Mickey’s raiding the pantry for cans of tuna, so I finish what’s left of my sandwich before starting on the pile of dishes in the sink. I don’t have time to join the search party for Mickey’s feral feline bestie. We’re throwing a party tomorrow which means there are Jell-O shots to make, inner tubes to inflate, and a ball pit to set up.
This party is just what I need—what everybody in this house needs—and I have no doubt it’s the first step to fixing everything that’s wrong with this year.
The end of the world is just around the corner. It has to be. There’s no other reasonable explanation for what is happening right now.
My party is a flop. A disaster. In fact, calling it a party is generous. There should be two hundred people here, but I bet there aren’t more than fifty or sixty.
I feel like it’s prom night and I’m lying on the couch crying into my ice cream sundae instead of letting my hot as fuck date take my virginity.
Let’s be clear: I lost my virginity when I was fifteen. Hell, by the time senior prom rolled around, I’d had sex with guys and girls, and it involved ice cream sundaes on more than one occasion.
But still. I feel like such a fucking cliche right now. And a failure. Mickey strolls up next to me, clinking his plastic cup with mine.
“Good times,” he says, and from the look on his face, it’s clear that his mood is just as bad as mine.
“Nice outfit,” I quip. That’s the one fucking thing I got right. Attendance might be in the shitter, a torrential thunderstorm may have driven everyone indoors, and I’m pretty sure we own the broken mechanical bull at this point, given that Deano dumped a batch of rum punch into its mouth just to see if he could get it drunk.
The answer is no. Electronics don’t get shitfaced. They get their circuits fried. The damn thing only turns in one direction now and it makes a horrible moaning noise every time.
I get the feeling.
So, yeah, this party is an epic disaster, but the dress code? Chef’s. Fucking. Kiss.
I’m not the first guy to throw an Anything But Clothes party, but not even that classic theme can resurrect this pathetic excuse for a bash.
Mickey spreads his arms wide before doing a quick turn to show off his DIY outfit. There are people decked out in caution tape, a couple girls in trash bag dresses, and a dude from the baseball team is walking around with a tablecloth hanging from his neck and a lamp in his hand and he’s telling people he’s a one-night stand.
It’s all good. But it’s all been done.
I spent an hour hot gluing shower loofahs to a pair of boxer shorts and I was pretty damn proud of myself.
But Mickey has my ass beat by a mile.
The man’s buck naked, which is nothing new. Dude hates clothes as much as he hates taking his meds. Trust me, that’s a lot.
For once, though, he’s not swinging his mammoth schlong all around. Guy’s hung like a circus animal and he’s not shy about showing off the goods. Tonight, though,his bits and pieces are all boxed up—literally. He’s wearing a jock strap with a fucking mailbox attached to it. The little red flag is up and there’s a paper sign on the front that reads “You’ve got mail.”
It’s fucking genius.
“Tonight fucking blows,” he grumbles, taking a sip of his drink.
“Thanks,” I mutter. “I really needed the reminder that this year sucks so bad it’s even stripped me of my ability to throw a goddamn party.”
My buddy blinks. “Shit, I didn’t mean that. And the weather’s not your fault, Olls. Besides, people are having a good time,” he says, sweeping his hand in front of him to gesture to the scantily clad partygoers who are drinking and flirting and hooking up all around us.
“Yeah, people are,” I say, shrugging. “Just not us. What’s up your ass?”
“A jock strap,” he answers literally. “Oh. I’m just in a pissy mood, I guess. Birdie was supposed to come tonight but she begged off. She worked a full shift at the salon then styled hair for a wedding and she’s exhausted, so she decided to stay in. I thought she was on her way over, but I just got a text saying she changed her mind. Her costume was badass, though. She made this whole dress out of drug store receipts. It had a train and everything.”
“Nice,” I say, because that sounds pretty fucking cool. I know how close Mickey and his twin sister are, and I know that she’s had a rough time of it lately. He thought that transferring to Bainbridge would help, but she tends to keep to herself, unlike Mick, who’s never met a stranger.
“I just worry about her. How’s she ever gonna meet people and make friends if she doesn’t come to shit like this?”
Again, I shrug, feeling useless. I should be able to makemy buddy feel better, but I can’t come up with anything good to say. “She hung out with us a couple times this summer,” I remind him. “She’ll come around. She’s probably tired as fuck. Find a weekend she’s free and we’ll throw another party. One that doesn’t suck.”
Mickey surveys the crowd. “It’s not that bad,” he says, trying to reassure me.
“Dude. No need to sugarcoat shit. The fucking freshmen didn’t even show. Their team is hosting a party where clothing is outlawed, and they chose to go somewhere else? That’s a pretty fucking bad sign right there.”
