Broken Carts ✔️

Aisle 4: Upheaval

There were a few key problems with getting "plastered" by Ezra's standards: first, I'd already taken up residency in Drunkland but still felt inclined to keep up with his alcohol consumption; second, I severely underestimated how much Ezra could drink without getting as wasted as me; third, he and Lynette were terrible influences.

"Finish my drink for me," Lynette kept saying, handing me half-full vodka sours.

"Still not done with your beer?" Ezra would ask with a frown, holding his own empty bottle.

Simply put, the last scraps of my tolerance left over from school were tested. At some point– somewhere between shots of Jameson and what seemed like my five hundredth beer– my memories of the night get muddled.

I remember Lynette giving me a ten dollar bill to play anything I wanted on the jukebox. I don't know what I chose, but I'd wager a guess that Drunk Milo would've queued Swimming Pools (Drank) by Kendrick Lamar at least once or twice.

I remember running away from Ryan whilst spewing comments about the hypothetical size of his penis. Pretty sure I thought I was whispering, but judging from the reactions of the people around me, my voice wasn't much quieter than a full-on yell.

More than anything else, I remember Ezra. In fact, I can scarcely recall anything that doesn't involve him talking to me, smiling at me, or being around me. Incidentally, he was also the focal point of my sole instance of near-sober clarity.

In that moment, Ezra was holding a beer and leaning on the wall. I stood beside him. We were talking, he was laughing, and then I noticed Lynette. She was wrapped up in that tall girl's arms, soaking it in. Seeing her set off a chain reaction in my mind.

"Ezra," I hissed as I scooted closer to him. "Hammurabi's Code of Roommate Warfare."

"What?"

I motioned to Lynette. "Perfect opportunity."

His cheeks looked especially pink. "She's barely paying attention, man."

"She was looking over a second ago. Trust me."

"Trust you? You're drunk," he said through a grin.

"Yeah?" My head drifted toward him on its own. "So are you."

"Considerably less so."

"Okay, but... still."

Ezra chuckled at me.

I felt warm breath staining my skin before I noticed the look of longing in his eyes, the same gaze he offered the night we did trick shots on the pool table and laughed about shirts and handshakes we'd never make. I'm not sure if I even had the prank in mind when I leaned in and brought my lips to his.

The kiss was quick, nothing more than a jolt of electricity, but it resonated in my limbs. When we broke apart, I realized Ezra had been smiling the whole time.

"I don't think she saw," he surmised despite maintaining our eye contact.

"Don't think so," I muttered.

"We should try again."

"You think?"

"Definitely."

Then we made out. Like, made out. It was a full-on bar hook up, the cringe-worthy type that screams we're a one-night stand! to all onlookers. In retrospect, it was embarrassing and I should've been way more ashamed.

But I was hooked on the warmth Ezra offered. His hands found their way to my waist, and I grabbed on to him for dear life because holy shit, when Ezra stuck his tongue down my throat, he fucking meant it. My head's typical shrieking went mute. I felt unreal. When we split apart, oxygen returned to my lungs like it'd come home from war. We stared at each other for a breathless moment.