Page 15

15

SPIN THE BOTTLE

SHILOH

I think I’m on the verge of having a mental breakdown.

I’m supposed to be attending a big shot Reapers party later, but my hair is being a complete twat. In addition, I’m still riding the lowest of lows after having an existential crisis in a bridal shop of all places. Fulton brings out a different part of me when I’m around him—a part that’s not simply some cog in a machine. He brings out a part of me that I’ll lose once my feet hit good ol’ Californian dirt, and I can’t believe I thought I was going to be okay with that. How can I just return to my normal life after all of this?

Not to mention that Aeris’ alcohol-aided truth serum has only opened my eyes to the gravity of my relationship with him. This is real. It’s all happening too fast, but it’s fucking real. Fulton’s feelings are involved. My feelings are involved. And if I choose to end things when we get back home, not only will it hurt me, but it’ll hurt him a thousand times more.

Revlon was right when she said I never go after anything I want. I’ve never put my happiness above others. Why would I when the well-being of the people around me is more important? I don’t know what to do. For a girl who has a solution to every problem, I’m in complete limbo.

Despite the impending anxiety wriggling beneath my skin like fire ants, I dial my focus on the catastrophe tangling around the bristles of my incompetent hairbrush. I’ve pulled out enough hair to warrant a small bald spot. The heat and humidity have made every strand more brittle than my grandmother’s teeth, and her front one flaps in the wind like a goddamn saloon door. I don’t know whether to cry, scream, break something, or drown my sorrows in the minibar. I’m supposed to be ready in five minutes.

My buzz from the dress fitting earlier has worn off, and my makeup is only half done. I keep trying to replicate the wing of my eyeliner on both eyes, but the right one is unlevel with the left, and it’s noticeable. Oh, it’s so noticeable. I’m starting to accumulate a little pile of sad, black-smeared makeup remover wipes.

When I yank the brush to try and free my damaged hair, an unforgiving burn claws across my scalp like the opening act of a migraine. A defeated whimper escapes from my lips, but not before getting stuck in my throat and turning into a helpless gurgling sound. I can hear Fulton shuffling around in the other room, but I’m preoccupied with contemplating surgically removing this instrument of destruction from my head.

“Shi, you almost ready to go?” he asks, and before I can scream at him not to come in, Fulton’s already invaded the bathroom with his six-foot-one body.

His eyes double in size at the carnage, and whatever words he was about to wield have deserted him.

I can feel a fresh batch of tears pawing at the backs of my eyes. “I’m not going,” I huff, plopping down on the closed toilet seat and hearing a would-be worrisome tearing noise from some undetected seam on my body .

Fulton cloaks my glut of frustration in his full-coverage sympathy. “Oh, Sunshine.”

“I look terrible, Ful. My hair isn’t cooperating. My makeup isn’t symmetrical. My romper is too tight, but it’s the nicest thing I have to wear. I can’t go to a party with all your A-list friends looking like this .”

“You look beautiful, okay? My friends are hardly A-listers. It’s a kickback. It’s nothing fancy. We just want to spend some time together, and I would really love for you to be there,” he tells me. “But I understand if you aren’t feeling up for it. I’d never force you to do something you don’t want to do.”

“I do, it’s just…” With my throat constricting around a grievance, I opt for gesturing to the Nightmare on Hair Street.

Fulton perks up a bit. “I can help.”

As much as I appreciate his eagerness, sweet, sweet Fulton is sorely mistaken. Asian hair can be tricky to take care of, especially when it’s frizzy. It’s not that I’m worried about him making everything worse…it’s more that I’m trying to preserve his feelings from getting hurt when the outcome is, um, subpar .

“It’s kind of har?—”

He cuts me off with a dismissive flick of his hand, crouches down to assess the damage with an eye that is far too analytical, then hums to himself like he knows exactly what’s wrong and how to fix it.

For once, Fulton doesn’t reek of hesitation…which is strange, because hesitation is his personality. No, he’s sheared away all that self-doubt and stands before me a changed man—one whom exudes a very attractive hubris.

“Alright, I’m going to use some Philip Kinsley’s Preen Cream on your hair, then gently detangle the area with a wide-toothed comb, starting at the ends and working my way up to the roots. I also read that Oribe’s Imperméable Anti-Humidity Spray is great for reducing frizz.”

What. Just. Happened .

My mouth gapes in shock, and once I get over the initial disbelief, admiration conducts my heartbeat to mirror the rhythmical flow of the tide.

Fulton reaches for a small, cylindrical bottle in the medicine cabinet, then clambers to his knees in front of me. “We’re going to figure this out,” he says, beginning to section off strands of my frizzy hair.

“How do you know how to do all of this?” I ask, watching him squirt a white paste into his hands.

“When you mentioned the humidity our first night here, I read up on Asian hair care in case you ran into another complication. Then I thought it would be good to stock up on some supplies.”

With a sizable dollop of cream, his deft fingers work in the moisturizing product, letting it soak thoroughly into each tress. Finally able to catch my breath for the first time in ten minutes, I reassess the state of my half-completed face, formulating the most efficient plan to clean up my wings, reapply blush, and fill in missing chunks of foundation from when I went windshield-wiper-happy with the makeup remover wipes. Fulton’s made everything seem so… salvageable .

He’s moved on to the intimidating lump of tangles, and I feel myself quiver like a guitar string. “You did all of that…for me?” I whisper, looking up at him with tears pooling on my lash line.

“I’d do anything for you, Sunshine. It doesn’t matter how trivial you think it is. If spending five hours educating myself on Vietnamese hair care was guaranteed to make you smile, I’d spend the rest of the day memorizing the first fifty Google pages.”

I know a declaration like that might not seem like a big deal, but Fulton’s practically offering me his heart. No one’s ever gone through that much trouble for me. Not my parents, not Revlon. And don’t get me wrong—I don’t hold it against them. I just didn’t know that this is what people do when they like one another.

It makes me feel special, and that’s a feeling I’ve been chasing my entire life.

With the sun dropping into the mountain’s gullet—and spilling shades of red over the sky like blood from a cut artery—Fulton moves at a speed that could rival his skate time, wetting and conditioning the thatch of obnoxious locks clinging onto my brush for dear life. Refraining from pulling, he feeds the wide-toothed comb through my ends, subsequently raking a pathway up to my roots. Pressure pulses in places all over my skull, but I can start to feel the hair and brush lovechild give under Fulton’s ministrations.

Thankfully, he’s too busy to notice the teary runnel that just scaled down my still-pigmented cheek. Guilt over ruining his night still sits heavy on my chest. I’m like sun-damaged carrion melting on the sidewalk, picked apart by the vultures of self-loathing and pessimism.

“Thank you. For doing all of this. I know it’s probably not how you wanted to spend your Friday night.”

An expert comb cuts through weak, sodden follicles, loosening the bonds enough to detach them from the bristles without any major hair loss. He’s so gentle with me. He treats me like I’m delicate, but not because I’m incapable of standing my ground—because he views me as something to be cherished and worshipped with the utmost respect.

Fulton’s voice is cold, detached, and his fingers halt. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Think that I’d rather be anywhere else but here.”

He doesn’t allow me a chance to respond—not that I’d have anything of substance to say. He resumes his methodical detangling, and after a few minutes, he manages to dislodge the brush from my mane, relieving the pain in my forehead .

I don’t know what comes over me next. I didn’t want to bring up his whole “secret crush of four years” thing, but I think the lack of oxygen to my brain is hindering my decision-making skills.

“I know about the four years thing!” I blurt out before I can stop myself, slapping my hands over my mouth a second too late.

I can see the gears in Fulton’s head turning—trying to make sense of my guilty admission—and then everything falls into place like Tetris blocks. His face drains of all color, there’s an imperceptible tick to his jaw, and an awkward silence crackles between us in the same way banked embers pop into a crepuscular sky.

“I…” he blathers, the thick-handled comb clattering to the floor, his eyes blinking immeasurably fast. Fulton pretty much lives in a permanent state of anxiety, but I’ve never seen him so horrified before.

“I’m so sorry, Shi. I wanted to tell you the day I asked you to be my plus-one, but I was worried about scaring you away, and things were going so well, and I didn’t want to blow my only shot at spending time with you, and?—”

Although my hair is on the road to a speedy recovery, Fulton’s still on his knees on the bathroom floor, which puts me at the perfect height to cup his face in my hands and force him to look at me.

“I’ve liked you for a long time too,” I confess, brushing my thumb over his cheekbone as our fragile worlds clash together like the convergence of tectonic plates. “Hell, I memorized your schedule just to try and catch you on my shift. You come in every Tuesday and Thursday around two eighteen p.m., at the latest two thirty-six p.m. You order the same thing each time—a dairy-free coffee with a crumbly, nondairy raspberry tart. In April, you tried the homemade zucchini bread, but it didn’t last for more than a week. ”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“I’m not. I promise, I’m not.”

At first, he looks like a shell-shocked veteran who’s fought in two major wars and still has the trauma to prove it, but the dubiety is short-lived when a larger-than-life smile creases his lips. “Do you know what this means? Holy shit. Everything in my head wasn’t unrequited this entire time. I’m not crazy! I didn’t scare you away with my cringeworthy attempt at small talk, or the fact that I came in so regularly you could’ve filed a restraining order against me. And you—God, you remembered me. Me. Someone so inconsequential in the presence of someone as sensational as you.”

Fulton Cazzarelli could never be inconsequential.

“You’re wrong,” I insist. “It’s hard to forget someone like you.”

His hand rests on mine as he nuzzles my palm. “I’ve never been able to shake you, Shiloh. You’re at the forefront of every thought I have, and I’ll be damned if I waste any more time not being wholly consumed by you.”

Suddenly, Fulton catches me off guard and rises to a stance, picking me up by the waist and swinging me around in the spacious bathroom. Through a cacophony of squeals and giggles, I loop my arms around his neck, our bodies generating a slight wind from the momentum. His grip is as unyielding as mine is hungry. Being airborne isn’t a state I’m particularly fond of, but if Fulton’s arms were my only protection, then I’d gladly skydive without a parachute. Even mid-suspension, he stipples kisses all over my face.

When my feet finally hit the ground again, his platonic touch graduates to one born from sin, and he pulls me in so closely that our heartbeats overlap with one another’s.

“Fuck, you really shouldn’t have told me any of that.”

Fear lies in waiting deep in my stomach. “Why not?”

Fulton leans forward enough for his mouth to claim mine in one fell swoop if he so pleased, but he refrains, instead letting me beg for the golden elixir dripping from his tongue.

“Because now I’ll have to do something about it.”

I fix my makeup for the fifth time tonight, and no, it’s not because of user error. It’s because all of it got wiped off when Fulton and I were eating each other’s faces. I don’t know how, but within twenty minutes, I look brand-new. My hair is no longer an entity of its own, my wings are perfect, my foundation is smooth—and I couldn’t have done any of it without Fulton’s help.

I know that he said this party was low-key and I shouldn’t be intimidated by his friends, but they’re famous hockey players for crying out loud. The closest I’ve ever come to fame was when a customer once mistook me for some indie actress, asked for a picture, then promptly realized I was in fact not the person they thought I was. It also doesn’t help that there’s apparently going to be some huge drinking game—one that Fulton has warned me usually ends in nudity, imprisonment charges, soft-core dry humping, or all of the above.

“Am I going to end up being an accomplice tonight?” I ask, smoothing down my romper for the hundredth time and trying to rationalize the pre-party nerves putting me in a tailspin.

Fulton chuffs a laugh, leveling a look at me that somehow manages to grind my anxiety into nothing but a fine powder. “Not unless Gage breaks out the hard stuff.”

As we swerve down the maze of the sixth floor—passing the occasional couple or family headed to the rooftop lounge for the complimentary dinner—the penumbra outside makes the sunset-esque lighting stand starker against pockmarked walls, and we’re serenaded by the whirs of unseen cicadas. My fingers absentmindedly squeeze Fulton’s a little too hard, but there’s no distinguishable gait in his step that suggests he even notices.

“I think this is the first party I’ve been to in years,” I admit quietly.

“Not a big party person?”

I shake my head. “I was always busy studying in college. I didn’t really have time to go out on the weekends, nor did I desire to be around crowds of people who wouldn’t matter to me after graduation. I honestly don’t know if I would’ve tried my first sip of alcohol if it wasn’t for my roommate implementing Sangria Saturdays.”

Even though socializing is a part of my job, the predictability of it pales in comparison to socializing in a party setting. There are so many uncontrollable factors. People are uncontrollable. In an establishment, customers are expected to act a certain way. Of course, we get the occasional nut job or temperamental complainer, but I’d rather handle them any day than try and shepherd a crowd of inebriated young adults.

“I’m not really a huge fan of it either, but my friends love to hold kickbacks, so I go to be supportive. My college experience was pretty lackluster. Everyone around me seemed to have so much going on in their life, and then there was me, who repeated the same day over and over.”

I glance up at Fulton, and the machine-gun rattle of my heart isn’t because of the night’s festivities. I always knew that he and I were cut from the same cloth. I like that we’re so similar—it makes me feel understood in a way I’ve never felt before.

“I don’t think that’s lackluster. I think that’s perfect. People always have such a judgmental view on comfort.”

“I guess I never looked at it that way,” he says with a noncommittal shrug of his shoulders.

The groan of the door pulls me from our conversation, transporting me into the loud and colorful feng shui of Hayes and Aeris’ suite. I can already see the rest of the crew behind Aeris’ short stature, and she yanks both me and Fulton into a hug that knocks the wind right out of me.

“You guys made it!” she squeals, jumping up and down and smelling like hard liquor.

“Thank…you…for…the…invite,” I wheeze, feeling my spine crack before Aeris releases us from her boa constrictor clutch.

She’s dressed in a beautiful, baby-pink dress that cuts off right above her knees, and the top of it is a built-in bustier covered in ruched fabric. Her hair is styled in a half updo, with a giant pink bow nestled in her wavy curls.

“What are you guys drinking tonight? Vodka? Beer? Wine? Whiskey? We even have some Perrier if you want something nonalcoholic.” She’s all smiles and painted cheeks, blinding us with that soon-to-be-bride glow that everyone always talks about.

A chuckle sounds from behind Aeris, gravelly like the rev of a chainsaw. “Stacks, let them sit down first.”

Hayes’ arms encase her waist as he hugs her from behind, having to bend down to press a kiss to her neck seeing as he’s over a foot taller than her.

“Right, sorry! My brain’s all over the place right now. I’ve had”—she holds up her fingers to count, but frowns after she seemingly loses her place—“a lot of drinks!”

“The game’s going to start soon,” Hayes tells us, nodding to whatever is transpiring over in the cult-like circle on the carpet. “I need to get some food in her. You guys are welcome to anything in the fridge.”

Aeris is suddenly slammed with a burst of energy. “Ooh, should we order room service? What do you guys like? Italian? Mexican? Chinese?”

She turns around in Hayes’ embrace, then proceeds to yell directly into his ear, “DO YOU GUYS WANT SOME MOZZARELLA STICKS? ”

He flinches. “I’ll buy you the entire menu if you use your inside voice.”

Aeris giggles and clamps her hands over her mouth, nodding obediently despite the mischievous twinkle in her eye. “Okay,” she whispers through the slats of her fingers.

Hayes begins ferrying Aeris off toward the bedroom, and Fulton pales. “Wait, which game is it, Hayes? WHICH GAME?”

“Get your sexy little butts over here and sit down!” Josie shouts from the kumbaya circle.

Oh, God. What have we gotten ourselves into? I think this decision is somehow worse than when I decided to cut my own bangs before graduation in eighth grade.

Fulton and I both walk over like we’re navigating a forest floor of hidden bear traps, and the moment my gaze settles on the so-called “game,” having my leg chewed off by giant metal teeth doesn’t seem like such a bad thing. Because not only is this party game one of the worst games in existence, but it’s about to be my reality for the next four hours.

An empty beer bottle sits dauntingly in the middle of the group, uncoincidentally positioned so that the neck of it faces us. To make matters worse, underneath it is a multicolored wheel containing eight slices and eight corresponding games written in the margins.

Fulton’s rooted to the ground in paralyzing fear, and it’s contagious. “We’re playing Spin the Bottle?!”

“A more advanced version,” Gage replies.

My brain lags while I try to take everything in, denying me the breath that’s needed to disintegrate the tightness in my chest. When I get a closer look, I notice that two of the dares require kissing another person.

“Aren’t you all taken?” I throw out weakly.

Gage leans forward and winks. “We’re equal opportunists.”

Oh.

Oh, no .

“But nobody has to do anything they don’t want to,” Lila adds, looking flawless in her black leather corset and miniskirt, both of which flaunt her photoshopped-looking assets.

I’m not sure how Bristol hasn’t combusted on the spot. Then again, the two were practically made for each other. They’re like that one really hot couple that just makes sense being together because nobody else could live up to their hotness, you know?

Fulton pulls me aside and does one of those sideline huddles, thankfully looking about as nervous as I feel. Cortisol streamlines through my body, the dread in my gut growing like an impassable chasm.

“Do you want to play? We don’t have to. We don’t even have to stay. Just say the words.”

Come on, Shiloh. Let loose. Have fun. You only live once, right? What’s the worst that could happen? It’s not like any of Fulton’s friends are going to give you mouth herpes.

“Do, um, do your friends usually have orgies?” I whisper under my breath, apparently not quiet enough to go unheard.

Gage feigns offense. “Hey! Nobody’s taking their clothes off, ergo, not an orgy.”

He then swings around a confrontational pointer finger, but since he’s plastered, it veers too far to the right, so he doesn’t end up addressing anyone. “And if any of you assholes slip tongue into my future wife’s mouth, I will staple your balls to your taint.”

Silence befalls the entire room, except for the offhanded comment of a very valid “Jesus Christ.”

“Is that even physically possible?” Casen inquires, cringing in disgust.

No tongue: got it. I highly doubt this is an appropriate conversation for a baby. Speaking of…

“Where are Kit and Faye?”

“They’re parents now. They go to bed at eight thirty and don’t fondle each other’s privates anymore,” Cali answers, using Gage’s lap as a makeshift table for her plate of cheese puffs, potato chips, and a small anthill of brownies.

Gage snorts. “Not true. Faye was definitely fondling Kit’s snake in the pool the other day.”

The redhead rolls her bright blue eyes, playfully pushing him on the shoulder in a disapproving, don’t-be-so-vulgar way. “Oh my God. You’re disgusting.”

Fulton and I end up taking a seat next to each other, staring at the opening of the bottle like we’re staring down the barrel of a shotgun. This night is definitely going to end in handcuffs—whether they’re government-issued or fuzzy, I have no idea.

So far, Gage and Aeris are in the running for the drunkest, while everyone else seems to be at varying levels of tipsiness. I, however, will only remain lightly buzzed in case the police come breaking down the door and I have to launch Fulton through the bathroom window to escape.

“We’re here!” Hayes announces, dragging along his fiancée—who’s in a hardcore make out session with a…burrito…right now? He plops her down on the ground, then jogs around the circle to sit across from her.

The surrounding lights dim, and the one overhead flares to life, creating a spotlight on the Budweiser bottle in the middle. How did they just do that? Are they on a timer? This all feels like a fever dream.

“If you don’t want to go through with a dare, or you lose one of the games, you have to drink,” Gage says before kicking things off with a twist of his wrist, the glass bottle spinning around itself like a dreidel before slowing to a lazy rotation.

The games are as follows: Flip or Strip, Two Truths and a Lie, Spill Your Guts, Kiss Someone of the Opposite Sex, Kiss Someone of the Same Sex, Drunk Charades, and Foul Play. It eventually stops on Kiss Someone of the Opposite Sex. He decides to choose Cali as his recipient—to nobody’s surprise—and a cocksure grin quirks the corners of his mouth up.

He beckons her with a crook of his finger. “That’s right. Come to Daddy.”

Cali, who’s directly next to Gage, leans in while her boyfriend puckers his lips like an ignorant fool, and at the last moment, when they’re bound to make contact, she gently turns his jaw to the side. A collective “ooh” percolates throughout the group as she sits back on one palm and lifts the rim of her drink to her mouth.

When Cali finishes her swig, she runs her tongue sensually over her lips. “Beginner’s luck.”

Gage groans, letting his head fall back. He takes a few seconds to salvage his dignity before he relents with an adjustment of his hips, and something dark lurks in the mossy-green of his eyes. “Nothing lucky about it, babe. You know I love a challenge.”

Lila takes her turn, putting into play the pie that reads: Two Truths and a Lie. I can only hope I get something as non-traumatizing as that.

“If we guess the lie incorrectly, we all have to drink,” Gage explains.

Hayes—the gracious host he is—gets up to pour me and Fulton two glasses of whatever mystery liquor they have fermenting in the cabinet, returning with a sizable amount of alcohol.

Lila contemplates what she’s going to say, toying with the plaited braid draped over her shoulder. Anticipation hangs heavy in the air as an inexplicable swell of unease dribbles down my spine like an IV drip.

Finally, Lila adheres the strictest poker face in existence, counting off her statements on each manicured finger. “One: I broke my ankle climbing over a fence after the police chased me down for urinating in public. Two: I’ve spoken to the dead. And three: a girl I invited to sleep over one time used my electric toothbrush to flick her bean.”

Everyone’s speechless. They all sound like they should be lies. And why are they all disturbingly specific?

After the initial shock wears off, the rest of us engage in a scholarly discussion about whether Lila’s a criminal, or her “friends” are criminally insane.

“There’s no way she communicated with the dead,” Gage says matter-of-factly. “The risk of possession is too high.”

We all look at him with a collective what the fuck? expression.

“What? I’ve watched every season of Ghost Adventures .”

“I don’t know Lila’s friends, but that seems like something so specific that it has to be true,” Josie muses, peeking over our group huddle to try and read the blonde’s steel-tight visage.

Bristol nods in agreement. “She told me once about a run-in with the police, but she didn’t go into a lot of detail.”

“I know Lils. She doesn’t believe in the paranormal. There’s no way she would’ve sat through a séance,” Aeris adds through a jumble of slurred words. She’s all starry-eyed, and her head is so high in the clouds that I’m not sure she even realizes she’s one too many drinks off the ground. I really hope for her sake that we get this right.

After we break from the circle, Gage authorizes himself as the speaker, saying with (maybe too much) confidence what the lie is.

“You’ve never spoken to the dead before.”

Chest puffed, a self-satisfied grin unfurling over his lips, you’d think he just saved us all from a future hangover. But Lila snort-laughs into her hand.

“I didn’t break my ankle because the police were chasing me for public urination. I broke my ankle because they were chasing me for indecent exposure. I flashed my tits at an oncoming car,” she reveals .

“Did any of them crash?” Cali asks, impressed.

“Those fuckers better have if they took a single look at my fiancée’s chest,” Bristol growls.

Lila pats him comfortingly on the shoulder like one would calm a rabid rottweiler, and all the tension in his upper body practically melts on contact. “Don’t worry. You get them all to yourself for the rest of our lives.”

Gage shifts the subject. “Wait, you’ve talked to the dead?”

Lila shrugs. “According to the psychic I forced my parents to take me to when I was seven, yes. My childhood cat, Mrs. Whiskers, passed away from old age, and I was convinced that I could communicate with her on the other side. But now that I think about it, I don’t think Mrs. Whiskers said, ‘I’m at peace, Mother. Do not worry about me, for I have found sunlight in the passing storm and will dance in the rain as it baptizes my earthly sins.’”

I can’t help but speak up, my tone undercut with a blend of wariness and repugnance. “And someone…used your toothbrush as a…”

“Yes, my dear Shiloh, yes.”

Lila leaves it at that, and I’m grateful that she doesn’t go into more detail.

Everyone begrudgingly drinks from their glasses, and Hayes offers to drink twice the amount so that Aeris can start sobering up. With my lips to the rim, I brace myself and throw back a hefty swig, a tumbleweed of fire rolling down my gullet and making me grimace. It’s vodka. Top-shelf. And I’m about to regret arriving on an empty stomach.

Hayes spins the bottle with minimal effort, watching it fly at hyper speed in a clockwise direction. Damn those hockey wrists.

While the crowd lingers over the Wheel of Misfortune, the neck slowly seesaws between Drunk Charades and Spill Your Guts before ultimately coming to a standstill on the latter. I have no idea what that entails, but it can’t be good.

Gage sucks his teeth. “Oof, tough break, buddy. You either answer a question, or you have to eat the mystery food we have prepared in the kitchen.”

“Mystery food? Please. I have to text you pictures of groceries. The craziest thing you have cooked up back there is watered-down protein powder,” Hayes scoffs.

“Whatever you say.”

Gage pulls a card out from God knows where, brandishes it with the flair of a game show presenter, then clears his throat in an exaggerated manner. “What sound does your partner make when they orgasm? And please imitate it.”

Yikes.

There’s a domino effect of winces, and Hayes is shooting red laser beams out of his eyes, looking like he’s a second away from squashing Gage Tom and Jerry -style.

Do I think Gage may have rigged the game by choosing the most invasive and inappropriate question to ask? Possibly.

“I’m not answering that, dipshit,” he snaps.

“Then it’s settled—you’re eating the mystery food!”

Gage springs to his feet excitedly, races to the kitchen, rustles through what sounds like a miniature World War III of aluminum foil and Tupperware, then saunters back out with a phallic-looking tube of meat. The smell is nauseating from here. Putrid, sour, similar to roadkill cooking in August heat.

The minute Hayes’ punishment breaches the serenity of the circle, Hayes recoils in revulsion, a hand over his nose. “Jesus, fuck. What is that thing?”

Next to me, Fulton’s got his head turned away while he swallows back a gag.

“It’s a bull penis. In Jamaica, it’s known as a delicacy,” Gage answers pridefully.

“I don’t even want to know how you got that. ”

Gage doesn’t say anything else before shoving both a plate and a fork in Hayes’ hands, vengeance writ in his features (along with a concerning dash of lunacy). “And for your information, I prefer pictures over words. I’m a visual learner.”

Everybody gives Hayes adequate space, enforcing a fair circumference of distance now that he’s got a military-grade weapon in his possession.

Aeris consoles him from across the room. “You should’ve answered it, babe. Pretty sure the majority of people here have heard it already. Just try to swallow quickly so you don’t taste anything.”

Gage, ever the instigator, gets out his phone to start recording. “You know what they say, Hayes. Spitters are quitters.”

Hayes shakes his fork menacingly in Gage’s direction. “Your mom should’ve swallowed you.”

Dear God.

After a solid minute of just staring that thing down, Hayes angles his fork to cut a small chunk off, the pallor of his skin deteriorating into a shade of green that I didn’t even know existed. His throat undulates with a thick swallow, and he slowly, slowly forklifts the food to his lips, forcing himself to shove the tines straight into his mouth without thinking.

There’s an uproar of gasps.

He chews on it for at least thirty seconds, the gummy texture producing these godawful smacking sounds. Excessive chewing noises are actually the worst thing in the entire world. I can barely watch. I bury my face into Fulton’s shoulder, and he clings to me like we’re each other’s saving grace.

When Hayes eventually gets everything down, he sprints to the kitchen, discards the detestable, devil-incarnate beef stick, and washes his mouth out under the kitchen sink’s faucet. The rush of water sounds for about two minutes straight, filling the silence with a much-needed distraction. Someone has the brilliant idea of lighting a candle, Gage now has great blackmail if Hayes were to ever wrong him, and the man of the hour comes loping back, looking no better than a poor, kicked dog.

“That’s never happening again,” he swears, popping off the cap of a wet, unopened beer with the point of his incisor. He kills half his drink within five seconds, glaring at the troublesome brunet who—by the sounds of it—is now applying a trap beat over Hayes’ mortifying video.

“You should’ve just answered the question,” his teammate singsongs.

“I’m going to kill”—Hayes’ thinly veiled threat gets drowned out beneath a sickly grumble from his stomach, and it’s loud enough to compel the room’s full attention—“you,” he finishes with half the breath.

Even though Hayes is far from prime ass-kicking state, we as the jury make a collective decision to sit the two far, far away from each other.

Aeris volunteers herself next, bouncing on her butt with so much excitement that I’m not sure if it’s from the adrenaline, alcohol, or burrito high. She doesn’t calculate the spin—she practically throws the bottle halfway across the circle with enough force to take out somebody’s eye. It knocks back and forth before returning to the center of the ring, petering off into one final roundabout before landing on…Kiss Someone of the Same Sex.

Then she turns to me.

Oh, crap. Crap, crap, crap.

Don’t get me wrong, Aeris is one of the hottest women I’ve ever seen, but I’ve never…kissed a girl before.

I blink.

She blinks.

My eyes jump to Fulton.

He blinks.

Is Hayes going to beat me up? He’s not looking at me like he wants to beat me up, but I’m scared, nonetheless. Hayes Hollings is a household name known for sending opponents out on stretchers during games. I’ve watched him play alongside Fulton. I’ve also watched him shoulder check another player so hard that he flew about five feet into the air before his whole body folded in on itself. That’s not natural.

There’s a rush of lightheadedness—a compacting of my temples like the skull-bursting pressure of surfacing too quickly in the water. “Oh, um…”

“Do you want to?” Aeris whispers to me, batting her big, doe eyes in silent supplication.

I know I can say no—and that nobody would hold it against me if I passed—but a part of me is…curious. I need to stop vying for control all the time. I need to stop living life so safely. What if I wake up twenty years from now and regret never pushing myself out of my comfort zone? Like, Oh, remember that time you took a trip to Cabo, Shiloh? Remember how the scariest thing you did was try a taco out of the back of some guy’s decrepit, white van?

“Is it okay with your fiancé?” I ask.

When everyone’s eyes skip to Hayes, he gives a wordless nod, and when Fulton and I share an implicit look, he doesn’t object.

I eventually acquiesce, feeding the neglected part inside of me that yearns for adventure, spontaneity—the one that’s been coaxed into the light by Fulton’s generous acts of service. Everyone is staring at us, waiting attentively, and the breath in the room is pulled taut like a drawstring. It’s so quiet that you could hear a pin drop.

“Follow my lead,” Aeris says, climbing onto her knees and using both of her hands to bring my lips to hers. Her touch is soft, forgiving; her mouth moves against mine with reverence, filled with an unbidden passion that isn’t exhibited in tasteless gropes or a domineering clash of teeth. She allows me to warm up to her, and when I angle my head to deepen the kiss, the slip of her tongue is so subtle that I almost don’t notice it.

I really hope this doesn’t awaken anything inside me.

She’s the first to pull away, though not before her front teeth tug on my bottom lip, drawing out that aphrodisiacal taste of her that would drive anyone crazy with lust. A string of saliva stretches between us, and by the time my capsized world rocks upright, the kiss is over and almost every jaw in the room is open in shock. Nobody dares to desecrate the silence. Hayes has averted his eyes out of respect, while Fulton’s staring so deep into my soul that it’s unnerving.

Then Aeris claps her hands together nonchalantly like she didn’t just take my same-sex-kiss virginity. “Alright, who’s next?”