Clusterfuck

v

At around 11:30, when Toby is on the cusp of freedom, his phone pings with a text from Reggie.

dude u comin or what

Toby glances up at Blue, who's doodling something unintelligible on a trashed receipt with his elbow propped up on the counter. The store's been empty for a little over half an hour now, and Toby hopes it stays that way till the time comes for him to clock out.

uh coming to what? i'm at work, Toby responds, releasing a yawn so powerful that he has to blink a few times to regain his vision after blacking out for a split second.

this party

yeahhh, no thanks. i'm exhausted

comonnnn bro we re having fun

i thought you were hanging out with Vicki?

ya i was and then jordan invited us to his place so were here now with a couple other ppl just chillin

Toby rolls his eyes. i'll think about it. and if i do come, i'm not staying for a long time.

don't b a party pooper man

He turns his phone off and shoves it in his pockets as a new customer staggers through the door. So close.

~ ~ ~

Toby finds himself standing at the door to Jordan McConnell's apartment against his better judgement. He doesn't really know exactly why he came; maybe because if he didn't, he'd never hear the end of Reggie's lecture about how he's super lame and doesn't know how to have fun. Or maybe it's because he just hasn't had a drink in a while and truthfully does not think he would mind one right about now. Probably both, honestly.

The music is audible from outside, some hip hop song he can't think of the name of right now, but it's not obnoxiously loud. Toby hopes that's a sign that there aren't too many people here. He'd enjoy himself a bit more if there weren't.

He raises his fist to knock, but decides it's pointless and instead turns the knob (unlocked, as suspected) and walks right in. The stove light is flicked on in the kitchen, which is just to the left of the entrance, and LED lights that line the tops of the walls illuminate the rest of the place, each room glowing a different color.

Toby peeks his head into the living room, which is swallowed in red. Maybe nine or ten people are sitting around, either on the couch, the floor, or the armchair. Most of them have a drink in their hand, and the rest—Toby glances down at the Ziploc bag of brownies on the table—look like they've reached peak relaxation.

"Heyyyyy," Reggie's familiar, gravelly voice sounds out from the edge of the couch farthest from where Toby stands, a smile stretched wide on his face. Vicki is perched on his lap, her legs intertwining with his, which are propped up on the coffee table, her head resting on his shoulder. "You came."

"Toby, my man," Jordan greets, standing up from his spot on the floor in front of the TV stand and, after catching his balance on wobbly knees, claps his hand with Toby's and pulls him in for a bro hug. "Been a while."

"Yeah." Toby moves towards the vacant space on the sofa, in between the conjoined Reggie and Vicki and a girl with cat eye glasses with the full intent to sit and make himself comfortable, but Jordan tugs him away with a short disclaimer that someone's already sitting there, and they're just in the bathroom. Apparently they've been "DIY-ing cocktails," as put by Jordan, and had one too many.

So instead, Toby plops down on the ground next to Jordan, who immediately fills his hands with a cold can of beer. Toby's hands are already prickly from the outside temperatures, and the drink seems to finish the job and numb them entirely. Toby, truthfully, does not care at all. He cracks the can open, mentally saying grace in a way that his parents would probably crucify him for, before downing a long, underage, unknowingly necessary swig.