Page 72 of Emmett

I hide in the goddamn bathroom.

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This bar smells like piss.

The sound of pool cues knocking against billiard balls fills the room, accompanied by loud conversation and the occasional cheer from a section of people watching the game on a small TV. Most of the people in here are older, maybe in their forties or fifties, and they look like they’re more than likely here more often than they are home.

“This isn’t your usual haunt,” I comment.

“Lynn would tell your old man on us.”

Davis and I grab a couple of drinks at the bar before we settle into a booth tucked into the back of the room, dimly lit from above with a flickering ceiling light that hangs over our heads, rusted over in a few spots. I sip on my beer, straight from the can, while Davis squeezes a slice of lime into thetequila sitting in front of him, tossing the wedge into the glass once it’s spent.

I expect an interrogation or a scolding or…anything. Nothing comes. We sit wordlessly as long as it takes us to down two drinks each, occasionally glancing over at one another. Davis clearly expects me to say something first just as much as I’m expecting him to.

“I ain’t your dad,” he finally says, squeezing another slice of lime into his third tequila. “I’m not gonna sit here and ask you about your secret pain or the details of your tortured soul or any of that shit.”

“Good,” I tell him. “I don’t want you to.”

“But…”

“Davis.”

“I just wanna make sure we don’t need to be worried about ya, is all,” he shrugs.

I lift my beer to my mouth, pouring the rest of it down my throat, and I set the emptied can onto the table in front of me. “The less people there are worrying about me, the better off I’ll be.”

“Alright then,” he nods, raising his glass to me. “I’ll leave that job to your old man.”

After another beer, I decide to switch to something stronger, settling on a cheap rum that burns like acid on its way down my throat. I ignore the burn, letting myself get used to it in order to let the alcohol do what I want it to; it doesn’t have to taste good, it just has towork.

We down round after round until the room sways back and forth in my vision and Davis rests his elbow on the table, leaning forward to rest his head on his hand while he slams his empty glass onto the wooden table top.

“I was dating a guy,” I blurt into my glass. “Or I guess it wasn’t really dating. I was sleeping with a guy.”

“Well that’s new,” he says, leaning back against the cushion of the booth. “So, this a bi thing, or a figured-out-you’re-gay thing?”

I can see the wheels turning in his head, and his fingers move in front of him like he’s doing some sort of mental math or something; maybe trying to follow a timeline of my love life or tallying the women that we’ve indirectly shared with each other over the years.

“I still like women, too.” Pulling my glass to my lips, I down the second half of my drink. “I’m bi.”

“Well shit,” he says, nodding his head. “That’s cool, whatever knocks your socks off.”

“My socks were definitely knocked,” I slur, and Davis’s eyebrows shoot up while he laughs so goddamn hard that I think the lamp hanging above us by a thread might come crashing down and kill us both.

“Hold on, so youdidlike that one kid then!” He shouts, slamming his palm down on the table, which rattles all of our empty glasses. “I fuckin’ knew it.”

“Which kid?”

“That one you wouldn’t shut the fuck up about,” he laughs. “What was that, seventh, eighth grade? I told Colt you were either into the kid or gonna kill him. Maybe both.”

“I don’t remember that.”

“Well yeah, you didn’t have to listen to it all the fuckin’ time.” He throws a mocking tone into his voice, crossing his arms over his chest and tilting his head side to side while he speaks. “’Uncle Davis, guess what he did today,’ ‘Uncle Davis, his hair issostupid,’ ‘Uncle Davis, I hate him,’ ‘Uncle Davis, he’s theworst.’”

I letout a loud laugh, covering my mouth with my hand. “So the same things I said about—” I stop myself from speaking just before Nash’s name slips past my lips and sends Davis on the war path. “I need a refill, you want one?”

“Ah, why the hell not,” he shrugs. He stands from the table and drops a hand on my shoulder as we walk toward the bar. “Then I’m gonna kick your ass at pool.”