Page 46 of Cookout Carnage
“Not that. Hopefully I didn’t do any damage.”
“You did no damage except now I’m covered in spit and beer.”
She puts the beer down, then takes my hand and places it on her stomach, her eyes filling with tears as she struggles to smile through the emotion.
She blurts out through her tears, “And if…”
I cock my head to the side. “And if what?”
She glares at me, then smiles larger than the universe can handle. Her voice lowers as she says slower, “And if.”
My whole body is a ball of adrenaline. There’s nothing I could ever want more than this. I fall to my knees and put both of my hands on her belly. I look up at her through my own tears and kiss both of them through her sweater and jeans.
I say as reverently as possible, “And if.”
The end. For now…
II
OFF WITH A BANG
by
Evie Alexander
PROLOGUE
February 12 – Chicago, IL
United Lounge, O’Hare airport
3.45 p.m. US CST
FIVE MONTHS AGO
‘No, no, no, no, no, no, no.’ Tristan counted on his fingers. ‘There are seven stages, and I’m currently at number five.’
Seven was a magical and mystical number, labelling everything from days of the week to deadly sins. In the sixteenth century, Shakespeare described the seven ages of man. Now, in the twenty-first century, Tristan Fawcett-Underwood was reciting his own contribution to the lexicon: the seven stages of drunkenness.
It was all Tabi’s fault. The power had blown in O’Hare airport, and he was stuck in a lounge with five strangers. Two – Rory and Ben – were fellow Brits. The other three, Jonathan, Sabrina, and Tabi, were American. Tabi, by far the brashest, had insisted they get wasted on wine produced by her vineyard. So now everyone, bar Scottish teetotaller Rory, was sloshed and struggling to stay upright.
‘Bullshit, man. There are four,’ shouted Tabi. ‘I’m the freaking expert here. You need to listen to me.’
‘Do we have a choice?’ asked Rory.
‘Pipe down, bagpipes,’ she replied, then snorted with laughter at her own joke. ‘There are four: buzzed, horny, crazy, fall over.’
‘Where does loud and annoying come in?’ Rory asked her.
She raised her glass and grinned. ‘That’s just me.’
‘So, Trisssssstan,’ Sabrina slurred. ‘What are they? There’s one where your eyes don’t work, right? And I have nine stages. But I don’t know what this one is.’
He put his glass down and raised his hands, then stared at them for a few seconds. Had they always been so big? Was that a freckle? Or a mole?
‘Tristan! Focus,’ said Sabrina, trying and failing to snap her fingers.
‘Number one,’ he began. ‘Buzzed—’
