Chapter One

one

“The World Series of binge drinking.”

That’s how Kat first described tonight, like a cultural event we’d be stupid to miss. Blackout Wednesday, she insisted, wasn’t just any night out; it was a tradition, a legacy, a rite of passage we were practically obligated to undergo. In fairness, no one has ever accused her of being under dramatic.

This was months ago, back before she packed up and transferred to the University of Illinois, leaving me behind for a surprise fifth semester at Weymouth Community College. We were crouched on her bedroom floor, shoving a semester’s worth of going-out tops into too few suitcases and talking about our upcoming birthdays, the first in a decade we’d be celebrating apart. Not just any birthday, either— the birthday. Kat’s twenty-first was just days before mine. I could drive down to visit her in Champaign-Urbana, or Kat could make a trip back for a weekend…or what about waiting until she was home on break? What about Blackout Wednesday?

Kat’s eyes lit up as she described the drunken high school reunion hosted on Thanksgiving Eve in hometown bars nationwide. She painted the night with a sheen of sticky nostalgia—what better way to celebrate the retirement of our fake IDs than over two of our favorite hobbies: drinking and judging former classmates? Thus, the plan for Murphy and Kat’s 21st Birthday Blowout was born: we’d meet at my house, walk to the bar, drink like it’s the end of the world, and head back home to inhale Oreos and watch trash TV till we both konked out on my parents’ air mattress, then head over to her parents’ for Thanksgiving the next day. If you subtract the bar and the holiday, it’s roughly how she and I have spent every weekend for the last ten years. My parents didn’t love my pitch to hang back from our annual Thanksgiving Florida trip, but when I reminded Mom and Dad that I’d spent my actual twenty-first drinking a single Heineken and watching Wheel of Fortune with the two of them, they gave in.

Now, the night in question has arrived, and this usually divey bar is dressed for the occasion. A section of the sticky, beer-soaked floor has been designated for dancing, and the low ceilings are draped with Christmas lights that cast a red and green glow on the faces of townies and Geneva High School grads. The music is loud, but the crowd is louder, all of them shouting and slurring through their “how have you beens.” Everything is just as Kat promised, except that we’re short one critical element: Kat.

I sigh as I readjust the folded scrap of cardboard balancing the wobbly leg of this two-top table, then check my texts for the thousandth time. Still no word from our girl. I wasn’t surprised when Kat said she was running behind and would meet me at the bar—it’ll be a cold day in hell when she’s on time for something—but I was… annoyed . Justifiably so, I think, considering this wasn’t the first change to our weekend plans.

In a moment of self-pity, I scroll back through our text thread, hurting my own feelings all over again as I reread last week’s breaking news: Kat’s new boyfriend will be joining us for Thanksgiving dinner. Over the last three months, she’s spared no detail about Hot Daniel from Music History, so I knew she was pretty serious about the guy. What I didn’t know was that my Thanksgiving with the Flemings was being rewritten into a remake of Meet the Parents , and that I’d be playing the esteemed role of third wheel.

Not tonight though. We promised that tonight would be about me and Kat, endless Drag Race reruns, and a borderline-lethal amount of vodka. Or it will be, if she ever shows up.

“Hey, are you using this chair?”

A semifamiliar voice crackles across the table, and I look up from my phone, carefully placing the thick brows and crooked smile on my mental game board of Guess Who? Geneva High School Edition . Bryce Chandler, former Geneva Vikings point guard, frequent gay slur user, and, apparently, current spokesman for early-onset male pattern baldness. Bummer. He’s gripping the back of the pleather stool across from me with meaty hands that probably haven’t touched a basketball in years. A washed-up former athlete. We have more in common than he thinks.

“Sorry,” I say, feeling not particularly sorry. “I have a friend coming.” At least I hope I have a friend coming. I look like a loser sitting here alone.

“Cool, my bad.” Bryce makes a clicking sound with the side of his mouth before wandering to the next table, leaving me to nurse what’s left of my vodka soda and craft the perfect joke to text Kat about Bryce’s receding hairline. Before I can decide on a punch line, my phone buzzes with a notification. One new text from Big Booty, aka Kat. Her contact name is a leftover joke from a long-forgotten Jason Derulo song, but I can’t bring myself to change it.

walking in now!!!!!

Relief and excitement bubble beneath my tongue, and my eyes stay locked on the door as more already-tipsy twentysomethings trickle in, bringing the late-November chill with them. In a sea of black winter coats, Kat’s deep-brown corkscrew curls and signature red puffer jacket stand out like a beacon of hope. My stomach trampolines up to my throat. There she is.

“Over here!” My arm rockets into the air, flagging her toward our table. She doesn’t hear me over the noise; instead, she turns over her shoulder and stretches a hand behind her. “Kat!” I yell again. “Kat Fleming, over here!”

This time, her head snaps toward me, eyes wide and sparkling as she points repeatedly in my direction, like she’s pressing an invisible elevator button. Her lips mouth the words, “That’s her, oh my God, that’s her!” and for a split second, I wonder when she started talking to herself, but as the crowd shifts, my stomach plummets, and all the pieces fall into place. On the other end of Kat’s outstretched arm is an ultra-tall Asian guy buttoned into the same wool pea coat I recognize from dozens of text-thread photos. Hot Daniel from Music History. You’ve gotta be kidding me.

Even after the unforgiving mob of drunk twentysomethings spits them out, I’m still firmly stuck in denial. I haven’t finished grieving the loss of what Thanksgiving was supposed to be; no way am I ready to mourn tonight too. I can’t even scare up a smile when Kathryn half runs, half dances up to me, curls bouncing around her face with every step. “Holy shit, HI!” she squeals, launching herself at me in a hug so tight, I’m at risk of suffocating within the folds of her puffer coat.

“Welcome home,” I say. Or at least try to say. My face is so smushed against her shoulder, the words barely leak out. By the time she lets go, Daniel has somehow already hunted down another barstool, an unwelcome addition to our two-top table. “This”—Kat gestures dramatically toward him—“is Daniel!”

Daniel ducks beneath a low-hanging strand of Christmas lights and extends a hand, which I take hesitantly, confirming that he’s not some tragic hallucination. Unfortunately, Hot Daniel from Music History is actually here, in the flesh, ruining my night.

“I’m Murphy,” I mutter. Hopefully he already knows that.

“I’ve heard so much about you,” he assures me with a big dumb grin.

“Yeah. Same.” I look down at my hand, which Daniel hasn’t let go of for some reason, then back up at his kind, clueless eyes. “But I, uh, didn’t know you were joining us tonight.”

I glance in Kat’s direction just in time to catch her smile slip. “I told you he was coming to Thanksgiving,” she says.

“Yeah. Thanksgiving,” I echo. “Which is tomorrow.”

Her smile snaps back into place, but it’s more indignant this time. “Same thing.”

“No, not the same thing.” I can hear my voice pitch up in that horrible, pre-yelling way. Daniel must hear it too, because he finally drops my hand and takes a seat, making himself as small as a six foot six man can in a bar with ceilings this low. “Tonight you’re sleeping over, Kat. Remember?”

Kat’s eyebrows huddle together like they’re trying to strategize how to navigate this conversation. “I was going to, but when I told you like a week ago that Daniel was coming home with me for Thanksgiving, I said we’d have to rearrange some plans. Remember? ”

I grit my teeth, holding back all the things I remember . For example, I remember that Daniel grew up in a suburb about ten miles from here, meaning he could’ve stayed with his own parents tonight. I remember that six blocks away there’s an air mattress ready to be inflated and a stockpile of our favorite snacks that I used the last of my paycheck to buy. I remember that this whole night was supposed to be Murphy and Kat’s 21st Birthday Blowout, and there was never any discussion of guest stars. But I guess Kat’s memory isn’t quite as airtight as mine.

“Plus, I thought it’d be good for you and Daniel to meet before tomorrow,” Kat goes on, her voice as hopeful as it is desperate. “Since, you know, we’ll have to tone it down in front of Bubby and my parents and all my little cousins. I’m sorry if I wasn’t totally clear. I just wanted him to meet the real Murph.” Her gaze ricochets between me and Daniel, who is nodding along, silently affirming her like a good boyfriend should.

“Oh, of course.” I pinch my tiny black cocktail straw and stab the wilted lime wedge floating in the bottom of my plastic cup. I pretend it’s Daniel’s head, then Kathryn’s head, then settle on my own head, jabbing ferociously until I kebab the thing.

“So. Uh. Drinks?” Kat hoists herself up on the stool next to Daniel, who looks like he might turn and run any second. She unzips her puffer coat to reveal a black top with silver details that makes my oversize Cubs shirt look like pajamas by comparison. No one mentioned a dress code. Daniel hands Kat the drink list, and her big brown eyes flit over her options. “Do you think we could convince them to make me a blue guy?”

“What’s a blue guy?” I ask, but I’m drowned out by Daniel’s laugh.

“I don’t think so, sweetheart.” He kisses Kat on the cheek, peels off his pea coat, and cozies up to her to review the menu together.

“What the hell is a blue guy?” I ask again.

“It’s a U of I thing,” Kat says coolly, and I close my eyes to block my eye roll. I expected a heavy dose of University of Illinois–themed conversation tonight, but that doesn’t stop me from being a little annoyed. And maybe a touch jealous. I’d never shut up about my college either if I went to a Big Ten school. Like I was supposed to this year.

Kathryn lowers the menu, her lips scrunching into a smirk. “Remember Sam’s blue guy story from sylly week? After the darty?” She and Daniel exchange a quick look, just long enough to ignite an uproar of laughter between them. Blue guys. Sylly week. Darty. I should drop out of accounting and start studying state school slang on Duolingo.

“So you guys drink Blue Man Group jizz down in Champaign or what?” My delivery comes out snarkier than I anticipated, and Kathryn shoots me a dead-eyed “knock it off” look that I probably deserve.

“It’s this bright-blue, supersweet drink one of the bars in Champaign has,” Daniel explains, seemingly unfazed by my jizz joke. “They’re Kate’s favorite.”

“Who’s Kate?”

“Oh, I go by Kate at school,” Kat says offhandedly, sliding the menu across the laminate table. “Do you know what you want?”

I lob my empty plastic cup into the nearest trash can, a solid ten feet away. You can’t say all those years of softball never did me any good. “Another vodka soda is fine, Kate .”

Kat’s brown eyes narrow to two suspicious little hamburger patties. “Our first time legally drinking together and you’re drinking vodka sodas ? I thought we were celebrating.”

“And I want to celebrate with a vodka soda,” I say flatly, more to my peeling cuticles than to her. I will not blow up at Kat in front of her boyfriend. I will not blow up at Kat in front of her boyfriend. I will not blow up at Kat in front of her boyfriend.

“All right, then I’ll do the same,” she says, either calling my bluff or honestly trying to adjust the downhill trajectory of this evening. “Would you mind grabbing those, babe?”

Daniel pushes back from the table, and his barstool stutters against the sticky floor. “Two vodka sodas. Gotcha.” As he saunters off toward the bar, I make a silent wish on a blinking Christmas light that he won’t come back. It’s not that I have anything against the guy. From what Kat’s told me, we’d probably even get along. He’s a music ed major, so I’m sure the three of us could swap high school band stories, and Kat swears that he’s funny once he’s comfortable enough to make jokes. I’d love to get to know him. Just not tonight.

The moment Daniel is out of earshot, Kat plants her elbows on the table, which wobbles a little as she rests her chin in the cradle of her palms. “Hi,” she says. “Are you okay?”

I barely suppress a laugh. “No?”

“What’s wrong?”

“What do you mean what’s wrong?” The laugh sneaks out this time as I tip my head toward the bar, where Daniel has one hand half raised, trying to flag down the bartender without being rude.

“Oh, come on,” Kat whines, and her lower lip slides out just enough to qualify as a pout, but not enough to suggest she’s doing it on purpose. “Give him a chance, Murph.”

“I am! He seems great! You guys are so cute together!” I’m really laying on the compliments thick, hoping it’ll pad the back half of this statement, but Kat interrupts before I can get to the “but.”

“I told you he’s cuter in person,” she says, sitting up a little straighter as her pout stretches into a smug little smile. “Don’t you think?”

“Absolutely,” I lie. Daniel is a far cry from ugly, but apart from his height, he’s as ordinary looking as any other guy in this bar. One by one, I pop each of the knuckles in my left hand, watching as Kat’s shoulders creep closer and closer to her ears. As well as I know her, I cannot for the life of me figure out if she’s playing dumb or if she actually thought I understood that Daniel coming to Thanksgiving meant he was coming tonight too. But I don’t want to fight. I want to drink and laugh and catch up with my best friend who I haven’t seen since the end of August. So I bite my tongue and pivot this conversation back toward the only thing—the only person —she wants to talk about. “What do your parents think of him?”

Kat’s shoulders release back to a normal position as she stares off toward the bar, then back toward me, a hint of worry hanging on to the creases between her eyebrows. “They met super briefly, but they haven’t met him met him yet. Do you think they’ll like him?”

“You kidding me? A nice piano player from the suburbs? They’ll be thrilled.”

“He’s not Jewish,” she says, as if that’s breaking news.

“It’ll be great.”

She crosses her fingers, twisting her wrist for emphasis. “Hope you’re right.”

“I’m always right,” I remind her. “Can’t remember a time I’ve been wrong.” I pause for a laugh, but instead, Kat just stares off toward the bar again, a dreamy look clouding her eyes.

“I really like him, Murph. I mean, I know it’s only been a few months. But something about him just feels right.”

“That’s great,” I say, really trying. “I’m happy for you. For real.”

“Thanks.” Kat’s sigh is heavy with relief. She sits up straight, and the table wobbles yet again, so I crouch down to readjust the cardboard. “So,” she says, “what about you?”

“What about me?”

“Your love life.” There’s an implied duh at the end. “You’ve told me nothing the past three months.”

I pop back up like a meerkat, pressing on either side of the table to test the balance. It’s sort of better.

“Murph.” Kat snaps her fingers for my attention. “You’re ignoring my question.”

My nose scrunches. “There’s nothing to tell. The already microscopic gay scene out here dies when everyone’s away at school.”

Kat frowns, her eyes sweeping over the crowd of ordinary Daniel-types, plus some girls in sorority letters, and, of course, the locals. “What about tonight? I’m sure there are tons of girls from high school who are at least bi now.”

“ At least bi ?” My laugh comes out as more of a giant fart noise.

“I’m doing my best here,” she reminds me. Sometimes I forget just how straight Kat is. “There are easily, like, three or four girls from the trombone section alone who I bet are probably experimenting now, if you’re interested.”

“Sure, me and some girl who called me a dyke in high school and now wants to experiment,” I joke. “Tale as old as time.”

Her eye roll is strong enough to change the rotation of the earth, or at the very least, the vibe of the bar. The DJ, who is just some guy with his iPhone synced to a Bluetooth speaker, switches from annoying club beats to pop hits from our high school years, eliciting a “Woo!” from a gaggle of girls on the dance floor. Solid move. “I’m just trying to help,” Kat pouts. “Just because you’re stuck in the suburbs doesn’t mean you can’t date.”

I absentmindedly check my phone. No notifications. Of course not. Who else do I text besides Kat? “Hopefully I’ll be out of here soon,” I remind her.

“Yeah?” Kat’s eyebrows jump an inch. “How’s the U of I transfer app coming?”

“It should be good to go so long as I pull off a passing grade in accounting.”

“And how’s accounting?”

I trap a sigh behind my lips. “No comment.” For the second semester in a row, the trajectory of my college career hinges on my ability to magically understand basic economic principles or schmooze my way into a passing grade. “Why do marketing majors have to take accounting anyway?” I argue, as if Kat could speak for the registrar at U of I. “I’ve been doing marketing stuff at work for two years and have never once needed to know any of that shit.”

“You have Professor Meyers again, right? Do you want my notes from last semester?” She’s being genuine, but we both know it won’t help. We suck equally at this stuff, but while Kat is a verified pleasure to have in class , I’m more of a needs improvement type. If not for successfully sucking up to Professor Meyers for extra credit, Kat would be right where I am: stuck.

Before I can remind Kat of her teacher’s pet status, Daniel returns, balancing three nearly identical drinks with the dexterity of a seasoned cocktail waitress. “I’m DD,” he says, setting all three cups in front of his girlfriend. “So one of these is just water. Can’t be hungover to meet the family tomorrow, right?”

“Plus Ubers are supposed to be, like, a jillion dollars tonight,” Kat adds, sampling two out of three of the drinks and passing the outlier off to Daniel. “So, cheers to this guy for being our free ride.”

“Cheers,” I agree, but as we clunk our plastic cups together, I can’t help but tack on, “not that we would’ve needed an Uber.”

Daniel cocks his head as he sips his water. “Why not?”

“Because Kat was supposed to sleep over at my house,” I explain, “which is walking distance from here.” As I take my first sip of tonight’s second drink, I can feel Kat’s eyes burning into the top of my head. I’m being the worst and I know it.

“So is that your real name?” Daniel asks, a not-so-subtle attempt to steer the conversation anywhere smoother. “Murphy? Or do you go by your last name?”

I nod, swallowing a gulp of vodka soda that is more vodka than soda. I could be a royal pain in the ass and bring the conversation back to the plans I’ve sacrificed, or I could keep drinking and hope that it makes me nicer. I bravely go with option B. “It’s my first name,” I say. “My dad’s a big Cubs fan, so he named me after the bar by Wrigley.”

Daniel frowns, then leans across the table, cupping his ear. “The what?”

“The bar by Wrigley Field,” I half shout, enunciating each syllable a little extra. “Y’know, Murphy’s Bleachers?” Maybe we should’ve picked a quieter bar.

“Ah, gotcha.” Daniel leans back, nodding at first, but then shaking his head. “Yeah, I’ve never been.”

“To Murphy’s Bleachers or to Wrigley?”

He shrugs. “To Chicago.”

Vodka stings my nose, and I swallow hard, barely preventing a spit take. The cackle that comes after it, however, is unstoppable, and I can already feel the weight of the argument Kat and I will have about it later. “Sorry, I’m just surprised,” I say, frantically backpedaling. “Didn’t you grow up in a suburb close to here?”

“Daniel’s parents are…protective.” Kathryn squeezes her boyfriend’s arm with one hand and tucks her curls behind her ear with the other. “Not really city people. But we’re talking about going downtown during winter break for the Christkindlmarket.” She takes a long sip of her vodka soda before throwing in, “You should come!”

And here we are, back to the feeling du jour: disappointment. I can perfectly envision how this Chicago trip will go. I’ll play the role of designated photographer, following Kat and Daniel from booth to booth of the market and snapping photos of them by the Christmas tree, all in exchange for a five-minute one-on-one with Kat during a run to the train station bathroom. Same as I did when she was dating her one and only boyfriend in high school. I have no intention of accepting her halfhearted invite, but for now, I’ll be polite. “Let me know the date and I’ll see if I can get off work.”

“Wait, hang on.” Daniel holds up a finger, the proverbial gears shifting in his head. “Kate said you work at this really cool coffee shop, right?”

“It’s called Sip, and she’s the marketing manager,” Kat brags on my behalf.

“I’m a barista,” I remind her. “The marketing stuff is just part time.”

Kat rolls her eyes and flicks her wrist to wave me off. “She’s downplaying it. They just did this enormous renovation and Murph did, like, a ton of the design work. She created all these cool videos to hype up the reopening.”

“Which is Friday,” I remind her. “Are you coming?”

“We wouldn’t miss it,” Kat says, speaking for both of them. “Plus I need my chaicoffski fix.”

“Oh, that’s that drink right? The one you invented?” Daniel asks me, then instantly turns to Kat for confirmation. “Am I making this up?”

“Yup, the one I’m obsessed with,” Kat gushes. “It’s, like, far and beyond the most popular thing on the menu. Murphy is brilliant about coffee. Tell him about it, Murph.”

“I don’t know about brilliant,” I say, but Kat scoops her chin, urging me into a brag session. “It’s mainly chai and coffee, so like, chai-coff-ski, Tchaikovsky. Get it? Like the composer?”

Daniel whistles through his teeth, nodding slowly, like a dying animatronic. “Damn, that’s clever.” He holds up a hand for a high five, and I accept, even though it’s literally so awkward. My best friend’s boyfriend, giving me the full fourth-grade softball coach treatment. “Kate’s tried to get the campus coffee shop to recreate it but—”

“It’s not even close to as good,” Kat interrupts. “Like, I swear, you put some kind of magic in it at Sip.”

“I’ve told you, it’s not just chai and coffee,” I remind her for the hundredth time. “But I’ll make you one on Friday.”

“Can you make her a gallon of it?” Daniel jokes. “So she can bring it back to school?”

I breathe a laugh through my nose, draining the rest of my drink. All this talk of liquids has given my bladder a few ideas. “Hey, I have to pee.” I turn to Kat. “Do you?”

Kat shakes her head, then plucks a credit card from her tiny leather purse. “I’m gonna grab another round, though, so I’ll walk with you.”

We shove up from our barstools, and Kat kisses Daniel goodbye for what will surely be a devastating five minutes that they’re apart. Then it’s just the two of us: Kat fighting through the crowd with me just a few steps behind. For ten precious seconds, I almost forget that tonight isn’t going according to plan. It’s just her and me, like always, like it used to be. As I peel off toward the bathroom, Kat squeezes my arm and offers the tiniest smile. “Hey,” she says, “I’m so glad we’re doing this.”

“Me, too,” I agree, although I’m not sure exactly what we’re doing or if I actually mean it.