Avi Kaplan: A Collection of Short Stories

Countdown

Ten. The number of drinks you down before finding the courage to kiss him.

Really, this was all Scott's fault.

He'd called you a couple days previous nearly begging you to come out with him and his friends to celebrate the end of their tour. "Please," he drew out, almost whining, "I haven't seen you in like, eight million years and I need to talk to someone other than Mitch."

You heard an exasperated "Hey!" in the background and you stifled your laugh against your hand.

"I don't know, Scott," you said, "This is your celebration, I don't want to interrupt."

Scott sighed heavily and said your name very seriously. "You're coming. I'm picking you up Saturday and I am going to get you drunk. And you can't say no, because I'm bigger than you and I'll just carry you to the bar."

"Fine," you agreed, "But I'm only having two drinks."

Scott just laughed as he hung up.

Now, two days later, your promise of two drinks quickly fades as Mitch and Scott quickly take turns buying rounds for everybody, keeping a steady flow of drinks throughout the night. After somebody yells "Shots!"—you think it's Kevin—you find two shots of tequila in front of you and seven drinks in, you've lost your ability to refuse.

You slam both in rapid succession, the clear liquid burning a path down your throat. Setting the shot glasses down, you look across the bar and see Avi chasing his shot with a lemon.

God, you've never wanted to be a lemon so bad before in your life.

He looks up and catches your stare and you feel as if someone's punched you in the chest and your breath hitches in your throat. You know he's more sober than you, but his cheeks are flushed with alcohol, beads of perspiration dot his brow and—Lord, help you—the first three buttons on his plaid shirt are undone, teasing you with glimpses of his chest hair.

You have harbored a crush on Avi since Scott first introduced you almost a year ago. It was one you let grow in silence partly because one: he had a girlfriend when you first met and two: you were too chicken shit to do anything about it once they broke up. And you've only been in his company a handful of times; you didn't feel you had a claim to his attention.

Scott interrupts your thoughts, thrusting another drink in your hand and pulling you out of your chair. "C'mon, we're all dancing!"

You follow, relying on Scott to half hold you up and you both stumble on to the dance floor. He's laughing in your ear and, sweet Jesus, why is he twirling you? You find your equilibrium and out of the corner of your eye, spot Kevin, Kirstie, Mitch and Avi walking over to where you and Scott are dancing.

Yeah, sure, you're dancing.

Mitch takes your place in front of Scott and you move, trying to avoid spilling the drink in your hand. You land in front of Avi in all of his flush-faced glory and he's laughing and looking all delicious and—fuck it.

You gulp down the rest of the drink and grab Avi by the shirt and pull him towards you. His face widens in surprise and the next thing you know, your left hand is wound in his hair and your lips are on his.

He tastes of tequila and that damn lemon and you moan into his mouth as he wraps an arm around your waist and kisses you back.

Well, if this isn't the damnedest turn of events.

+++

Nine. The number of times you apologized the next day.

You wake up, face down and drooling in the middle of Scott's living room. Your head feels like it's been filled with lead, hot, throbbing lead, your eyes feel like sandpaper and—Jesus Christ—when did the room start spinning?