𝐖𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝟏𝟎𝟏 (𝟏𝟖+)

𝐗𝐗𝐗𝐕

My next question slipped by instinct though I already knew what he meant, "What do you mean?" I asked.

His voiced was hushed—tamed, "That this new job and this new man are creating new feelings. Maybe you need a chance to fall back to the Gia I know."

"And we'll do that through alcohol?" the question was rhetorical yet Ralph nodded eagerly. I have work tomorrow, I wanted to say, but I also had work after I went for ribs, tenderloin, and beer the other night, didn't I?

"Yes, alcohol and a tray of those spicy beef finger-food that I keep forgetting the name of."

I chewed on the inside of my cheek, trying to remember the name of that dish. A plate of it does sound nice. And some cocktails. But then there's Keenan; all thoughts Keenan that keep pushing into my head for what? To live rent-free? To find something? To make me do certain things? Stupid things?

"First round's on me," he added. He seemed like the middle schooler who bribes friends into accompanying him by means of freebies. I've always been a sucker for those kids' deals. It's that and my agreeance with his Changing Gia Theory that had me promising to meet him downstairs in fifteen minutes.

A quarter of an hour was just enough time for me to change into an all black outfit because no one can ever go wrong with the edgiest shade. After lipstick and mascara, a shove of essentials into a purse, and a wear of a jacket, I met my best friend four flights down. Still, as I boarded Raph's car and he drove to our favorite pub, I kept thinking of my thirty-four-year-old booty call. Snort. Booty call. I should've checked his reaction, but the momentum for a walk-out was just too good to waste.

If I were to tell three-months-into-the-past Gianna that she'd one day be kicking Keenan Travino out of her apartment, she'd think that I'm her asylum-escaped clone. I'm not. I guess I was right with the idea of growing immune to one's intimidation over sex with them because these days I've been getting more and more comfortable with treating Keenan indifferently. Or is it indifferently? Aside from the fucking, I'd say that he gets the same level of treatment as Ralph. The only difference is, Gia, that you don't have this goddamn itch to text Ralph every second of the day; you're not obsessed with getting to know Ralph beyond what he'd allow; and you're not thinking of Ralph as you wait for your first round for the night.

"I missed this." said Ralph, tone light to prompt the atmosphere in our little bubble. He reached for a shot glass, its contents level with the rim. At a loss for a response, I grabbed one for myself. I held it in the air between us and after a clink of our glasses, we downed. You've probably read about alcohol stinging one's throat at first gulp, but I'll say it anyway: the liquor stung as it flowed between flesh, snaking its toxins into my system. In a blink of a light, my vision spun.

"Hey," I grumbled when he quickly reached for another shot, "You're driving, right?"

My friend shrugged, smiled, then answered, "Of course."

In my nearly five years of knowing Ralph, we've had multiple scenarios when he said he'd watch his intake for the sake of having a decent driver for the night. Many times did he push his words into his stomach with gin. That's why, as I watched him swallow the couple ounces of alcohol, I silently made the assumption that I'd be the one to end up behind the wheel tonight.

"So, how's work, Giababes?" he asked after a while, starting a conversation that would have twists and turns into the night.

"Fine. That Adil book's progressing. That Nolo guy's still a pain." my hand reached for a milder drink—colorful with gummy bears and fruit cubes at the bottom. During my early drinking years, I imagined myself as the angsty protagonist in a problematic situation, feeling cool that I was about to drown sorrows in bottles. In reality, things weren't as cinematic.