“He thinks I’m a witch because . . .” Genevieve races over to her abandoned tote bag on the floor, spilling half her drink along the way, which is for the best. She comes back with a deck of odd-looking cards, wrapped around with a blue ribbon. “. . . of these. Tarot cards. I made these during the retreat. I used strips of bark instead of paper to give them an otherworldly look.”
“That was a real witchlike thing to say,” I comment.
“Burn, witch, burn,” Thomas says with a smile. “Stretch says you used to be really into horoscopes. I’m more of a fortune cookie kind of guy.”
“Fortune cookies can be cracked open by anyone,” she counters.
“It’s about taking a chance,” Thomas defends. “It’s much easier to follow than all the conflicting horoscopes forecasted everywhere.”
She holds in a burp before arguing. “That’s why horoscopes are better. If your fortune promises you wealth by the end of the day and you go home poor, then you were lied to. But if your reading from a psychic’s website is wrong, maybe the one in the newspaper is right.”
This conversation is beyond dumb. Someone shoot me. Now. Twice.
“So why’d you stop?”
Genevieve spins her cup around and stares into the mini-whirlpool before downing it all in one gulp. “Because I was tired of my many expectations not being met.”
“Well, I’ll have to trade you a fortune cookie for a psychic reading one day,” Thomas says.
I swear Gen’s face flushes. He’s playing the game close to his chest. I normally wouldn’t care except it’s with my girlfriend.
“You should go get some cake before everyone eats it all,” I say. We’re skipping right to the eating because this is hardly the “Let’s sing ‘Happy Birthday’!” crowd.
“Cake? Excuse me,” Thomas says, patting Genevieve on her shoulder before racing to the corner.
We follow him and all moan when Me-Crazy dips his finger into the icing and steals a bite. Others grab plates and some just dig in with a fork. Once Me-Crazy grabs a handful of cake, the cake is his and his only. (Sorry, Thomas.) I sit down on the ground, and Genevieve relaxes right into my lap, eating cake and drinking it down with another cup of booze. Part of me would love to volunteer someone else to hold her hair back later tonight, but the part of me who loves her is ready for the job.
Thomas joins us with a pathetic slice of cake. “So I still haven’t asked you how New Orleans was, Genevieve.”
“That’s okay. I still haven’t wished you a happy birthday.”
I mouth, “She’s drunk” to him and he shrugs it off.
“New Orleans was great. I’m hoping to drag Aaron with me next summer. I think I fell in love when I was down there . . .” She puts down her drink and takes my hand, gripping it hard like we’re about to arm-wrestle. “In love with the city, I mean, since I have the boy I love here.”
“I see that,” Thomas says. “Stretch doesn’t shut up about you.”
Genevieve leans back and kisses me hard again, her tongue completely out of sync with mine. Then she picks her cup and fork right back up, stands, and taps the fork against the plastic like it’s going to chime and steal everyone’s attention. “Who wants to play a game?”
“Spin the bottle!” Fat-Dave shouts.
Hell no. Seriously, the dudes-to-chick ratio is like the dude-to-chick ratio at a boxing match.
“Flip cup!” Brendan shouts. There’s no fucking table up here to play on.
“Kings!” Deon says. Great, a drinking card game without cards.
“Seven Minutes in Heaven!” Crystal suggests, laughing so hard and obnoxiously that she could tumble over the ledge and I wouldn’t move a muscle.
“I was thinking Two Truths and a Lie,” Genevieve announces to everyone’s applause.
How to Play Two Truths and a Lie: everyone shares three stories or facts about themselves and then you take turns figuring out everyone’s lie. It’s the perfect icebreaker game.
Problem: I don’t like a Genevieve who knows this game.
“You start, birthday boy,” Genevieve says.
Everyone gathers around while Thomas counts off what he’s going to say with his fingers. “Okay, I got it. I worship Walt Disney. I worship Steven Spielberg. I worship Martin Scorsese.”