The Boy Who Lives In My Garage > jariana (COMPLETED)

three

"Earth to Ariana," Rosalinda yells. The sharp scent of vodka snaps me back to reality. The song she's yelling over is from a couple of years ago, before my world fell apart. Music from back then never fails to catapult me on an unwanted trip down memory lane. "You want?" Rosalinda holds a brim-full shot glass in front of my face. I snatch it out of her hand before she gets impatient and downs it herself. It has happened before. She leans close to my ear, and her Love Spell body splash overpowers the smell of the alcohol. "What's up with you?"

The song is loud enough that the bass vibrates in my feet. I close my eyes and down the shot. It burns. A chaser would be nice, but the threadbare armchair I occupy is way too comfortable to abandon for beer. Basement house party furniture is ugly, but it has an uncanny ability to swallow occupants for hours at a time. "Just...thinking."

Rosalinda's dark curls bounce against her shoulders as she claps and says, "I can take care of that." She takes my empty shot glass and dances away.

Part of what I love most about Rosalinda is that she didn't ask what I was thinking about. No talking or explanation required. The best kind of friend to have. Though she's had more to drink than I have, she's still coordinated enough to dance while she fills two shot glasses. She's wearing a white tank that shows off her tan skin and a hot pink bra. Even when Michigan's temperatures dip below zero, Rosalinda rarely wears a jacket because it covers her outfits. The guy from my garage obviously doesn't share her concern. He's got bigger problems than fashion, now that I kicked him out.

"Stop thinking so much," Rosalinda yells as she hands me the refilled shot glass. "You look constipated."

"Who's constipated?" Clinton yells as he approaches. This is his party, but he's been in a corner, making out with a blond junior all night. A bit of lipstick stands out on his cheek and the collar of his polo shirt. He must own a polo shirt in every color and pattern ever made. It's all he wears, and I've never seen the same one twice.

"Ariana," Rosalinda answers.

Clinton leans on the arm of my chair and plants a kiss on my cheek before saying, "Hope everything comes out okay." He gives a dimple-laden smile, like he's funny or something. I narrow my eyes and flip him off. He laughs and tucks my finger back down. "Drink up," he says, clinking his half-empty beer bottle against my shot glass hard enough that vodka spills onto my jeans.

"Drink, drink, drink," Rosalinda yells. Her own shot glass is already empty.

The second shot goes down easier than the first. It doesn't burn so much as warm away the song, the memories it brings, and all thoughts of the stranger who claims to live in my garage.

"Atta girl!" Clinton takes our shot glasses and kisses Rosalinda firmly on the mouth. "Don't cause too much trouble, you two," he calls over his shoulder as he walks away.

Maybe I should tell him about the lipstick stains, but before he can even put the empty shot glasses down, a brunette senior loops her arm around his waist, fingers hooked through his belt loop. Nah.

"He's such a slut," Rosalinda says. I don't argue. The song changes to an annoying one I've heard way too many times this winter, but I'll take it. "Oh my god, I love this song! Let's dance." Before I can cling to my chair, Rosalinda pulls me to my feet.

The room sways for a second. Alcohol never really hits me until I stand. The familiar fuzzy feeling takes over as I do what I do best. Dance. Drink.

Forget.

...

I love my heels. Really, I do. But walking in heels while drunk is a challenge. I keep twisting one ankle, then the other as I walk from the driveway to the sidewalk that leads to the side door. The junior who drove me and Rosalinda home beeps the horn of his truck twice as he drives away.