You know what else I like about you?”

“What?”

“What you see is what you get,” she says. “I like that.”

“You know, Bobby—” I wiggle my brows— “it’s one thing when I call myself shallow, but something entirely different when you say it.”

She smiles, and God, that smile. Her lips—I don’t know how to describe them. I really don’t. Just imagine the most perfectly bitable lips you can imagine, and you might get close. They look so soft I want to run a finger over them, and when she smiles, they transform her face, all the way up to her eyes. “Maybe that’s not what I meant,” she says.

“I hope not.”

“I meant you seem honest. And straightforward.”

“Absolutely,” I lie. “I’m like an onion: layers. Of onion.”

“Purple onion.”

I nod. “That’s the kind I am.”

“I want to read your poetry.”

I laugh loudly enough to make my point.

“Pleaseeeee.”

“I burned it.”

“Burned it?” she says.

“Burned it.”

“Did you have a notebook and everything?”

“A computer.”

“You burned your computer?”

“The whole thing. That’s how bad my poetry is.”

“Even so, that’s pretty dramatic.”

I shrug. “That’s just how we poets do it.”

She giggles again, and it hurts me in my dick every time. “Maybe you aren’t interested in people because you’re so interesting.”

I shake my head immediately. “No way.” I hate myself. “I’m the least interesting person in the world.”

Bobby smiles kindly. “I don’t want to know what you think of me.”

I sigh. “Lacking the gift of prose, I’ll never be able to tell you.”

“Yeah. I’m not sure what rhymes with boring.” Bobby snaps her fingers. “Morning!”

“What? Boring?”

She nods.

“The exact opposite.”

She bats her lashes teasingly. “Am I replaceable?”

“The world—no, all of existence—would mourn your loss.”

She frowns at that, and, hmmm, I thought it was funny. I look out at the ocean, not at her face, and say, “We wouldn’t be amicably sharing a beer right now if I didn’t find you interesting.”

I can’t keep my eyes off her for long, though—not even to preserve a little distance. I watch as she twists her lips into a drunken little frown. “Maybe you really like beer.”

“The point is, how lucky for you that I do, because obviously you were hung over.”

Bobby opens her mouth, then closes it, then opens it again, then closes it again.

“Are you having a stroke?” I smirk.

She smiles, but it’s tight. “Yeah, I was hung over.”

Knew it. “Was it a good time?”

“No!” She says it loudly.

“You didn’t have a good time?”

She shakes her head and sighs. “I didn’t go out, either. I got drunk at home. Alone.” She takes a long drink from her beer.

“Well, that’s no big deal.”

“For like the seventh night in a row.”

“People go through stuff some—”

“And taking Xanax.”

“We’ve all been there. People go through stuff. Life sucks. But hey,” I nod at her, “won’t that be your fourth?”

She’s just pulled her fourth beer from the cooler.

“I think this is my third.”

“I’m pretty sure you’ve had three already.”

“So have you.” She points at me, smiling her drunk smile.

“I’ve only had two.”

“Hmph.” She crosses her arms under her chest and frowns. “So?”

“So I don’t care how drunk you get on your time, but on mine, I want you to be able to drive home.”

“I’m just a little buzzed.”

“All the same.” I hold out my hand. “Safety first, Bobby.”

“What?”

“I need that beer.” This is literally only the second or third time in my life I’ve taken a drink from anyone. What does that say about my life? Whatever. Bobby is glaring at me, and I want to bite her pouty lips. “Please?” I say.

“You really want to take it?” She looks shocked.

“It’s not so much that I want to take it as I want you to be sober in a couple of hours.”

Bobby scowls and drops the beer into my hand. She then sits back in her seat and stares at her empty hand while I put the beer back in the cooler. She takes a deep breath. “Did I really tell you that I’ve gotten drunk alone every night this week?”

I nod. “And you’re popping Xanax.”

Bobby covers her face with both hands and draws her knees up to her chest.

“It’s no big deal, dude.”

She’s grimacing when she pulls her hands away. “Yes, it is. I can’t believe I just admitted that.”

“You and half of Longview.” My mom pops Percocet like hard candy.

“Maybe.” She sighs.

“Definitely. It just means you’re being honest.”

“About what?”

“About life. About how you’re doing.”

“Maybe.” Bobby sighs and slumps in her seat. The she sits up suddenly, her body taut. She’s looking at the Gulf. “What’s that?”

I whip my head around, scanning the horizon.

“Hey!” She—I’m laughing. She stole my beer right out of my hand.

She holds it up. “To honest and open substance abuse.”

I grab another beer from the cooler, and clink it against hers. “To what you said.”

She takes a big swallow. “God made alcohol for a reason.”

“He did.”

“Where would humanity be without it?” she says.

“Overpopulation would be worse.”

Bobby thinks about that for a second. “Tripp, that’s terrible,” she concludes.

“I know.”

She shakes her head. “You’re morbid.”

“Let’s go out tonight.”

Her eyes widen, and mine match them.

“Why?” she murmurs.

“For the purpose of having fun?”

“What would we do?”

“I don’t know.” I said it impulsively. “Get some food maybe. And drinks.”

“What kind of food?”

I narrow my eyes. “Seriously? If you’re not interested, it’s fine, I promise. You won’t hurt my feelings.” That’s a lie. She is hurting my feelings right now. What’s so terrible about me? Other than the obvious.

“It’s not about you,” she says.

“Then what’s it about?”

“I don’t know…” She looks uncertain. Maybe even nervous.

“When you get home tonight, what are you gonna do? Drink yourself to sleep again? Take a Xanax? Watch Lifetime or Netflix and no chill?”

Bobby’s glare could wither flowers.

“Come out with me. We can go to Salty’s. You can drink yourself to sleep there.” Salty’s is the oldest seafood dive in town. Bobby grew up in Longview—no way she can pass up a trip.

“Okay,” she says after a minute, her lips pursed. “But it’s not a date.”

I shake my head. “I’ve got a reputation, after all.”

Her jaw drops, and I hold up my hands before she takes a swing. “I’m joking.”

“You better be.” She crosses her arms. “What time should I meet you there?”

“How about 7:30?”

“I can be there. But wait—it’s Thursday. Don’t they have that special?”

“Yeah.” It’s two-dollar pitchers all night. “Why?”

“Nothing, I just thought there might be a crowd.”

“There probably will be, but we can get a table.”

“Mr. Big Shot,” she says with a smile.

And I smile, too, because she’s going to find out how big.