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“Has it occurred to you that Joe might want to go home?” Quincy said. “Isn’t that right, Joe?”
Their unexpected guest sat on the threadbare couch in the great room, watching Craig and Rodney kneel in front of the cavernous fireplace and bicker over the best way to start a fire. Realizing he was being addressed, he looked Quincy’s way, startled.
“I don’t want to be a bother,” he said.
“It’s no bother,” Janelle assured him. “Unless you have somewhere you need to be.”
“I don’t.”
“And you’re hungry, right?”
Joe shrugged. “I guess.”
“We’ve got plenty of food and drink. Plus we have a couch, not to mention an extra bed.”
“We also have a car,” Quincy said. “Full of cell phones. Craig could call a tow truck or drive him anywhere he needs to go. You know, like back to his own car. Or his house.”
“Which will take hours. Besides, maybe Joe wants to join the party.” Janelle looked his way, hoping he’d second that thought. “Now that we’re all friends.”
“Technically, he’s still a stranger,” Quincy said.
Janelle flashed the exasperated look she always got when she thought Quincy was being a goody-goody. Quincy had seen that same expression before her only sip of beer and her single hit of a joint. In both instances, Janelle had used sheer force of will to coax her into doing something she didn’t want to do. Now, though, her frustration was amplified by the situation. Everything about the weekend—the cabin, her birthday, the absence of oversight of any kind—made her slightly manic.
“We’re here to have fun, right?” she said. There was something accusing about the way she said it, as if she suspected she was the only one there intent on a good time. “So let’s. Have. Fun.”
That seemed to settle it. Joe would be staying as long as he liked. The birthday girl again got her wish.
“What’s your poison?” Janelle asked Joe once the makeshift bar was complete.
He blinked at the bottles, alternately confused and dazzled by the choices. “I-I don’t really drink.”
“Seriously?” Janelle said. “Like, not at all?”
“Yes.” He frowned. “I mean no.”
“Well, which is it?”
“Maybe he doesn’t want to drink,” Quincy said, again the voice of reason, the angel perpetually perched on Janelle’s shoulder. “Maybe, like me, Joe prefers to maintain control over his mental faculties.”
“You don’t drink because you’re a wuss and Mommy and Daddy would get mad if they ever found out,” Janelle told her. “Joe’s not like that. Isn’t that right?”
“It’s just—I’ve never tried it,” Joe said.
“Not even with your friends?”
Joe stammered, trying to push out a response. But it was too late. Janelle pounced.
“What? No friends either?”
“I have friends,” Joe said, a prickle in his voice.
“A girlfriend?” Janelle asked, teasing.
“Maybe. I-I don’t know what she is.”
Behind Quincy, Betz whispered, “Imaginary is my guess.”
Janelle glared at her before turning back to Joe, saying, “Then you’ll have quite a story to tell the next time you see her.”