Orange Sunday

23

The day after I return, his dad throws a business party. Colleagues flood the house, on all three levels, sipping beers and talking production numbers.

I stay in the kitchen, for the most part, making snacks and drinks for those who ask. He is outside, grilling hotdogs and hamburgers and drumsticks in the frigid night air.

The party starts at five; at eleven, we decide to take our leave. His dad bids us goodbye, and we head to his friend's house to jump into another party.

We are silent on the short drive there. The heater blows blistering air in my face, and I turn my cheek to avoid drying my eyes out.

He parks in the street a few houses down, and turns off the engine. I watch him, waiting for him to get out, but he doesn't move. His eyelashes are so long; they sweep across his cheekbones with every blink.

"Tonight is yours," he finally says, breaking the silence.

"What?" I ask.

"Tonight is yours. You can be as sober or as drunk as you want; I'll take care of you," he tells me.

I contemplate this for a moment. Normally, he has a few drinks, and I have none. I drive home while he sings in the car, and when we get home he plays the guitar until we either fall asleep or fall into each other.

"Why?" I ask.

"You need it. You need to loosen up a bit," he says, gently. He takes my hand and kisses my knuckles, right where the ring is. "Ready?" he asks.

When he opens the front door, I see lights. They are colorful strobe lights, but they do not flash to the beat of the music. I feel the hum of the bass in the hollow between my collarbones; I press my fingers to that space, will away the sick feeling in my stomach.

I do not want to be here; I want to be home. I want to be in Idaho, surrounded by snow, hearing my brother's breathing in the next room through the thin walls.

I take a deep breath and follow him in. He leads me straight to the kitchen, where his friend pours me a shot.

"Captain Morgan," he says, saluting me with it. I take the glass, and at first I hesitate. I can't remember the last time I drank. The dark burgundy liquid is flashing green, red, blue, and pink with the lights behind me.

I throw it back and swallow as quickly as I can. It burns all the way down my throat and explodes in my stomach, like fire filling my insides.

I set the little glass on the counter and smile at him. He takes my hand and leads me into the crowd.

It takes a few minutes for it to reach my head. I am filled with a warmth, and the music is now beating in my heart.

I look up at him, put my hands on his shoulders. His hands easily fit into the curve of my waist, and I begin swaying my hips to the beat.

"You want to dance?" he asks, grinning.

I don't answer, instead pulling his body into mine and moving him with me.

After a while, time blurs. My surroundings become a fog; only his face shows through, and the occasional bottle of rum. I can feel the buzz in my fingertips, the desire to do something, but my brain can't seem to understand like it normally does.

The lights are still flashing. His face floats in front of me, around me. His hands burn my skin.

"I want to go home," somebody says in my voice.

I am in his car. I am at the front door. I am in the shower, the water echoing on the tiles, his silhouette just visible through the curtains. He is sitting on the counter, waiting for me.

I watch my hand reach out and turn the water as cold as I will go. I hear my teeth chatter and know the water must sting, but I do not feel it.

I wait until I can feel the cold burning my skin, and then begin to wash myself. My head still feels heavy, but I am much more aware than I was when he put me in the shower. When I step out, he wraps a towel around me.

"I need to go back," I tell him.

He puts his hands on either side of my face and leans his forehead against mine. "I know," he whispers. His nose is touching my cheekbone; his hair tickles my forehead; his tears glisten in the bathroom light.

"I ship out in May," he says, breaking the silence. "Stay with me until then, please." His entire body is pleading with me; his eyes, his mouth, his furrowed brows, the desperation I can feel in his fingertips.

"Until May," I say. "I promise."

He kisses me desperately, and we get lost in each other.

I begin counting the nights we have left.