Page 8 of Wildfire
How am I supposed to fake being confident with women in these conditions?
“Muffin?” Aurora asks as we slot into the space between our friends, letting go of my hand to rummage through her purse for her cell phone. I want to do something with my hands instead of standing awkwardly beside her, but checking my phone is my least favorite thing to do, so I settle for pushing my hands into my pants pockets instead. I watch as she swipes across at her notifications, huffing slightly before pushing it back into her purse and looking up at me.
“It’s a really, really long story.” My hour-long fake relationship with Stassie feels like a million years ago now, and I’m not even sure I could describe the weird but wholesome bond we now share. Even though she says my poor communication skills give her a headache.
Say something interesting, Callaghan.
Aurora doesn’t say anything further to my nonanswer, instead turning to talk to Emilia on her other side. Blowing out a sigh, I turn my attention to my friends. The guys are hammering Robbie with questions and I can see him getting more and more irritated. “Where’s Hen?” Robbie asks, eyeing each of my teammates. “This was his fucking idea.”
“I’m here!” Henry shouts, pushing his way through the crowd, a woman with mussed hair following him closely. “Sorry, I’m here.”
If this was hockey and Henry was late because he was getting laid, Robbie would tear into him. Robbie takes party games as seriously as he takes hockey, but he’s desperately trying to prove he’s not as uptight as Faulkner after being compared to him all day.
Becky, Henry’s latest fling, whispers something into his ear, kisses him on the cheek, then disappears back into the party. Henry’s smirk is annoying Robbie more, which is great for every player on a secret countdown, waiting for him to go off.
Robbie stops staring everyone down and his arms lift slightly, like he’s about to clap, and everyone holds their breath, but one arm lowers and the other wraps around Lola’s hips. “Oka—”
“Do I have time to go to the bathroom?” Kris asks.
“No, you fucking don’t,” Robbie snaps. “Just fucking stand there and listen to the rules of the game before I lose my goddamn mind!”
There’s an echo of sighs as everyone besides me and Henry reaches for their wallets and piles bills into Kris’s outstretched palm. Robbie waits with his arms folded tightly across his chest, and when all the money has changed hands, he starts again. “The next person to piss me off isn’t playing next season.” Everyone waits silently, biting their lips trying not to laugh. “You pull out a Jenga block: if it’s blank, the turn moves to the next person, then you stack it on the top of the tower.”
“So like regular Jenga then.” JJ grins.
Robbie ignores him, probably because he can’t bench JJ anymore. “If you get a dare, you either do it, do the forfeit on the back, or drink the two shots. If you’re not a two-hundred-pound hockey player, you only need to do one shot to make things fair. Whoever knocks the tower over has to streak down Maple Ave. Lola, you go first.”
“Wait,” Joe interrupts. “Why are there shots if there are forfeits on the back of the blocks?”
Robbie pins him with a look that sends a chill down my spine. “Because I made the rules and I say there are shots and forfeits.”
The game starts, and in typical Titans fashion it’s chaos. Mattie has to send the last photo on his camera roll to his family group chat—he won’t tell us what it is, but he does step away from the table to take a call from his grandmother. Henry and Bobby have to switch clothes. Joe pulls a block that reads “Give your underwear to the person opposite you,” and Aurora’s friend Emilia argues with Kris that she’s definitely not opposite Joe; he is. By the time the game reaches our side of the table, Kris is wearing Joe’s boxers over his clothes and he takes two shots instead of making out with Emilia, who has a girlfriend and threatens to punch him if he even tries. Emilia pulls a blank block, followed by Aurora doing the same. It’s hard to miss the disappointment.
I’m distracted by her cute pout when I hear a “Hurry the fuck up, muffin” from one of the guys. I push the block through the center carefully.
SHOW THE LAST MESSAGE YOU RECEIVED TO THE PERSON BESIDE YOU
I try not to drop the block as my hands start to sweat, flipping it over because whatever my forfeit is won’t be as bad as that.
SEND FAULKNER AN “I LOVE YOU” TEXT
Wrong.
People are asking me what it says, but my mind is running, working out how to get out of this without explaining why I need to. Aside from having no desire to get on Coach’s bad side again, my last-received text message was from my dad asking me to send him money. My stomach sinks with the weight of the ugly truth that he finds a way to snake his way into every situation and spoil it. I didn’t even read it fully before closing the conversation; it’s always the same shitty excuse anyway.
I’ll pay you back. I’ll pay you double back. I know a guy who knows the trainer and the race is a sure thing.
Or, once he’s had a drink:You have everything because of me. You’ve turned your back on this family. Won’t even help your own flesh and blood, you’re not my son. You think you’re better than us because you go to a fancy school, you’ll just fuck it up anyway.
Impatient for a response, Stassie plucks the block from my hand and reads it out to the group, who understandably laughs. I’d laugh, too, if the message was from anyone else. I take a shot in each hand, downing them in quick succession.
“Wow, you really didn’t want me to see those nudes,” Aurora says as I wipe a stray droplet with the back of my hand. “I’m kidding, don’t look so serious. It’s nice.”
“Nice?”
She nods. “That you’re not flashing around your private stuff. Private is nice.”
Private. Something I’m good at. Shame it’s for all the wrong reasons.
