Lincoln shut down his computer quickly and hurried out of the building to his car. He didn’t even buckle his seat belt until he was on the freeway. Didn’t even know where he was going until he got there. Justin’s apartment. Lincoln had driven Justin home a few times, but he’d never been inside.
Maybe Justin would still be there. Maybe Lincoln could still get in on the millennial debauchery.
Dena answered the door. She was wearing her work uniform, a pink smock with little white teeth printed on it. Whole teeth, roots and all. They were supposed to be cute, but he found teeth without gums disconcerting.
“Hey, Lincoln.”
“Hey. Is Justin here?”
“Not yet. He had to work late. Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. I was just thinking I’d go to the concert with you guys. If that’s all right. If the offer still stands.”
“Yeah, of course,” she said. “Justin will be here soon. Have a seat.” He did. In the only chair in Justin’s living room, a giant leather recliner. “Can I get you something? A beer?”
“That’d be great.”
She handed him a Mickey’s big mouth. Beer, malt liquor, same difference.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” she asked.
“Completely.”
“I was just going to go get ready.”
“Yeah. Definitely. Go ahead. Don’t mind me, I’ll watch TV.”
“Okay,” Dena said. She hesitated a moment, then walked away.
Lincoln was pretty sure that it was a mistake, coming here. But he couldn’t have stayed at work.
Knowing Beth was there, that she might be thinking about him. Knowing that he couldn’t talk to her.
That he didn’t have the guts, was that it? Or was it that he knew it was wrong, that even talking to her would be like trading with insider information?
Or maybe he was just afraid to do something real.
It was worse now that he knew what she looked like. It was already worse. Now that his wandering thoughts and warm feelings had a face. And freckles. And snug strawberry corduroys. It was unbearable to think of that face searching him out in the hallways. Lighting up when she saw him.
Watching him.
Maybe she was still there. At her desk. Maybe he could still catch her and kiss her and tell her …
tell her what?
When Justin walked in, Lincoln wasn’t sure whether he’d been waiting in the living room for a few minutes or an hour. Probably an hour. He’d finished three Mickeys. Three Mickeys on an empty stomach. He wasn’t drunk exactly, but he was fuzzy.
“What’re you doing here?” Justin said happily. “I thought you had to work.”
“I did. And then I didn’t.”
“Did something happen?”
He thought of Beth and her long brown hair and the phone cord winding around her fingers. He thought of himself standing like a moron against the wall. “No,” he said, “nothing ever happens. I had to get out of there.”
“Well, all right. Let me change into something I can afford for Dena to puke on, and then we’ll get this motherfucker started.”
Lincoln held up his empty bottle. “Cheers,” he said.
Dena came to sit with Lincoln while Justin got dressed. She’d changed into going-out clothes. Tight black jeans and stacked-heel boots. She’d put on makeup that would look fine at the bar, but looked too bright and shiny in the overhead light.
“We’re meeting a few of my friends at Friday’s first,” she said. “Are you hungry?”
“Sure,” he said. “That sounds great.”
“They’re all single,” she said.
“Single girls on New Year’s,” Justin shouted from the bedroom. “Double down.”
“My friend Lisa will be there,” Dena said. “Do you remember her? From The Steel Guitar?”
Lincoln remembered. He could still taste the licorice. Justin held out another Mickey’s on the way to the door, and Lincoln took it.
T.G.I. FRIDAY’S WAS a blur. He entertained Dena’s friends by ordering whatever they did, drinks with whipped cream and cherries and blinking plastic ice cubes. Even Lincoln’s steak had whiskey in it. He was more than tipsy when they got to the Ranch Bowl. Do guys get tipsy, he wondered, or, if you’re a guy, are there just different degrees of drunk? How many degrees of drunk was he? What would happen if he stopped drinking now? Would he feel better or worse?
They’d timed their arrival perfectly. Sacajawea was just taking the stage. Justin used Lincoln as a wedge to make room at the bar.
“Are you okay, big guy? Lincoln? Hey.” Dena was talking to him.
Lincoln nodded. He was okay. He was fine.
The first song started with a guitar solo. All Sacajawea’s songs started with guitar solos. Justin whooped, and the girls around them screamed. “Oh my God, look at him,” said someone at Lincoln’s elbow. “He’s so hot.”