Page 102 of Limbo

“Because you cared about making me shovel actual shit last year?”

He grins and tosses the rag in a bin. “You’re right. That was kind of fun.”

I make a face at him.

So that Pete can spend more time helping out at the farm this summer, I’ll work at the bar from open to close Monday through Thursday and pick up the lunch shift on Fridays. I won’t make quite as much money as I did last year, but it’s a willing trade-off for no manure duty.

“Is Jordan cool with a long-distance girlfriend over the summer?” he asks.

I shrug. “I haven’t told him about it yet.”

With weekends off, I should be able to go see Jordan a few times a month. Not the perfect scenario, but better than not seeing him at all. He’ll be studying for the LSATs he has in June, and then he has an internship at a law firm that will keep him busy. As for me, I have no idea what will happen after my birthday in July, but history warns me to brace for Graham to pull something.

After he slides me a beer, Pete fills himself a mug and grabs a bottle of whiskey. Two shot glasses rattle together in his other hand. He sets them down and leans on the bar straight across from me, a severe expression on his face. “I didn’t make an ass of myself the first day of preschool when I stole your scissors.”

I laugh and raise my mug. “And I didn’t cry and scream that I hated you in front of everyone.”

He knocks his mug against mine, and we both take a drink.

Our game started a long time ago, the alcohol aspect added later. We pinpoint specific moments in our lives we would do over if we could. Choose a different path based on what we know now. Small changes that could have potentially rippled. Once both of us are satisfied with the change, we drink. We start with beer and save the hard alcohol for later. Otherwise, we would drink ourselves under the table.

By the time Pete pours the first shot, he’s absentmindedly rubbing the scar on his chin. He used to do it more often before it faded. Now he only does it when he’s thinking about who gave it to him.

There’s a reason we switch to the hard stuff when we reach this point. We never talk about it, only alluding to it as the “accident.” As far as I know, other than his grandparents, I’m the only one who knows about what really happened when we were ten. The night his mother went too far and couldn’t hide what she’d been doing to him anymore. Most of the marks stayed hidden over the years, the others easily explained away by him being a boy with a rough streak. But I knew. I knew, and no one listened until it was too late.

I curl my fingers around my shot glass, staring at his fingers doing the same on his. We both say the same thing every time. For some reason, it never gets easier.

“The night of the accident, I showed up at your window five minutes earlier and helped you get out.”

He lifts his glass, agreeing. “Then we walked to Trey’s house, and I showed Kevin the bruises and cuts and burns and—”

I raise my glass, not wanting to hear more. He spent three days in the hospital, recovering from what she had done to him that night, and we’ll both spend the rest of our lives with the memories.

He taps his glass to mine, and we drink, the whiskey burning away the pain.

Pete grimaces, already pouring. “One more to clear the fucking palate.”

We toss back shot two. I shake my head, mouth open and tongue numb while he fills them again.

“How many one-mores are we doing?” I ask when he holds his up.

“Why? Afraid you can’t keep up anymore?” When my eyes narrow, he sets his glass down. “All right, when we were twelve, I never ratted you out to Kevin for stealing the baby Jesus from the manger at the church.”

My mouth falls open. “I knew it was you!”

“He threatened to tell my grandparents it was me, so I had to give you up.”

I hold up my glass and fight a smile. “Since we’re being overly honest about it, I never lied to Kevin about it being you who took Jesus in the first place.”

“Damn it. I’ve felt guilty about that for years, and you fucking deserved it?”

I give an innocent shrug, and he shakes his head, raising his glass.

“Well, I guess this one’s for baby Jesus then.”

We laugh and drink, and I push my glass over for Pete to pour another.

“Next?” he asks, sliding it back.

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