Blaze

Six; Blaise

I'm not the kind of girl that turns down a good taco, but I pass on the tequila. I'm in the mood for whiskey instead. I remind Wyatt I'm underage and can't be served at the restaurant, so he grabs a fifth of bourbon from the liquor store next door to the Mexican restaurant and we go back to his apartment.

I'm not a big fan of alcohol or any addictive substance - being the child of an addict will do that to you - but the universe has dealt me such a shitty hand today that I feel I have cosmic permission to drink my feelings.

My dad is dead. I pour the deep amber liquid into a bright yellow novelty shot glass Wyatt pulled from an almost-empty cabinet. I tip the glass up and and wince as the liquid burns a path down my throat. I chase the shot with a diet coke.

My mom is back. Pour. Tip. Swallow. Chase.

I have a sister. This one justifies two shots. I don't even bother chasing it this time.

Wyatt takes the bottle and glass out of my hand and places them on the coffee table before he puts an arm around me and pulls me into his side. I can feel the alcohol working through my system, almost as if there's a hot, thick liquid slowly flowing through my veins. He runs his fingers through my hair, massaging my scalp, while he focuses on a college basketball game on the t.v. It's strange how comfortable and natural it feels to be with Wyatt, even though this is only the second time we've been in the same room in a decade.

I reach forward and take another swig of bourbon, straight from the bottle before Wyatt can take it away. He narrows his eyes at me but chuckles as he moves the bottle to the end table just out of my reach. I rest my head on his shoulder and look up at him. God, he's handsome.

I reach up and run my hand along a scar on the edge of his chin. He looks down at me and gives me a small smile.

"What's this from?" I ask, curious.

"Flipped off the front of a shopping cart at the grocery store when I was twelve."

I wrinkle my nose. "That's a terrible story. You should come up with something more interesting. Like you fought with an armed robber to save a bank full of hostages," I suggest. He just silently laughs and watches me, an amused expression on his face.

"What about this one?" I ask, tracing my fingers along a scar on the corner of his left eyebrow. He leans his head into my touch.

"Fight. You should see the other guy." He smirks and raises a light brown eyebrow at me, the scar causing his brow to wrinkle at the tip.

"Seriously? With a perp? Or are you making this up because I made fun of your last lame story?"

He laughs again, a full belly laugh this time and I love seeing him so happy and carefree. "Okay, you caught me. I totally made that up. This is from my car accident. The one I had in college."

I try to remember him telling me about a car accident, but nothing registers.

"I told you about it, I'm sure. Busted my head. Broke my hand and a few ribs."

He goes still and silent, and then I remember. It was his senior year, right before the conference baseball tournament. There were major league scouts there. The injuries ended his season, and any chance at a professional baseball career. Except I swear he told me he flipped a go-cart. I look down at the half empty bottle on the end table and wonder how much I drank.

"I'm so sorry for bringing it up. I forgot."

He shakes his head, and then turns back to me. His scowl slowly slips into a wide, lazy grin. He picks up the bourbon bottle and gives it a shake. "I think I see why," he says with a wink.