Walking Disaster

them.
    Another knock spurred Brazil into action, and he took several quick steps to the door, swinging it wide open, revealing America and Abby in the doorway.
    “HAPPY BIRTHDAY!” we all yelled in unison.
    Abby’s eyes grew wide, and then she smiled, quickly covering her mouth. America nudged her inside, and everyone gathered around.
    As I made my way to Abby, the crowd split. She looked phenomenal, wearing a gray dress and yellow heels. The palms of my hands cupped each side of her smiling face, and I pressed my lips against
her forehead.
    “Happy birthday, Pigeon.”
    “It’s not ’til tomorrow,” she said, smiling at everyone around us.
    “Well, since you were tipped off, we had to make some last-minute changes to surprise you. Surprised?”
    “Very!”
    Finch rushed up to wish her a happy birthday, and America elbowed her side. “Good thing I got you to run errands with me today or you would have shown up looking like ass!”
    “You look great,” I said, making a show of looking her over.
Great
wasn’t the most poetic word I could have used, but I didn’t wanna overdo it.
    Brazil came over to give Abby a bear hug. “And I hope you know America’s Brazil-is-creepy story was just a line to get you in here.”
    America laughed. “It worked, didn’t it?”
    Abby shook her head, still grinning and wide-eyed from the shock of it all. She leaned into America’s ear and whispered something, and then America whispered back. I was going to have to
ask her later what that was about.
    Brazil cranked up the volume on the stereo, and everyone screamed. “Come here, Abby!” he said, walking to the kitchen. He picked up the bottle of tequila from the bar, and stood
before the shot glasses lined up on the counter. “Happy birthday from the football team, baby girl,” he smiled, pouring each shot glass full of Patrón. “This is the way we
do birthdays: You turn nineteen, you have nineteen shots. You can drink ’em or give ’em away, but the more you drink, the more of these you get,” he said, fanning out a handful of
twenties.
    “Oh my God!” Abby squealed. Her eyes lit up at the site of so much green.
    “Drink ’em up, Pidge!” I said.
    Abby looked to Brazil, suspicious. “I get a twenty for every shot I drink?”
    “That’s right, lightweight. Gauging by the size of you, I’m going to say we’ll get away with losing sixty bucks by the end of the night.”
    “Think again, Brazil,” Abby said. She lifted the first shot glass to her mouth and rolled the rim from the side of her bottom lip to the middle of her mouth. Her head tipped back to
empty the glass, and then she rolled the rim across the rest of her lip, dropping it into her other hand. It was the sexiest thing I’d ever seen.
    “Holy shit!” I said, suddenly turned on.
    “This is really a waste, Brazil,” Abby said, wiping the corners of her mouth. “You shoot Cuervo, not Patrón.”
    The smug smile on Brazil’s face faded, and he shook his head and shrugged. “Get after it, then. I’ve got the wallets of twelve football players that say you can’t finish
ten.”
    She narrowed her eyes. “Double or nothing says I can drink fifteen.”
    I couldn’t help but smile, and at the same time wondered how in God’s name I was going to behave myself if she kept acting like a fucking Vegas hustler. It was hot as hell.
    “Whoa!” Shepley cried. “You’re not allowed to hospitalize yourself on your birthday, Abby!”
    “She can do it,” America said, staring at Brazil.
    “Forty bucks a shot?” Brazil asked, looking unsure.
    “Are you scared?” Abby asked.
    “Hell no! I’ll give you twenty a shot, and when you make it to fifteen, I’ll double your total.”
    She popped back another shot. “That’s how Kansans do birthdays.”
    The music was loud, and I made sure to dance with Abby to every song she’d agree to. The whole apartment was full of smiling college kids, a beer in one hand, and a shot glass in the
other. Abby would veer off occasionally to hammer back another shot, and then return with me to our makeshift dance floor in the living room.
    The birthday gods must have been pleased with my efforts, because just when Abby was getting a good buzz, a slow song came on. One of my favorites. I kept my lips close to her ear, singing to
her, and leaning back to mouth the important parts I wanted her to understand were from me. She probably didn’t catch that part, but that didn’t stop me from trying.
    I