Page 45 of Sin Bin
I think they celebrated pretty hard, Ollie signs when I’m done texting.
I think my brother drank half the alcohol in the state. And we might have drunk the other half, I joke, looking at the empty glasses that litter our table.Since Booker’s not going to make it, I guess I’ll head upstairs.
Ollie gives me that same split look as before when he makes the sign for the wordOr.
Or what?I sign back,following his line of sight to the dance floor at the far end of the bar.
Or we could get a redo and dance. Just for old times’ sake.
Redos aren’t real, I remind him.
I’m a philosophy major, Fallon. I could argue that nothing is real. Or that reality is what we make it.
I laugh.What’s the point of a redo? I sign, because I’m genuinely curious.What’s next, are you going to redo my whole life so I’m not your teammate’s sister?
Ollie shakes his head.I’m just going to redo the part where I give a shit. Besides, what else are we doing tonight?
His words make a strange kind of sense, or maybe it’s the three drinks I’ve had in less than an hour.How about you get enough of a redo so we can be friends?I sign.
Ollie nods.I’ll take it. You give it to me straight, Fallon, and that’s what I need.
Because it seems to be a night for honesty, I keep talking. I’ll never lie to you, Ollie, or tell you something because it’s what I think you want to hear.
Ollie’s eyes meet mine. I’ll never lie to you, either, Fallon,he signs and his promise feels like a weight I’m happy to carry.
That’s what I need—honesty. Well, that and freedom,I sign, vaguely aware that I’m oversharing.My grandparents love me, but they want me to fit a certain mold, and well, remember that whole authority issue I have? Let’s just say my grandparents and I see things very differently.
I’ll never hold you back, Fallon,Ollie says. I want you to be exactly who you are.
A fuzzy part of my brain is aware that our conversation is pretty heavy for two people on the cusp of friendship sitting at a bar. But we’ve had enough drinks thateverything feels important, every word feels necessary.That’s what I want for you, too. You know that, right? It’s why I give you a hard time. You told me once that you want to be a leader, and I know you can be. You just have to trust yourself. Your instincts are so good.
I always thought my instincts were good, too. There are a few times I didn’t trust them and I’ve regretted it ever since.
I’m not sure if we’re still talking about hockey, but my advice applies to life in general.Don’t make that mistake again. Trust yourself.
Thanks,he signs.
I know he’s no stranger to compliments so I take a certain amount of satisfaction in the pink hue that tints his cheeks as my words register.
So we’re friends?I ask.
Friends, he signs back.
Well, friends dance, right? If Viv were here, she’d have me out on the dance floor, so I don’t see why this should be any different.
Instead of answering, Ollie offers me his hand and leads me across the bar and over to the dance floor. Because my hearing aids are turned down, I’m not paying much attention to the music. It’s too hard for my brain to decipher sounds in a room this crowded, especially when I’m tired. But Ollie’s holding me close, his front to my back and I’m following his lead. The beat of the music is coming through, even if the words aren’t, so I just move my body in time and let myself enjoy the moment.
The tempo changes as a new song comes through the speakers. Ollie raises his arm to spin me around and though I should feel dizzy, I just feel free. But when I put my hands back on his chest and look up at his face, I start to feel other things. I notice the thick lashes that frame his face. I ache to touch the wayward lock of hair that alwaysfalls across his forehead. I want to know if his lips are as full and soft as they appear.
But that’s a question that should never be answered, so I clasp my hand in his and lead him to the bar.Are you thirsty? I’m thirsty, I sign.
Maybe it’s my imagination, but Ollie looks as dazed as I feel.I’m so thirsty, he signs.We should order more drinks. And shots. Your twenty-first birthday doesn’t count unless you do a shot.
That’s the most logical phrase anyone’s ever said to me, so when our server hands over our drinks and two tiny shot glasses, we toast to my birthday. The tequila burns going down, but I don’t hate it. And I just turned twenty-one, so I should live a little. It feels good to embrace my impulsive side, even though I know that once we’ve finished our drinks I’ll head upstairs to my room, crawl into a bed lined with zillion thread count sheets and a mattress that feels like a cloud, and drift off into a blissful sleep.
19
Ollie
