The Way We Talk

It's weird being home.

I never thought that I'd feel this lost in a town so familiar. Everyone says that it's because everyone moves on without you. It's not true, or at least not in my case. The mini-drama are, for the most part, the same, the people are the same, and this town is the same.

It's me that's changed.

I arrive at Katrina's the day after Thanksgiving. Her parents are in Canada on some sort of business, so the house is hers for the weekend. Naturally, this means party at the Anderson's.

"Hey, Ric," the hostess greets me, water bottle in hand. Katy's a good friend in the sense that she always waits for me to pre-game. You know, assuming that she's not always a good friend.

I hug my best friend then follow her in. The Conrad twins, Cee-Cee and Chloe, are already on the couch, but get up to hug me. "So, where is Mel?"

"Her boyfriend's sick," Chloe responds quickly with a bored expression on her face. Melissa started dating this new guy about two months ago, and in that time she's moved in with him and ignored the rest of her life. I mean, certainly she needed to get away from her parents and she deserves to be happy, but must he monopolize her entire life?

"So she's a no-show?"

"Yup," Cee-Cee responds, only slightly annoyed. It sucks that Melissa is constantly ditching them, but they've come to expect it. That's the sad part of it, really, the acceptance of it all. "Are we going to start drinking or what? People are going to start showing up in an hour."

Katy grins at this, disappearing into the kitchen for a moment. She returns with he box of shot glasses and a bottle of Jose Cuervo. She sets the two down on the coffee table and takes out four shot glasses. She pours a shot's worth into each and each girl takes one.

"To Ric being back in-state, to friends who actually show up, to all them single ladies," Chloe jests, eliciting a giggle from all of us at that last one, "Oh fuck it, to tequila."

We take a shot.

--

"HEY IT'S LUCKY RICKY!" An unfairly familiar voice calls out, and I sigh. It's not as if I didn't know that Dave would be here. My ex-boyfriend or not, he is a part of the crew, and this is a crew party.

I pour a little extra vodka into my cup. I'm too sober to deal with him right now. He ignores my lack of a reaction and wraps his arms around my waist. Dave's friendly as fuck when he's stoned, and judging by his red eyes and the fact that he reeks of weed, I'll guess that he and Robbie smoked a few bowls before arriving.

I weakly hug back with the hand not clutching my drink and smile at him. I then down half of my drink in a large gulp, willing myself to get drunk faster.

He leans down to say something in my ear. Under normal circumstances this would be called a whisper, but this utterance is at a decibel that I can hear him over the music. "Hey, can we talk on the deck?"

I nod, hoping that someone is having a smoke break, and therefore I won't be alone with him. No such luck.

I lean against the railing and down the rest of my cup before setting my solo cup on top. "So, what do you want to talk 'bout?" I slur as he pushes a lock of hair out of my face.

"Talk might have been a bit of a lie."

I don't have time to ask him to clarify what he means. Dave kisses me and my mind shuts off. It's the way it always works; he kisses me and my mind gets fuzzy. Coupled with my increasing intoxication, and I am not responsible for my own actions.

I don't know how long it takes for me to push him away; the memory is hazy. But I do know that I pull away from him.

"You have a girlfriend?" I don't know if this is a question, per say, more a statement that begs an answer.

He shakes his head. "I broke up with Mara two days ago. I miss you, baby."

He leans in to continue what he'd started, and I consciously turn my head, holding my hand up as a shield. "No, I'm not your baby," I respond unintelligently, "Do you ever stop trying? You had me, you fucked up, you don't get me back."

He sighs. "Whatever. i love you, you know that."

I shake my head with a drunken chuckle, "That's not enough."

He disappears back into the chaos, and I pull out my cell.

To The Biggest SLUT I Know: hey ami djsuck a fuxh yp

I close my phone, eyes watery. I always thought that telling him off would feel good. But if that was the right thing to do, then wouldn't I feel better?

From The Biggest SLUT I Know: rough night eh? what's wrong girl?

Hm. It's hard to know if Christian's drunk whenever he texts. He doesn't have my inability to type while under the influence.

To The Biggest SLUT I Know: dae ish suah an assgie. jeh brke up with mersa. hwwahts to getbakc trogherh.

I'm entirely sure that whatever the hell I typed that night made no sense. But Christian has a drunk-Erica to English translator in his brain. Many will argue that the space should be vacated in the hopes of learning something more useful or more widely applicable, but it makes him my go-to drunk texter if we aren't at the same party (because - gasp - we have our own friends).

From The Biggest SLUT I Know: stay away from that guy before i come over there and punch his motherfucking face off. your sad and its killing my buzz.

So, yes, drunk. Christian's not particularly violent, but he becomes a sort of protective when he's drinking. I don't know if it's just me or all of his friends, but he's very big brotherly at times.

That's going to screw me over when I get a boyfriend. And it puts me in that unfavorable little sister position. Awesomesauce.

To The Biggest SLUT I Know: i lovre uou cvjstian.

In retrospect, I know that that wasn't my smoothest move - let's blame it on the alcohol. My phone vibrates one more time and I open it, then grin.

From The Biggest SLUT I Know: love you too, saunders.