Summer

I'm roaming the aisles of Spirits and Things at 11:00 PM, picking up flavored liquor and miniature bottles of vodka, when Conor arrives.

He comes to stand beside me, much more nonchalant than I'd expected, hands jammed in his pockets.

"You're gonna need to get some whiskey," he tells me.

I turn around, offering him a smile. "Oh, will I?"

He nods, looking rather serious. "If you want it to be any kind of party, yeah, I'd recommend it."

"Alrighty then." I step back from the shelves. "Pick your poison."

He reaches for a thick bottle full of rich brown liquid. I pick up a bottle of raspberry vodka and beckon him to follow me towards the checkout counter.

After I pay fir our alcohol, we head out into the parking lot towards my car. Conor walks a shoulder's distance away from me, pulling his sweatshirt close to him. "Jesus," he mutters. "It's cold out here."

"That it is." I unlock the car and open the driver's door. Conor walks around and gets in from the passenger side, the bag of alcohol in his lap.

I turn the key, starting up the engine and radio. Warm air flows through the vents, cutting through the cool of the winter's night.

"So, Conor," I say as I back out of the parking space, "how's the first week of your twenty-first year been?"

I register his shrug out of the corner of my eye as I turn onto the freeway. "Nothing to write home about, really," he says. "I've been trying to write some music. Oh, and definitely drinking a lot."

It is at that moment that I hear the definite 'glug' sound of a drink pouring. I cast a cautious glance over to the passenger side, only to see Conor with his head tilted back, a silver flask pressed to his lips.

I resist the urge to slam on brakes as I realize exactly what's happening.

Half of me is livid that this little shit is drinking in my car, putting us both at risk of being arrested. The other half is impressed that he managed to pour whiskey in a moving vehicle without spilling it all over the damn place, because seriously, how did he do that?

However I feel about it, I find myself hissing at him through my teeth as I continue driving. "Conor!"

He looks over to me, wide-eyed and demure, as if he's completely unaware of anything that he might be doing wrong. He pulls the flask away from his lips, shrugging after wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Sorry," he mumbles, not sounding very sorry at all.

I roll my eyes, focusing on keeping my driving as legal as possible now that I know exactly what kind of passenger he is.

As soon as he seems to figure out that I'm not going to kick him out of the car, he reaches over to fiddle with the radio.

I cut my eyes at him again. "What are you doing?" I ask.

"Finding music," he replies, turning the dial further. "I'm not gonna listen to this place's shitty excuse for an alternative station."

Soon enough. MavRadio is blaring from the speakers. Conor leans back in his seat, taking another swig from his flask.

"Better," he announces, a quiet triumph.

"Wow," I say. "You seem sort of... cocky tonight. What's gotten into you, - liquid courage?"

"Only the best."

"Yeah, I can tell. You'll have to give me some when I'm not driving."

It is only then that I consider something rather important. If he's already this relaxed, then that probably means he had been drinking before he left home. Which means he might have...

"Please tell me you didn't drive in your condition," I tell him.

"No," he says. "I was counting on you to be my designated driver, actually. But seeing as how you have plans to get wasted..."

I snort. "Oh please. I'm no lightweight; I can do both. I am a woman of many talents, Conor."

"I'm not quite sure it works like that," he says. "But I've never been one to shy away from danger, so, hey... I guess I kind of trust you."

I laugh. "Kind of?"

"Yeah. 'Kind of,' " he confirms. "That's the best I can do for a practical stranger."

"I think you can do better for a drinking buddy who took care of you when you were throwing up."

That makes him go quiet for a while. When he speaks again, his voice is quiet, his newfound confidence seemingly dashed in favor of boyish sincerity. "Thanks for doing that."

He sounds so genuine that I almost regret poking fun at him in the first place. "You're welcome," I say. "I felt really sorry for you, y'know."

He chuckles, a sound full of bitterness.

"Yeah..."

He speaks quietly now, as if admitting some sort of defeat.

"...a lot of people do."

The awkward silence sets in as soon as those words fall from his lips, leaving us swimming in a stalled sea of the air conditioner's hum and the post-hardcore song on the radio.

Conor breaks the silence with a casual question. "So, where are we going?"

I answer quickly, relieved to have a simple topic to discuss.

"My friend Julie's house. She's an art student down at UNO, - we met that way. She's a little bit older than us, moved all the way here from Florida. Said she wasted most of her life, so she's going back to school now to try and make something of herself. She's getting her Bachelor's next week, so she and her boyfriend wanted to do a little something to celebrate."

"Huh. I used to go to UNO," Conor says. "I thought I wanted to be an English major, but it turns out I don't like going to college much more than I liked going to Catholic school. And at that point, I'd been playing music for ten years already, - I just had to accept that I'm not good for much more than that. That's my calling."

I'm taken aback by that last statement. "I'm sure you're good for more than just music."

He laughs that half-assed laugh again, - a sound that can only come from someone who is painstakingly attempting to hide his misery. "Not much more."

Before I can object to it, I notice him taking another drink out of his flask. I cringe.

He's going to be hammered before we even get to the party.

As I continue to drive, we pass through one of Omaha's more upscale areas. A slew of new townhouse developments pass by my window, followed by a couple of fancy restaurants.

Everything around here has long since closed for the evening, - the residents of the newer, better Omaha don't have much use for late night runs to liquor stores or rendezvous with strangers in alleyways.

They're all inside, comfortable, sleeping in the lap of luxury.

And here we come: the hooligans, interrupting their peace as we drive with our windows down and the radio on full blast.

The guy on the radio lets loose an anguished howl as I think about what Conor said about his music.

Ten years. If he's only twenty-one now, that would mean he's been doing it for...

"How long have you been making music again?" I ask.

"Jesus, - since I was like, ten," he answers. "Recorded some demos when I was thirteen. Joined a few bands not long after."

"Well, damn." I laugh. "You seem rather nonchalant about being a child prodigy."

"Prodigy?" His voice is filled with incredulity as he repeats that word back to me. "I wasn't really a prodigy. It just seemed like the natural thing to do: I liked to write, I knew how to play the guitar, and some girls made me cry in middle school. And 'prodigy' is quite the label to put on someone without even hearing the music, don't you think?"

"I mean... yeah," I reply. "You wrote and recorded your own music as a kid, and stuck with it. It's like it was what you were meant to do. I had lots of hobbies as a kid, and none of them ended up creating a career."

He seems to consider this for a moment, taking a long swig from his flask. After a moment, he screws the top back on, speaking once again with a voice that is slightly rough from the burn of alcohol.

"So you didn't pose for the neighbor boys?"

Though I know he doesn't mean anything by it, - at least, I hope not, - that remark makes the back of my neck prickle.

My flace flushes as I tighten my grip around the steering wheel.

Thank God it's dark and Conor's drunk, or he'd would be able to see exactly how flustered I am.

"No," I respond, trying my best to keep my voice calm and level. "I didn't start taking my clothes off until I was a bit older."

"Oh. Okay."

That's all he says before that awkward quiet comes back and the regret starts to set in.

Suddenly, I wish I weren't currently behind the wheel, trying to find Julie's house.

I wish that I could, in good faith, snatch the flask from Conor's hands and guzzle down whatever whiskey he had left.

As the mood grows heavier and heavier with the silence, I find myself questioning why I'm doing any of this, - why I offered my phone number, my company, and my time to this guy who doesn't even make art.

Why am I taking him to my friend's party? Why am I letting him drink in my car?

Is it just that I pity him for the parts of himself he's shown me thus far? That's a very real possibility, considering there are quite a few things that make him seem rather pitiful.

Is it his limited ability to stomach alcohol?

Could it be the way he stutters, the slight lisp following nearly every sentence?

Perhaps it's just his personality: his goofy, aloof nature. His apparent lack of tact.

Whatever the reasons for his unlikability, one question points the blame back towards me, that being: have I really fallen so far that this is what feeling sorry for a person does to me?

Or is my sympathy for him the result of that other possibility, — a possibility that is definitely the worse of two evils?

Is it the fact that, lately, no matter how often I've taken my robe off and who for, the empty feeling deep within me has stayed exactly the same? The thing that's greeted me when I've crawled into bed at night; that same old monster that I've had to face, again and again, burdening me with that stupid emotion that I had vowed to stop feeling?

It isn't a pretty thought, but it is something that I'll have to admit to myself until I can drink it away: I, Summer Dawn Stevens, am beginning to feel kind of lonely.

Against my better judgement, I find my eyes wandering back to the scrawny guy in my passenger seat.

Sure, I don't know much about him. And yeah, he might be proving himself to be just a bit of an asshole.

But he offered to at least be my drinking buddy, which at least suggests some amount of consistency, if not much meaning.

He'd volunteered to keep me from being alone, if only for a little while.

That's all that I need, I tell myself. Just an occasional friend.

Hell, — I don't even have to like him all that much while we're sober.

In my experience, alcohol tends to help quite a bit with that.

Conor

We haven't even arrived at her friend's party yet, and I'm already pretty sure that Summer thinks I called her a whore.

It wasn't what I meant, really, — it was just what slipped out, promptly making me wish that I could punch myself in the face without her judgment.

Not that I haven't earned that already.

She doesn't talk for the rest of the drive as we travel through the richer parts of West Omaha. I spend the remainder of the trip staring ruefully at the flask in my hand, feeling somewhat like a scolded child as I try my hardest not to think about the phantom burn of acid at the back of my throat.

I don't know how long it is between the time the offending words leave my mouth and the time Summer parks her car in front of an upscale townhome. Whatever the case, things feel even more awkward once the background noise of the engine and the radio fade away.

"We're here," she announces as she pulls her keys from the ignition. She unbuckles her seatbelt and throws her door open, stepping out into the night without looking behind her. "Are you coming?"

"Um... yeah." I shove the flask back in my pocket, one hand inching towards the buckle of my seatbelt, the other for the bag from the liquor store. "Yeah, I am."

Summer closes the door without a reply, wordlessly waiting for me.

I follow as she walks up the driveway in her high-heeled shoes. She stops in front of the door, grabbing ahold of the gold-colored knocker and rapping it against the door three times in quick succession. As I ponder the fact that this is the first time I've ever seen someone actually use a knocker before, the door opens, revealing a tall black-haired girl.

Summed squeals as soon as she sees her, throwing her arms around the girl's neck. "Julie!"

Julie laughs, hugging her back. "Summer! It's so great to see you—"

She stops, seeming to notice me cowering behind Summer like a drunk, timid puppy.

A sly smile spreads across her plump lips. "Who's this?" she asks.

Summer pulls away from her embrace, looking over her shoulder as if she had temporarily forgotten my existence before looking back to Julie.

"This is my new friend, Conor," she says. "He didn't have any plans for tonight, so I invited him to tag along."

"I see." Even in the dark, I can see the things that Julie's sparkling eyes are suggesting. Before I can decide how to clear up that it isn't what she thinks, she steps aside, waving her hand at us. "Come on in, y'all. The party's just getting started."

I follow Summer and Julie inside the townhouse, closing the door behind me.

The place is hot, packed to the brim with artsy types, all chattering and drinking and smoking and belonging.

Summer weaves through the crowd with ease, stopping now and then to greet someone, offering them her wide smile and light giggle before brushing right past them just as quick. I trail behind her, feeling clumsy, out of place, as I carry the heavy bag of full liquor bottles.

We soon find ourselves in an all-too-small kitchen. Julie takes the paper bag from my arms without warning. "Let me take those from you, hon..."

I nod at her, my tongue feeling just as thick as it has since I slipped up earlier.

Underneath the heat of the kitchen light, as Summer, Julie, and an unseen third (and possibly fourth) party converse and laugh easily, I become aware of just how tense I am. I reach for the whiskey bottle and refill my flask.

Summer seems to take notice of this as she turns back towards me. She giggles again, sending a conspiratorial look back towards Julie.

"Looks like Conor's getting the party started," she says. Suddenly, she reaches for my hands, pulling the flask from my grip as my eyes go wide.

She chuckles before unscrewing the cap, throwing her head back as she downs a good portion of my drink. As soon as she's had her fill, she pushes it back into my hands.

She wrinkles her button nose as she speaks again. "God, that's strong. I think I'm gonna make myself a girly drink." She turns around, platinum ponytail swinging over her shoulder. "What say you, Julie?"

"I say you're a pussy," Julie shoots back.

Summer whips her head back around, rolling her bright blue eyes. "Whatever," she mutters, reaching for the bottle of raspberry vodka and a Solo cup.

🖤

For about an hour, I stand quietly, sipping whiskey while I watch Summer down several mix drinks, then work the room.

She talks to a guy who looks like Johnny Depp, her face mere inches from his.

She pecks a guy who resembles Crispin Glover on the lips, both of them pulling away with a laugh.

She grabs Julie by both hands when some upbeat hiphop song comes on, pushing people to the side as she pulls her to the middle of the floor.

"Make way for the art school graduate, people!" she shouts all too loudly. "She's a very important person, you know!"

Julie laughs as the crowd thins out, heeding Summer's words. I think that it would be nice to have her at my next show, considering the way she gets people to listen to her.

She pushes Julie onto the couch before crawling into her lap, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

As the song continues, Summer moves her body against Julie's, all too sleek and graceful. The rest of the party,  — an overwhelmingly male crowd, I'm beginning to realize, — responds with a resounding whoop.

"Fuck yeah!" the guy behind me shouts.

Summer turns around, shooting a smile in his direction before continuing the impromptu lap dance that her friend has apparently earned. Julie just laughs, her hands coming to rest on Summer's hips.

Face burning, I go to take another sip of my drink, only to find that I have once again drained my own supply. Still, I remain rooted to the floor, watching the spectacle that the girl I came with is making of herself. At this point, I don't think I could walk away if I wanted to.

I watch, more than a bit transfixed as Summer continues to move to the music, trying not to think of the implication that I made in the car earlier.

I jump as the guy standing beside me whistles. "Damn," he says. "She is really... something."

I clear my throat, speaking what I think is the first word I've said in hours. "Yeah."

The guy, — another ruggedly handsome actor type, — turns to meet my eyes, grinning like the Cheshire cat. "Jesus, man. Do you know her? You look like you're about to fall out from the blood flowing to all the wrong places."

"I kind of know her," I say. "Not very well, but... we came here together."

The guy snorts. "You might've been the one she came with," he says, "but it looks like she might be leaving with my girifriend." He motions back towards the couch, as if I need reminding what we're talking about.

I really don't.

I shake my head before abruptly changing the subject. "Mind if I go outside for a cigarette?" I ask. "It's pretty crowded, so I don't want to smoke in here..."

The guy grins. "Of course I don't mind. In fact, for the right price, I'd give you something other than a cigarette to smoke. Just don't tell Julie."

We both look back over to the girls on the sofa, laughing as the song changes to 50 Cent's "In Da Club."

"Go, Julie! It's graduation day..." Summer yells, her words just slightly slurred. Julie buries her face in her neck, feigning embarrassment.

I turn back to Julie's boyfriend. "I don't think she'll notice, trust me."

"Alright. Follow me outside, then."

🖤

Fifteen minutes later, I'm alone in the fenced-in backyard, smoking a joint in a plastic lawn chair.

I inhale, feel the haze of the weed mingle with the fog tge whiskey has already cast over my brain, then tilt my head back, releasing a puff of smoke towards the star-dotted night sky.

My eyes fall closed as I just sit there for a moment, listening to the commotion still going on inside. I assume that Summer isn't still giving Julie a lapdance, but I can't be quite sure.

Not that I'd need to see it if she was.

I sigh, bringing the joint back to my lips.

Once again, I've found myself at a party, just to drink and smoke pot. Isolation seems to come for more than I come for it nowadays, — my most developed interpersonal relationships are the ones that I have with various controlled substances.

Even when one of the most beautiful women I've ever spoken to buys my liquor and drives me to a party, then gives me and some hundred other guys the treat of seeing her dance on another hot girl, I find myself back in the yard, the solitude calming my racing heartbeat.

I want this.

Not just the weed: the moon, the quiet, the biting cold.

What the hell is wrong with me?

As I wonder what the answer to this age-old question is, — what the fuck is up with Conor? — I hear the sound of someone settling into the chair next to mine. "That's not tobacco, is it?"

I crack open one of my screwed-shut eyes, only to see Summer standing before me, tinted blue with moonlight.

Before I can even consider them, the words crawl up my raw throat. "Would you call the cops if I said no?"

She laughs, and it's fucking music. "Oh, Conor," she sighs. "You clearly don't know me at all."

Then, just as she did with the flask earlier, she's swiping the joint from between my fingers, pulling it to her lips. I watch with amazement.

"Careful, — wait, how the fuck didn't you burn yourself?" I ask.

She blows out a puff of smoke before carefully passing the joint back to me. "What'd I tell you earlier? Talent!"

"That... wasn't exactly what I was expecting when you said you were a talented woman, but okay." I examine the joint,  — it's on its last leg, but I think it'll be good for one more toke. I take a quick puff, trying not to think of how Summer's lipstick has stained the rolling paper.

"What did you think my talents were, just out of curiosity?" she asks. "Dancing?"

"I might've guessed that one," I reply, stubbing out the smoldering joint, "but you really proved it back inside."

"I thought you might like that." Her voice is laced with a definite edge of pride.

"Oh, I'm not even sure that 'like' would be a fitting term for it. It was... you were..." I stop myself, coughing a few times before finishing my sentence. The air is suddenly too thick out here, carrying smoke, sweat, and perfume.

"You were something," I finish, pulling my elbow away from my mouth.

Through the dark, Summer's bright blue eyes glow. "A good something, I hope."

"A very good something."

She grins, looking unsuitably shy. Once again, I feel my face start to burn.

I figure now is my chance to clear my conscience, since we're out here alone, both of us fairly inebriated.

I clear my throat before starting. "Listen," I say. "I'm sorry about what I said earlier, in the car. I didn't mean it in that way. It's just..." I shake my head. "I'm fucking stupid sometimes, Summer. I hate it, but it's who I a–"

"Conor," she interrupts me. "Stop it."

Just as all those people cleared the floor for she and Julie earlier, I find myself listening to her immediately, my mouth clamping shut.

Summer holds up a long finger, signaling for me to wait. I watch as she shifts in her seat, rummaging in her pockets. Finally, she comes back up with something.

My eyes fall onto the object that she holds in her outstretched hand. "What is that?"

"It's an orange, silly." She says this as if it were the most obvious response to an apology in the world. "I took it off of Julie's counter, and I'm using it as our white flag." She extends her arm out further towards me. "Take it."

Feeling the corners of my mouth twitch, I shake my head again. "Summer..."

"Conor." Her voice is deathly serious. "Take. The. Orange."

I can't help but laugh then. Between the fact that I'm rather stoned and the edge in her tone, the whole thing is just too absurd. "Okay, okay. Fine."

With that, I take the orange from her, digging my fingers into the peel and stripping it back. Once the peel is gone, I pull off a slice, popping it into my mouth.

I chew and swallow, wincing at the sweetness mixing harshly with the already bitter taste in my mouth.

"There." I hand the remainder of the fruit back to her. "Are you happy?"

"Oh, very." She picks off her own slice and bites into it. "Happier than I've been in years."

Though I know those words are a terrible exaggeration, the smile never leaves my face as I watch her finish that orange off.

Inside, the party continues, and I suddenly couldn't care less.

With her by my side, I don't feel alone.