Walking Disaster

bill.
    When she saw Trenton, her eyes lit up. “You made it!” Cami grabbed three bottles of beer, popped the tops, and sat them on the bar in front of him.
    “I said I would.” He smiled, leaning over the counter to peck her lips.
    That was the end of their conversation, as she quickly turned to slide another beer bottle down the bar and strained to hear another order.
    “She’s good,” Shepley said, watching her.
    Trenton smiled. “She damn sure is.”
    “Are you . . . ?” I began.
    “No,” Trent said, shaking his head. “Not yet. I’m working on it. She’s got some asshole college boy in Cali. He just needs to piss her off one last time and
she’s going to figure out what a pecker head he is.”
    “Good luck with that,” Shepley said, taking a swig of his beer.
    Trenton and I intimidated a small group enough for them to leave their table, so we nonchalantly commandeered it to start our night of drinking and people watching.
    Cami took care of Trenton from afar, sending over a waitress regularly with full shot glasses of tequila and beer bottles. I was glad it was my fourth shot of Cuervo when the second 1980s ballad
of the night began.
    “This band sucks ass, Trent,” I yelled over the noise.
    “You just don’t appreciate the legacy of hair bands!” he yelled back. “Hey. Looky there,” he said, pointing to the dance floor.
    A redhead sauntered across the crowded space, a glossed smile brightening her pale face.
    Trenton stood up to hug her, and her smile grew wider. “Hey, T! How’ve you been?”
    “Good! Good! Working. You?”
    “Great! I’m living in Dallas, now. Working at a PR firm.” Her eyes scanned our table, to Shepley and then to me. “Oh my God! Is this your baby brother? I used to babysit
you!”
    My eyebrows pulled together. She had double Ds and curves like a 1940s pinup model. I was sure if I had spent any time with her in my formative years, I would have remembered.
    Trent smiled. “Travis, you remember Carissa, don’t you? She graduated with Tyler and Taylor.”
    Carissa held out her hand, and I shook it once. I put the filter end of a cigarette between my front teeth, and flicked the lighter. “I don’t think I do,” I said, sticking the
nearly empty pack in my front shirt pocket.
    “You weren’t very old.” She smiled.
    Trenton gestured to Carissa. “She just went through a bad divorce with Seth Jacobs. You remember Seth?”
    I shook my head, already tired of the game Trenton was playing.
    Carissa took the full shot glass that was in front of me and slurped it dry, and then she sidestepped until she was next to me. “I heard you’ve gone through a rough time lately, too.
Maybe we could keep each other company tonight?”
    By the look in her eyes, I could see she was drunk . . . and lonely. “Not looking for a babysitter,” I said, taking a drag.
    “Well, maybe just a friend? It’s been a long night. I came here alone because all of my girlfriends are married now, ya know?” She giggled nervously.
    “Not really.”
    Carissa looked down, and I felt a small bit of guilt. I was being a dick, and she hadn’t done anything to deserve that from me.
    “Hey, I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t really wanna be here.”
    Carissa shrugged. “Me, either. But I didn’t want to be alone.”
    The band stopped playing, and the lead singer began counting down from ten. Carissa looked around, and then back to me, her eyes glossing over. Her line of sight fell to my lips, and then in
unison the crowd screamed, “HAPPY NEW YEAR!”
    The band played a rough version of “Auld Lang Syne,” and then Carissa’s lips smashed into mine. My mouth moved against hers for a moment, but her lips were so foreign, so
different from what I was used to, it only made Abby’s memory more vivid, and the realization that she was gone more painful.
    I pulled away and wiped my mouth with my sleeve.
    “I’m so sorry,” Carissa said, watching me leave the table.
    I pushed through the crowd to the men’s bathroom and locked myself in the only stall. I pulled out my phone and held it in my hands, my vision blurry and the rotten twang of tequila on my
tongue.
    Abby’s probably drunk, too,
I thought.
She wouldn’t care if I called. It’s New Year’s Eve. She might even be waiting for my call.
    I scrolled over the names in my address book, stopping on Pigeon. I turned over my wrist, seeing the same inked into my skin. If Abby wanted to talk to me, she would have called.