The Way We Talk

I'm still not sure how we managed to pull this off.

We pitched the idea of Katy coming to Orlando to her parents, who, with quite a bit of convincing, decided that, if she promised to check in twice a day, she could go. This is mostly because Footy is unbelievably talented at pretending to be his father and sounding like a responsible adult. Anyway, we left out the fact that Orlando was a layover, not a destination, but that doesn't matter because Footy, pardon the pun, footed the bill for the flights to Cancun. His father's some sort of tycoon, and often times Foot has the control of his black card.

Either way, we're due to land in Cancun, Mexico in about an hour and a half.

Chris shifts in his sleep, tightening the arm that has me up against his chest. I half-smile; all Chris talked about was how we were going to stay up the entire flight and talk and watch the inflight movies. That was until he had a caffeine crash and promptly passed out. I don't mind really- being the only one of us still up leaves me some time to think.

Or not. The person next to me taps me on the shoulder. "Can't sleep on planes either, Saunders?"

"I didn't know you were still up, Christian." My seatmate shrugs, careful not to wake his girlfriend, who is sound asleep on his shoulder.

"Eh, I tried," he responds, "I'm just too excited to be able to drink and not have to worry whether the bar will take my fake."

I snort. "I feel bad for whoever has to drag your wasted ass back every night."

"Feeling bad for yourself already and we haven't even landed in Mexico yet. That must be a new record."

I smack him on the arm lightly at that. "Congrats, you're still an ass."

"But you still put up with me. And don't deny it, you like my ass." I'm not sure why he's felt the need to refer to his cute backside, but I'm not sure it matters.

I try to stretch a little out of Kamrada's vice-grip, to which Christian chuckles. "Yeah, keep snickering, Climer."

He clicks his tongue. "Aw, young love."

I roll my eyes but do not respond. Instead, I scan around the plane. In the section to my right is Katy, Jay, and Clarke. The latter two have been inseparable since our plane from Washington landed in Orlando, and I swear they are the cutest thing. They aren't the most likely couple - Clarke has four inches on him, at least - but they look so happy and in love. The row behind them is Foot and his on/off girlfriend Leila (to tell you the truth, I'm not sure whether they are currently on or off at this point). Maika's somewhere towards the back of the plane, having swapped seats to chat with a girl named Allison who he met in the airport.

And then there was us. Me, Chris, Christian, Maria. The last of which didn't even put up a fight, simply popped a sleeping pill so that she'd be passed out for the entirety of the flight.

"Stop frowning, Ric,' He whispers, grabbing my free hand and interlocking our fingers, noticing the sour face I'm pulling just thinking out his little princess, "We'll be in Mexico soon enough, and who knows what will happen there."

I don't know what Christian means, but he holds my hand until we land.

--

I feel like I'm in the middle of "Remembering Sunday" by All Time Low. Or at lest one of the lines.

I've been some sort of drunk since we arrived at our hotel, and that was four days ago, nor do I think I have consumed any beverage without alcohol in it. This place is the boys' sort of heaven; it's the only place I've found where it's socially acceptable to be shitfaced at eleven AM.

And we are, for the most part. Kamrada is at least 40% Corona Light at this point, and with the way I've been drinking, I'm not much farther behind me.

We clink our bottles together and grin. My companion chugs half his beer, then throws his arm around me.

"Mmhm, I'm never fuckin' leaving this place," Chris murmurs, wiggling his toes in the sand.

I hiccup, then laugh. "Don't blame me when your liver keels over and dies on you."

"Not gunna kill it, Erica, just exercisin' it. That's what my mom told me to do. Exercise."

I'm sure that Mrs. Kamrada meant for him to run on the beach, not induce cihrosis, but I'm just too drunk to fight him now.

"Christ Saunders, you're hot," Chris utters randomly. I bite my lip in that way that says I'm going to flirt back, and lean my head on his shoulder. He responds by tilting my chin and kissing me.

Chris Kamrada is a really, really good kisser. Not in the butterflies-from-your-toes-on-up sort of way, but his technique is good. He knows to vary his pressure and when to use his tongue, and you just have to appreciate it for what it is- good kissing.

"Ew, sex on the beach." Chris pulls away from me (since when was he on top of me?) to flip Footy the bird.

"Hey, I like Sex on the Beaches. I'm going to make them," Chris pauses from leaning to kiss me again to stare blankly at her. Leila Vreeland has to be one of the dumbest girls I've ever met, and it doesn't help that she's always teetering the fine line between supremely hammered and alcohol poisoning.

Leila stumbles back in the pursuit of mixed drinks, and we all share a laugh at her expense. "I think the booze has fried her remaining brain cells."

Footy shrugs, the cap of a fresh beer. "She's dumb as shit but she's so good in the sack that she's almost worth it."

In normal circumstances, this would be considered an overshare. But I've had more than enough Corona to find this funny.

"Hey," Chris whispers, "You want to continue this somewhere private?" Okay, so maybe it was actually "Wanna go somewhere where Foot isn't?", but I'm sure that's the proper drunk-to-English translation.

I nod, and he leads me by the hand, giggling, to our hotel room.

--

"I didn't fuck him," I protest, fixing my dress in the mirror. It is our last night in Cancun, and my week-long drunk spree has faded to a pleasant buzz. It's the closest to sober all week, but hey, I need to slow down sometime.

"Yeah, probably because he's been too drunk to get it up," Jay counters, and I don't deny that he's right.

I fiddle with my bobby pins and scowl at my reflexion. "Still, I'm not having sex with him. Please stop avoiding the subject."

Jay goes quiet, and I know I've hit a nerve. He's going to propose to Clarke in the middle of dinner, and fuck know he's nervous. I lay my hand on his shoulder. "She's going to say yes, Jay. And if she doesn't...well, then you're going to have to help me bury the body."

He cracks a smile at that. "I just want it to be perfect. She's my everything."

I peck him on the cheek. "I know. And she loves you no matter what, even if you proceed to stutter through the entire thing."

"Thanks, Ric." And with that, we head to dinner.

--

Jay is nervous as fuck.

I mean, that goes without saying. He's minutes away from asking the only girl he's ever loved to marry him, and he's been putting it off all week.

I put my hand on his thigh and whisper for him to calm down. He drops his fork and takes a deep breath.

From his other side, Clarke picks away at her entree. I know her well enough to know that she's not clueless- Jay's been acting off and she's kind of worried. She shoots me a look and I mouth "he's okay", to which she shrugs, still somewhat unconvinced.

Chris turns away frm the boisterous conversation between the other guys. "Is he gunna puss out 'gain?" he whispers, and I ignore the fact that his breath reeks of Crown Royal.

I shrug, biting my lip. Jay has to do it. He just has to. He'll be beyond pissed at himself if he doesn't.

Jay takes another gulp of his drink, then stands up, clearing his throat. The entirety of our private room goes quiet at this. "Hey guys, it's our last night in Cancun, so I'm going to make a speech."

He pauses for a few seconds to collect his thoughts, then continues. "This week together has been amazing, and it's made me think about and value my relationship with each of you. But it's especially true about one person in particular."

Chris's hand slides to meet mine, and I grin at him as Jay pauses, then begins again. "Clarke, we've been together for six years, and I couldn't ask for anyone better. We've been best friends as far back as I can remember, and I don't know who I'd be if you weren't in my life. You are beautiful, smart, funny, and wonderful, and I love you so, so much."

The world slows to a stop as Jay goes down on one knee, ring box in his hand. He swears to himself as he fumbles to open the box, then asks, passionately shaking, "Clarke Mae McWilliams, will you marry me?"

Clarke nods up and down repeatedly, the tears rolling down her cheeks. Jay bursts into a grin too large for his face, slips the ring onto her finger, then stands up again. Clarke grabs his face and smashes their lips together.

Perhaps it's because most of us are still quite drunk and perhaps it's because a perfect couple is finally engaged, but our dinner is ignored to cheer on Jay and Clarke. Even rivalries are ignored, it seems. As my eyes pan the room, taking in every smiling face, I spot Maria's. It does not falter as we lock eyes. It is as if, for that moment alone, we have buried the hatchet.