbing alcohol.”
“Welcome to the bourgeoisie.” I fix him with a stern look.
Alex narrows his eyes, then takes the shot from me and drinks it straight. “For the record, I’ve never spent a dime of my dad’s money he didn’t force on me. I just have more respect for my body than this.”
I’m about to retort that I treat my body like a debauched temple, thank you very much, but then Sasha barrels up to me, her boyfriend, Miguel, in tow. We all make hazy introductions, and Sasha gives me a pointed look she should have saved for a Girls’ Night In, jerking her head at Alex with a question in her eyes. He doesn’t notice, too busy fangirling over Miguel, who is some famous Yankees player or something. Figures.
“Ring of Fire” starts to play, and a smile pulls at my lips as I remember Dad playing this song whenever we’d have a bonfire with our neighbors. Alex notices. He pulls me close so he can shout in my ear, and his lips graze my skin.
Since our first two touches, memorized, cataloged, I’ve lost track of all the others: my feet kicking his calf, his elbow against mine, shoulders bumping on the outside curb, knuckles scraping as we walked.
“What’s your song?” His hold on my arm loosens already.