Page 31 of Jesse

He was not drinking champagne. How did I forget that? He just fucking told me like five minutes ago he’s sober!

“Oops,” he laughs. “Wrong glass. I picked up yours by mistake.” And then he takes mine—which is his—raises it to his lips, and downs it all in a single gulp.

I’m reaching for his glass, consumed with second guesses, and hedged bets, and regrets when he sets it back on the table.

He looks at my hand and I withdraw it quickly. “What are you doing?”

I just shake my head. Because it’s too late. “Um… the meatball story?”

“Oh, fuck! Fuckin’ Joey. Sometimes you can’t help but love that dude. He came up with meatballs on a stick back when we were kids and my dad still had parties on the lower living floor in the building. I know, I know. Inside joke. Not so funny. But… whatever. I think it’s funny that he was gonna serve his date meatballs on a stick. And oh shit!" He laughs again. “I just did serve my date meatballs on a stick!” He sighs. Loud and long. Smiles at me like he’s never seen a woman before in his life. And says, “Goddamn, Emma Dumas. Where the fuck have you been?”

“What?” I say. Because for a second I think he’s remembered me.

“My whole life. I don’t know what it is about you. But I just… feel like we know each other. Where did you go to school?”

“Um… for high school?”

“Any school. Tell me. Tell me everything about you. I’m fucking dying here.”

“I went to…” And I pause and wonder if he’ll figure it out and remember me. And do I want him to remember me? Or don’t I? “I went to Key West High.”

His head backs up in surprise. “Key West. Really?”

I nod. “Born and raised down there.”

“I was there once. Did I tell you that already? I can’t remember.”

“Yeah,” I say. “You said you were racing boats down there when your uncle died.”

“Yachts,” he corrects me, smiling. “And I wasn’t racing. I was on a break and just taking it easy.” Then he sinks back into his chair.

And holy fucking shit. Do those roofies work that fast? Because he definitely looks dizzy.

“What year did you graduate?” he asks.

“Long time ago,” I say.

“How long?” he asks. And now he’s not smiling.

I shrug. “Like thirteen years.”

“Like thirteen years? Or exactly thirteen years?”

“Does it matter?” I ask.

He narrows his eyes at me, then sits up and leans forward, his elbows on the table. “Yeah. It does.”

“Exactly then. Exactly thirteen years ago. I was eighteen,” I say. Because he does remember me.

“And I was twenty,” he says. “That’s the year…” But he doesn’t finish.

“That’s the year what?” I ask.

His eyes flutter and then close. He opens them just as fast. Stares at me. “We did meet before, didn’t we?”

I nod my head. Slowly. There’s no point in pretending now. I already did it. I can hear the boat just off shore as the girls paddle it up next to the beach.

We’re going through with this whether I want to or not.