Page 23 of The Girl with No Name

Once we get to my block, we park, and walk to my place. I pause at my door.

“Oh, I forget my guitar,” I say.

“Let’s get it later,” Dunn says.

I shrug in agreement, and turn the key.

When we enter the apartment, Mason is on the couch with a girl.

A new girl, not the one from last night—or this morning, for that matter—from what I can tell.

“Yo yo, guys. What’s up?” He nods at us.

“Mason, this is Charlie. Charlie, Mason.”

Mason offers an obligatory wave.

“Normally I’d shake your hand,” Dunn says. “But I’m not sure what the two of you were up to.”

The girl’s face turns bright red. “Maybe I should go.”

“You have any food here?” Dunn asks, looking around my kitchen. “Wow. Unsliced bread. You’re so fancy. Where’s the knife? I could use a snack. Maybe just some bread and butter?”

The girl leaves, and Mason comes into the kitchen. “What are you all doing tonight?” he asks.

Dunn shrugs. “Getting drunk somewhere. Why?”

“Yeah? You looking to pick up some women?”

“I’m married,” Dunn says.

Seeing Mason and Dunn interact is worlds colliding. Both of them are important friends to me, though from very different chapters of my life.

Charlie and I were inseparable in high school. We pushed each other physically and mentally. Then there’s Mason. We became friends senior year of college while bartending together. We linked up again post-college when we worked at the same restaurant.

My relationship with Mason consists of going out together, partying hard, and flirting with women. I’m his wingman. That’s how it’s always been. Some friendships evolve, but ours hasn’t for the most part. There’s good and bad to that.

“We should totally hit up Blackwood’s,” Mason says. “Have you been there, Reed?”

I shake my head. “We’re going to North Avenue Beach.”

“Let’s go,” Mason says, inviting himself along.

“Hang on, let me grab my things.” I go to my bedroom and send a text to Sam, letting her know what we’re getting up to.

As I’m washing my hands in the bathroom, I feel Mason’s presence behind me.

“Dude, what’s going on with this bathroom?”

“What are you talking about?” I ask, drying my hands.

“It’s absolutely disgusting. When is the last time you cleaned it?”

I assess the bathroom. It’s not like it’s crazy dirty or anything. “What do you care? You have your own bathroom, the master bathroom.”

“Yeah, but if I have a girl over, she sees yours.”

“The door is almost always closed.”

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