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“My place on Echo. The GAC is on, baby. We’re ready-set.”
“When?”
Amilcar grabbed the phone. “Bring your ass over here before this
knucklehead opens his mouth on cellular.”
He was always the paranoid one, and rightly so.
“Okay,” I said, finally awake enough to put my feet on the floor.
“Coming.”
I’d had the cab stop at the liquor store on the way. I picked up a bottle of
vodka and a bag of lemons, then ran back in for ice.
They always needed more ice.
The little house hummed with music and the laughter and chatter of a
few dozen people.
Did I know everyone? Or were there new people?
I walked up to the porch with my loot, and through the door, hoping for
no more than a celebration. But I got more than that. I was greeted with
exultation and embraces from friends who had known me when I didn’t
even know myself.
I was home.
“This pendejo”—Liddy filled the wet shot glasses from the pitcher with
one hand and flicked the other in Amilcar’s direction—“had a bug so deep
in his ass like, ‘We have to show Fance, man. She always has these ideas.’
And I was like, ‘Nah-nah, leave her alone.’”
We snapped up the glasses of lemon drop.
“And I did so, what are you complaining about?” Amilcar said.
“To complaining!” I cried.
Seven—maybe six—maybe a dozen and a half glasses clicked mine.
The drink slid down my throat as I swayed. There was a puddle on the
table, and the room shifted back and forth like a dinghy on the ocean.
“Fuck, I missed you guys.” I side-hugged Irma, who was sitting next to
me. “And I’m so happy you’re still wrecking shit. We need to toast.” I