Check, Please (Book #2)

Sixteen.

A silence hung over our group's corner of the restaurant as Phil rose to his feet, his hands held up for continued quiet. Eight pairs of chopsticks rested on top of eight glasses of beer, and each glass had been placed in front of its owner. With the chopsticks came carefully balanced shots of sake, along with a group of waitresses who stood near our table wearing murderous expressions.

Without warning, Phil pounded his fists on the table, sending a ripple of vibrations across the tops of all of our drinks. One of the waitresses jumped.

"When I say, 'sake', you say 'bomb,'" he shouted, hitting the table again on the last word. "Sake!"

We all hit the table now. "Bomb!"

"Sake!"

"Bomb!"

"Sake, sake, sake!"

"Bomb, bomb, bomb!"

Our collective banging sent our shots tumbling into the glasses below and, in unison, we all reached for our newly mixed drink and chugged the contents. When we were done, the waitresses swept in without a word, gathering our empty glasses and scowling as they surveyed the liquid that we'd spilled.

"I've got the next round," Carlos announced, and while most of the guys cheered, I felt a twinge of sympathy when I heard our servers groan. 

I'd been reluctant to agree when Phil originally suggested ordering sake bombs for the table. For one, I didn't want to get kicked out for being too rowdy, but I was even more afraid of disturbing other people in the restaurant while they ate. After turning his offer down for the first hour of our meal, however, I realized that the place was almost exclusively filled with people on their way to some concert at the Staples Center. Most of them were hammered and after a pack of women started singing the national anthem, I doubted that any of them would be bothered by a little extra noise. 

I waited a few minutes longer just to be sure but the lack of married folks on dates emboldened me enough that I eventually relented. Although one couple looked less than impressed with our antics, their disapproval was outweighed by the number of forty-something-year-old guys in jerseys who stopped by our table to reminisce about their glory days. Each boring story came with another drink for me, and by the time Parker motioned for the check, I'd switched to water in an effort to pace myself. Despite my efforts not to peak too early, I nearly forgot to grab my jacket from the back of my chair when we left. 

"You good?" Parker asked me as I staggered outside.

"Always," I mumbled, reflexively checking my pockets for my wallet and keys. When I couldn't find my phone, I turned to head back inside but Parker grabbed me and slid the touchscreen into my hand. "Thanks."

Two notifications popped up when I typed in the passcode. One was an email from the university's Career Services Center, which I promptly deleted, but the other was a text from Melanie. I glanced furtively at Parker before opening it. Happy birthday, the message read, I hope you have fun tonight! Sorry that I couldn't make it.

I caught myself smiling while I read the text but didn't trust myself to type out a coherent response. Even after our lunch date earlier in the day, all Gemma had thought to send me with respect to my birthday was a rant about how offended she was that we hadn't invited her to come along to the bars. Pocketing my phone again, I turned to Parker and thought aloud, "You should've told Melanie to come."

"I did."

"Really?"

"Yeah, twice. She said she was busy." Parker stuffed his hands into his front pockets. "Why do you care so much, anyway?"