Page 77 of Freshman

Alfie closed the door, frowning, then peeked inside the bag. There were only two items—a bag of ice and a bottle of amber liquid. Alfie pulled out the drink and plucked the post-it note off the lid of the bottle. Not the flowing thought-out font of a woman this time, but most likely Trent’s messy handwriting.

If we’re going to be drinking partners, get familiar with the good stuff.

A single malt scotch whisky, ten years old. The writing on the label was posh and curling, and the bottle looked expensive. Alfie searched the bag for a receipt, but there wasn’t one. Alfie knew it was from Nate, and he studied the top to check its seal hadn’t been tampered with.

He could pour it away, or he could try it. He had nothing else to do so moved into the kitchen to find a glass.

Alfie sniffed the whisky before knocking it back like the men in the movies. It burned, then it tickled the back of his throat up to his nose, and finally he coughed. He imagined Nate’s laughing face, and that spurred him to try again. He wanted to prove he could handle a man’s drink, and after his third shot, there was no tickle, and he didn’t splutter.

Alfie settled back on the sofa and clicked on a western. It seemed the appropriate film when cradling a glass of spicy alcohol. He mimicked the cowboy’s accent, drew his finger-shaped gun to shoot the TV and saluted the protagonist when he killed the bad guy.

His phone chirped, and he pressed down to answer without looking at the number.

“Yes?”

There was an extended pause and then Nate’s toe-curling voice. “Freshman, I take it you’ve got my gifts.”

“Gifts?” Alfie said, flicking the bottle. “There was only one. Drink.”

“What about the ice for your nose?”

Alfie blinked, then struggled up on the sofa. The bag was still by the front door. “Shit.”

He thought about going to get it but didn’t want to take the risk. There was a whole five metres between the front door and the sofa, and he didn’t trust his legs to carry him that far.

Nate chuckled. “I hope you like the drink.”

Alfie hummed as he lay back down. He licked the remains of his last glassful from his lips. “Yeah, it’s definitely growing on me.”

“Can’t be buying my date cola. You’ve got to share a bottle with me.”

Alfie hugged the bottle to his chest. “I don’t usually drink when I’m on dates.”

“Why not?”

Alfie lifted his gaze to the ceiling. “I don’t like feeling drunk. I don’t trust being around someone when I’m drunk.”

“What do you think you’ll do?”

Alfie scrunched his face. “I won’t do anything, but I don’t trust them.”

“Them?”

Alfie rolled his eyes. “I don’t know what they’d do if I got drunk. I don’t want to put myself in a stupid situation.”

He thought of Liam, then pushed him away.

Nate breathed out softly. “Don’t worry, I’d take care of you. I’d get you a taxi, go with you to make sure you got to your front door.”

Alfie stopped cradling the bottle and placed it on the floor. He flung his head back into the squishy arm of the sofa with a sigh.

“Then what?” he asked.

“I’d take your keys from your pocket and get you inside safely.”

Alfie closed his eyes and imagined the scenario. Nate would easily be able to carry him, bridal style, if he was too intoxicated to stand.

Nate would scoop him up, hold him close, and the heat of his body would soak into Alfie. It would be more of a hug than anything, and Alfie would wrap his arms around Nate’s muscular neck and cling to him.

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