So I climb into the car and let them drive me to the apartment they’re sharing as roommates, and when Lyle pours wine all the way up to the rim on one of the glasses he bought “twelve for one dollar” at a garage sale, I take a deep breath and force myself to smile.
“Cheers,” I say and down the entire contents in a few huge gulps. A shudder racks my body when my glass is empty; red wine isn’t meant to be chugged like ice water on a hot summer’s day. But Lyle and Brian slap me on the back as though I’d just won Olympic gold and refill my glass.
More people show up after a while, and soon the place is packed from wall to wall. Everyone is drinking and dancing and laughing and I join them, pushing late-night poetry readings and heartfelt confessions and half-swallowed sobs to the back of my mind.