Spoiler

“To the arrogant I say, ‘Boast no more. . .’ ” 
—Psalm 75:4

You’d considered skipping your usual meet-up with Buddy tonight. But he’d think you were avoiding him because you were afraid of him. You’re not. Buddy’s okay. You like him. You respect him. Not just because of his size. He’s got maturity even though he’s the same age as you. He’s a little stronger and he works out. He comes off as a guy who’s got his shit together. But—you’re not afraid of him. So. You wait for him.

You did what you did, and you’d do it again.

You check your phone. It’s so late you’re wondering if he’s going to show at all. Wouldn’t be like him. He may not want to sit here drinking with you anymore, but he will definitely come find you. Every time the door opened you got ready. You didn’t turn around, but you tensed up.

Him being this late, you guess it’s because he’s spending more than the usual amount of time with his latest girlfriend. Arguing, probably. If she’s still speaking to him. Which is your fault. You take another pull at your drink. You’re already on your third.

This time when the door opens it’s Buddy. Easy enough to know it without turning around to check. Vince the bartender sets a scotch and water on the bar in front of the empty stool next to you. That’ll be for Buddy. You and Buddy are regulars. Have been for years. You’re sitting in your usual spot. Vince knows the two of you like his own kids.

But Buddy didn’t come for the drink, he’s here for you. So you swing around on the stool.

He doesn’t bother saying thanks to Vince, or anything, just starts in yelling, calling you a fuck, poking you hard in the chest, everyone watching, lifting their drinks in case Buddy knocks you off the stool into one of them.

Vince tells you both to take it outside, telling you he doesn’t need this shit tonight. Everyone keeps watching.

So—you go outside, because you did what you thought right, and you’ll fight Buddy. Your heart won’t be in it, but if that’s what it takes, you will.

Outside, you don’t get two steps before he spins you around to face him, asking what the fuck did you do.

You don’t say. You just look at him. You don’t know what she may have said to him. You want Buddy to spell it out.

Then, he does. Yelling, did you tell her I like to put my dick wherever it’s welcome? Did you say that? To her?

You say, yes. Because—that’s exactly what you said to his girlfriend.

He doesn’t move, standing kind of bunched up. He just stares at you, his breathing hard.

You’re ready. You decided to let him swing first, but you also decided you won’t take it. You’ll give him first shot. Maybe you owe him that. You’ll fight him all out if you have to. To defend yourself.

But he doesn’t swing. You both are standing there. You’ve got your eyes locked on his eyes, watching to see where he’s looking to aim, ready to block him.

But—still—he doesn’t swing. Then suddenly, he whips and bucks like he’s trying to burn off all the anger coiled up inside him. He takes maybe a half-dozen wild punches at the air, at some shadow, his voice straining in a harsh howl of swallowed rage. But still, he doesn’t swing at you. You don’t relax, but you stay ready.

Vince pokes his head out. Buddy bends over, his hands on his knees, like he’s about to puke. Vince calls out, asking if you need an EMT.

No, says Buddy, sarcastic. Vince says Rudy’s got to get home, so he’s asking, before he heads out. Rudy’s an EMT.

No, you say. Thanks.

I don’t need the cops out here twice in one week, says Vince, waiting to see if you two got the message.

You laugh to show it’s okay. Vince being Vince. Oil on troubled waters. He leaves you and Buddy to it.

Buddy shoves his hands into his back pockets, walking tight circles in the pooled light from the security lamps overhead. He’s holding back, but he’s still furious.

Why—he starts, then stops, then starts again—why would you say something like that —

You jump in, telling him, You say it all the time.

—to her, he finishes. Then snaps, not me saying it. You saying it to her, to her! That’s a shit-load of difference.

He’s back to walking in circles.

It caught me by surprise is all, you tell him.

You ran into her in the parking lot at the Food Lion. The two of you started talking about this and that when she happened to mention she was seeing Buddy.

It was, like, out of the blue, you said to Buddy. You and her seeing each other. Like going on a month.

So?

So, how many times we been out here and you never said anything.

Cause it’s none of your business.

You always make it my business. Like, every time.

I do not.

You were building up to tell Buddy it had been an accident or she misunderstood. But you decided not to do that. Instead—

She’s been a friend of the family for years—

So. You’re jealous.

No. She’s a friend of the family. It caught me by surprise when she mentioned you, so—I—kind of—rolled my eyes.

Rolled your eyes.

She caught it and asked me what it was. I wasn’t going to say anything, Buddy, honest. But then I realized, she’s a friend. I’ve known her lots longer than you. I did not want to hear you going on about how you scored and how you got her wet, and what her pussy smelled like, and what color and size her nipples were. All the usual shit you do.

Shit?

So—when she asked me what it meant, I told her.

Told her what?

What you always say. You stick your dick wherever its welcome and pull it out when you’re good and ready.

Shiiiiit! he howled, whipping around again.

Buddy, I never said anything like she shouldn’t hook up with you. She can make up her own mind. About you.

Well, you sure fucked everything up for me. You know that?

Buddy wasn’t looking at you.

She’s different, is all you can add. Nothing else you can think to say. You shrug. You’re not sorry. Maybe a little sorry anything had to be said. But that was on him.

He turns and comes back at you, tight, pinched, like he’s trying to explain something to an idiot. Those other women don’t mean anything, he says.

That’s why I’m not sorry I said anything. To her.

You fucking fucking moron. Buddy seemed to be fighting to get control of his words. Because, you fucking moron, I was making that other shit up! That’s why they don’t mean anything.

Making what up?

You are such a fucking virgin.

I’m not.

Then why would you say shit like that?

I told you.

Do you know the first thing about women, you fucking virgin? Do you know anything at all? Did you deliberately set out to screw me with her? Why would you say something like that?

It’s like Buddy’s not even talking to you. He’s talking to somebody else about you. He goes on, saying, he can’t keep his mouth shut around the only woman I ever had a chance with? Can you believe it? Can you fucking believe it?

Wait. You’re telling me all the shit, all the women, all the stories you’ve been telling me for as long as I’ve fucking known you—aren’t true?

Buddy didn’t say yes and he didn’t say no. But he didn’t need to.

Holy shit. Then you had a thought worse than him lying to you about the women he’d fucked. So you asked him.

Buddy—don’t take this the wrong way—are you a virgin?

No way, he barked. Not in a million years. And if I was? I would never be as bad as you.

Then why tell me all that shit? Let me go on believing it. You keep saying we were friends.

Because every time—every single time we’re out, you’re asking me, you getting any Buddy? Who’s the lucky one this week, Buddy? What’s it like, Buddy?

Because you made me think you were. Since high school. Jeez, Buddy, I’m just trying to show an interest, pay some respect. I look up to you.

Because you’re a fucking virgin, that’s why.

A parade of Buddy’s women marched through your memory, evaporating in this unexpected daylight.

What about Vanessa Buckwhit?

What about her?

In the car. Going 70 down the highway. Her sucking you off. Truckers looking in, blowing their air horns?

No.

Vanessa—?

Vanessa Buckwhit would never in a million years get in a car with me. Even while I was telling you, I couldn’t believe you’d be so stupid to think she would.

What about—?

None of them, okay?

None of them? Ever?

Stop asking me.

You’re doing a rewind of all you’ve ever thought about him. About the women he banged—said he banged.

What about me?

What about you?

Me—winking and nodding at them, so they’d know I was in on your secret with them. Shit. They must all think I’m a fucking moron.

You are.

I don’t care what you think. It’s them thinking it. You making me feel ignorant, because I couldn’t figure women out.

At least I’m trying to educate you. You’re lucky, you know that? My dad never told me shit about women. Nothing worth anything. Mom, all she worried about was me knocking up some girl.

Your dad never said anything either. It embarrassed him. Your mother tried giving you some books she got from the doctor’s office. Even she thought it was lame.

But you told Buddy about the books anyway.

Oh, right. Lemme whip out my library card in front of everybody. Cheez. That’s why they invented the internet, fuckwit. Until they cut you off unless you give them a credit card.

Some things should be free, you say. A public service.

But I tried. At least I fucking tried. You know what the problem is? We’re all stuck in a fishbowl, living on porn or romance novels. Buddy shrugged. Learn to live with it, I guess. Too much work trying to break out.

You ask Buddy what he’s going to do, since fighting you seems unlikely. You offer to tell her you were being jealous.

She’d figure out I put you up to it.

Then, you tell her. Or—you could tell her I made it all up. You’re not looking straight at Buddy when you say this, but you’re watching. You know what you’re suggesting.

He avoids looking at you. It’s like you can almost see Buddy working out how far news like that might travel.

You wonder if you’re still friends. Though you’re not sure what that means now.

Neither of you say anything.

He pulls out his cigarettes and shakes one loose. He holds it out to you. You take it and he shakes one out for himself. You snap your lighter and hold the flame over for him.

My dad, you say, used to map out hiking trips he never took. Buy the maps, cut pages out of catalogs for the gear he wanted. Could do that shit for hours. He could describe some of those trips in so much detail, you’d swear he’d already taken it. Just thinking about it was enough to make him happy.

Buddy looks over at you. What the fuck has that got to do with anything?

Nothing, you say. You don’t want to set him off again.

Because your dad never fucking went anywhere.

You go back to smoking.

Vince steps out, saying it’s last call, asking, do you two shits plan on finishing your drinks?

You both pinch out your cigarettes and go back inside.

Hey. Don’t ever ask me about women again. You got that?

You tell him okay. Because you won’t. On your life, you won’t.