Page 2 of The Beautiful Collision
“Good?” My volume spikes to eleven. “Brother, I’m SPECTACULAR. Just got a text from this pony who offered me a ride later.”
“Horseshit!” Rook bellows, even louder than usual because he’s hammered. “Nobody’s that desperate!”
“Weird, your mom’s review said different!” The comeback fires before my brain engages, pure muscle memory.
The moment dissolves as the guys roar.
Mike shakes his head, but he’s smiling.
Turning back to my phone, I rapid-scroll for the dumbest possible meme—kitten dangling from a branch, Comic Sans “Hang in there!”, the oldest clichéd “get well” offering in thebook—and then add the special sauce that will get a smile out of her:
Stop faking for attention, loser (hope you feel better!).
There.
Good Brother duties complete.
Time to crank this show.
“LISTEN UP!” My voice splinters slightly from the strain. The stool lurches and for one beautiful second I’m sure I’ll faceplant, but pure spite and core strength save me. “The kiddie pool is closed, so it’s time for the championship round with Rook, me, the Skipper, and our other three survivors.”
I survey the remaining contestants like Patton before D-Day.
“Kellerman!” I thrust my bottle at him, making him twitch. “Look at this infant! Thinks he’s ready for varsity!” His green eyes are dinner plates—a cocktail of panic and misplaced confidence. “Ben, is your fake ID solid enough for this level of self-destruction?”
His head jerks like a dashboard hula girl.
I turn my focus to Schmidt next—meticulously blotting his fourth spill with his sixth napkin. “Schmidt, the human incarnation of a disappointed sigh.” His gray eyes could frost vodka. “Erik, admit it, you’re addicted to us as much as your trust fund. It’s beautiful, really.”
He flips me the bird, which I’m happy with, as long as he doesn’t sue me for defamation.
My attention slides to Cooper, who’s sitting with textbook posture, hazel eyes cataloging everything with electron-microscope intensity. “Cooper! Blink if you’re a government drone researching human intoxication patterns for our AI overlords!”
Cooper waits, then does it—one deliberate blink—and it’s so perfect I actually bark out authentic laughter.
“Holy shit, it’s learning!” I smirk. “By graduation we might even upload ‘enjoyment.exe’!”
The guys—those still in the contest and those smart enough to opt out at an earlier round—all roar. And, in this moment, I feel on top of the world after a semester break that has been filled with far too much work and not nearly enough money.
“Final showdown!” I barrel through the words. “Speed round, gentlemen! We’ll have pitchers of Bud all around, the fastest time wins, and the slowest motherfucker pays for the pitchers and buys eight pizzas for the team to soak up all this mayhem!”
“Eight pizzas?” Kellerman’s voice cracks like he’s going through puberty again.
“Premium toppings too, Benjamin!”
As Kellerman, noted tightwad, complains about the stakes, I vault the bar. Or try to. Instead, my knee clips the edge and I stumble, recovering and rolling with it like I meant to parkour my way to glory. The bartender’s just finishing up the pitchers, probably hoping we’ll drink ourselves quiet.
As I distribute the pitchers with game-show-host flair, Mike steps up beside me, all casual confidence, while Rook wobbles into position, already listing forty-five degrees from vertical and the guy my money would be on to be the ultimate loser.
And, when the others join us, I kick it off. “Standard rules! First gulp to last drop, and make sure to show your commitment to liver failure! READY?”
I lock eyes with Mike. He gives me a tiny smirk.
“SET!”
The bar goes church-quiet. Someone kills the music. Perfect.
“DRINK!”
