Sunflower

1

"Yo– don't try to play us – you threw a four," insists Marcus, who somehow always assumes the role of drinking game master, telling the rest of us how to play and when to drink. "Brotha think because he has 3 million Instagram followers, he don't have to follow the rules," he continues, winking at me slyly to let me know he's taking the piss. 

I decide not to point out that Felix threw a two and should be the one drinking – not me. Instead I finish what's left in my glass because, after a grueling four-week press tour, this is exactly what I need. No high-pitched girls screaming my name. No 5-am wake-up calls. No endless questions about how my costar and I have such great chemistry. I'll take Marcus barking about the game and ordering me to drink any day of the week. 

As the sound of Andre challenging Marcus's latest ruling merges with my buzz, I decide I'm right where I to be. No matter how much things have changed for me in the past year, this – my boys, our parties, the shit-talking, always stays the same.

"What time are the birds showing up?" Andre asks to no one in particular. 

I get the sense that, like me, he would prefer tonight remain just the boys drinking around the table until we all pass out. Ever the ladies man, Marcus decided to invite a bunch of girls. I'm curious to see if there will be any familiar faces tonight; he typically cycles in a new crowd every month. 

"They coming at eleven," Marcus answers as he exhales a monstrous cloud of pot smoke and passes the pipe to Felix.

"I told Gemma to come at ten," chimes Felix, taking a hit.

"Yeah, but Gemma ain't no bird, is she?" Marcus points out and we all nod silently in assent. After three years with Felix, Gemma feels more like one of the boys than one of the girls. "Aight Hero – you're up."

I throw down a nine, then before Marcus can order me to, I add a splash of Coke to my vodka and down it in three gulps, much to the displeasure of my stomach, which has become virginized after the last four weeks of good behavior. It pushes back as if to say enough, so I excuse myself to the toilet, a move that draws a curious look from Felix. He knows me better than anyone else in this room – hell, better than anyone else in the world – and he must know I'm in no shape to be drinking at this pace.

As I stand over the toilet, the vodka's warmth spreads from my chest to my legs causing me to put a hand up on the wall to steady myself. Get your shit together, Hero. I flush and then splash water on my face in the sink while staring at my reflection in the mirror. Fuck, I look tired. As I wash my hands and search for something to dry them on, I hear the buzzer, then a raucous greeting at the front door. I check my phone and it's 10:30 - guess the birds came early.

"Hero!" Gemma smiles as she sees me walk into the living room. She envelops me in a hug and brings her mouth to my ear, "Don't ever leave for that long again. He's a total shit when you're gone," she whispers, referencing Felix. Then she pulls away to get a good look at me, sizing me up to see if I've changed in the month I've been away. If anyone will notice the toll work has taken on me, it's Gemma who is like a sister to me. She squints but otherwise says nothing; I must be doing okay.

"For the next four months, he's all mine," I wink and kiss her cheek before Felix snakes an arm around her waist and pulls her away.

"HERRRROOOOOOO!" It's more of a wail than a greeting and I know it can only be from one person. Steph. I brace for the impact of her small body hitting mine. At only 5'3" she shouldn't deliver such a wallop, but she's built like a pug dog – her small frame comprised of rolls and muscle in equal measure.

"Steph!" I say in response, attempting – but failing, to match her enthusiasm and decibel level.

"How the hell are ya, mate?" Her personality is just like her body – loud, brazen, unfiltered.

"Yeah, good Steph. All good." Despite knowing her for nearly half my life, I never really have a lot to say to her; our conversations always feel more like text exchanges. Perfunctory, transactional, ticking all the boxes before one of us moves on. She looks at me expectantly and I panic about what to say next.

Just as I'm about to raise my empty glass as an excuse to walk away, she pipes up, "This is my cousin," and pulls a long latte-colored arm through the crowd, which brings with it the stumbling body of an exotic looking girl with big eyes and long wavy hair.

"Geez Steph," the girl mutters, rolling her eyes as she regains her balance. She looks up at me through thick ebony lashes, her brown eyes shifting from annoyance at Steph to good manners for me.

I extend my hand. "Hi, I'm Hero." If I had a penny for every time I said that over the last four weeks...

"Arrow?" She squints in confusion.

"Hero – with an H," I say, more than used to this exchange after twenty years of living with a name that my parents thought was a good idea back in 1997. Displaying her typical (lack of) social grace, Steph walks away without a word to either of us, shouting for Andre to do a shot with her.

"Oh Hero! Sorry, it's kinda hard to hear," the girl says pointing to her ear, and I immediately detect an American accent. "I'm Charlie."

Now it's my turn. "Charlene?"

"Charlie," she enunciates, accentuating the last syllable. "As in Charlie's Angels," she clarifies. I nod in understanding. "Not that I'm named after Charlie's Angels- just, um, my name is Charlie." I smile, recognizing a kindred spirit who has to explain her name 99% of the time.

"Nice to meet you, Charlie," I say and take in the rest of her. Her lips are full and pink and I notice that the bridge of her nose is faintly dotted with freckles. "You're not from around here, are you?"

"What gave it away?" she smirks and pushes one side of her long hair behind her shoulder. "I'm from New York," she answers and I hear the slight way she doesn't fully pronounce the "r" in New York. She's not much taller than Steph, but her body is so different. She has longer limbs and a narrower torso, which is half covered in a cropped white shirt that stops just above her navel, exposing two inches of bare skin above her pants.

"Hang on – you're Steph's cousin?" I'm confused. Steph has a cousin...who lives in New York...who looks like this?

"Yep," she replies in a clipped tone, looking past me as a random girl bumps into her from behind.

She seems annoyed – and I have no interest in placating a random chick so I say, "Well, see you around," before moving on to join the boys for another round of cards at the table.