“What girly shite?”
I looked up and over his body, standing in the doorway ofwhat I realized to be his kitchen. The refrigerator door was open, illuminatingaround his body as though he were some sort of god.
Patrick Kinney might not have been a god, but I hadworshipped him and his memory for most of my life.
I would worship him forever.
“You know. That shiteyadrink.”As though that explained it, and I nodded, because it did.
He had been prepared, that Patrick Kinney.
I rolled my eyes behind his back, as he went back to therefrigerator, grabbing a bottle of beer for himself and a can of Smirnoff forme. In three strides, he made his way to the couch and dropped himself downnext to me. So casual, as though we had spent every Friday night just likethat. He pulled the tab on my drink and handed it to me, as if I couldn’thandle it myself.
“Thanks,” I mumbled, and resisted the urge to roll my eyesagain.
I took a slow sip while he cracked the capoff ofhis beer, knocking the bottle back until half hadpoured down his throat.
I sat awkwardly with my can between my legs, both handsgripping the cold aluminum. I wanted to ask what I was doing there, but askingmeant speaking and speaking meant conversation. I rolled my lips together,released, then rolled them together again. Trying to decide what to do, what tosay, what to …
“So, we’ve had a good night, right,Kins?”
I released a breath of quivering air, and nodded. “Yeah,sure. It was nice.”
“Good, I’m glad, because now, we have to get thenot-so-nice shite out of the way.”
“What?”
He rubbed a hand over his bristled chin. The way his Adam’sapple bobbed in his throat, I could tell he was fighting himself from sayingwhat he needed to say, to continue with his plan.
“I want you to fight with me,” he finally said, then bitdown on his lip with immediate regret.
I blinked. “You want me tofightwith you?”
“Yes.” Worry wrapped its hand around his throat, chokingthe confidence away.
“This isn’t what I agreed—”
“I don’t want to do this anymore than you do,Kins, but weneedto do it.”
I picked at the metal lip of my can—ping, ping, ping—andshook my head. “I have nothing to fight about, Patrick.”
“You have nothing to fight about? Really?” My words hadchallenged him, lit a fire in his eyes, and wiped away the reluctance.
I shook my head again, taking a sip of my drink. “Nope.”
“Okay, so you ran away for nothing, right? You justdisappeared for ten years, and that had absolutelynothingto do withgettin’ away from me?”
He flicked at my nerves with every word spoken, but I refusedto succumb.Ping, ping, ping. “Nope,” I lied.
“And you made your family go to you every holiday, and thathad absolutelynothingto do with me?”
I shot him a look of surprise. How much did he know?Ping,ping. “Nope.”
Patrick shook his head with a sarcastic chuckle, lookingahead at our reflection in the TV. He tipped the bottle back, gulping the rest.Liquid courage.
“You’re such afeckin’ liar,Kinsey,y’knowthat?” He shook his head with a bittersniff of a laugh.
I glared at him, crumpling my forehead with irritation. Hekept flicking at those nerves. “No, I’mnot.”
