Page 48 of Poetry By Dead Men
"You haven’t changed a bit, have you?" I ask.
"He hasn’t, unfortunately," Bobby agrees, grabbing Johnny’s arm and pulling him away from me. "Beth, you remember Patrick?"
I turn to the bus driver, but instead of waiting for him to approach me, I rush forward and give him a big hug. I feel like an eighteen-year-old kid again, and hugging him feels like reuniting with a long-lost family member. “Of course, I remember Patrick. How are you? How’s Lily?"
"She’s just fine, Beth, dear," Patrick gives me a tight squeeze, then grabs a circular tin out of his bag. "She baked these special for you. Said to give you her best."
“Wait, you told Patrick she was coming and not me? What the fu— Ouch!”
Bobby punches Johnny in the arm, interrupting him. “Can you be normal for five minutes?”
I ignore their bickering, opening the tin to find at least two dozen chocolate chip cookies, my absolute favorite treat from the old days. I'm not sure what Lily puts in them, but they're perfectly gooey and salty and sweet with a bit of a crunch at the edges. "Feed me like this, Patrick, and I might have to stay for a lot longer than two months," I joke.
"We wouldn’t mind that at all," Patrick says, giving me another bone-crushing hug and a kiss on the cheek. "We've missed you," he says in my ear before walking to the front of the bus and disappearing behind the wall into the driver’s seat.
I turn around and Bobby and Johnny snap to attention, Johnny grinning like a fool and Bobby scowling at him.
"So…" I don’t know what to say or how to break through the awkwardness. It’s been so long since the three of us were together that now these men who I used to call family are virtually strangers. I know nothing about them anymore. Not really.
"I think we need alcohol," Johnny says, clapping Bobby on the back before wrapping an arm around my shoulders and leading me to the couch. "Alcohol makes everything better."
"It definitely does not. And stay away from the good stuff, Johnny," Bobby says as Johnny opens a cabinet to reveal several shelves of wine and liquor.
"Are you saying that our dear, sweet Beth here doesn’t deserve the absolute best?" Johnny swings his head to look at Bobby, mock horror and disgust on his face.
"Of course she does," Bobby’s gaze snaps to me again, and I squirm uncomfortably. My cheeks heat, because I know exactly what he’s saying. He's talking about Harrison and hisgut feeling.
"Butyoumooch off my liquor cabinet too much, and then when I want a drink, I never have what I'm looking for."
"Oh, whatever. You wouldn’t drink at all if I wasn’t here making you do it," Johnny argues. "What'll it be, Bethy?"
"Red wine?" Bobby asks, grabbing a glass.
"Yes, please. That sounds great," I answer, but I hate that he still knows what I want. I didn’t even drink wine when we were together, so how could he possibly know that what I'm craving right now is a heavy pour of Merlot to dull the sharp edges of the memories flooding my brain?
"I’ll get hers," Bobby tells Johnny. "Help yourself," he concedes, nodding toward the liquor cabinet, and Johnny grabs an expensive-looking bottle of bourbon like a kid grabbing candy.
"One for you?" Johnny asks as he pours two fingers into his glass, then hovers the bottle over the second.
"Maybe later," Bobby says, pouring several glugs of wine. "I need to talk to Patrick about our schedule. I’ll let you two catch up." Bobby hands me my glass, and his fingers brush against mine, causing an electric current to run up to my elbow. It’s a shock to the system. Intoxicating. Without having taken a single sip of alcohol, I feel buzzed.
Bobby stares at my fingers, that muscle in his jaw ticking as he forces himself to turn away. The second he disappears, Johnny plops down next to me.
"I see nothing’s changed," he says, taking a sip of his bourbon.
"Are you kidding?Everythinghas changed," I say into my wine glass.
"Okay yeah…say that to the busload of sexual tension." He waves his hands as if trying to get smoke out of his face. "I mean, it’s even turning me on a little bit, feeling the energy between the two of you."
"Stop it." I try to keep my voice light, but I feel anything but. "There’s nothing between us anymore. You know that."
He narrows his eyes. "You two have always been so good at lying to yourselves," Johnny says, and suddenly the lack of filter I used to see as refreshing and endearing seems more annoying and interfering.
"And you’re still not great at minding your own business," I say back, taking a large swig of wine.
"That, my friend, is absolutely the truth," he says, holding his glass up to cheers mine. "So, what is the great Beth Winters up to these days?" he asks. "Sounds like you’re still writing."
I don’t have the courage to tell him that this is the first thing I’ve written in a very long time, so I just nod. "Are you still living in New York?"
