𐙚 maddy 𐙚

You hold up the empty glass, garnished with a colorful little umbrella and some gnawed-on pineapple. “Baby, I’m empty.” You’re not even looking up from your book, big sunglasses on, deflecting the bright sun.

“Comin’ right up, sweetheart.” He kisses your head before taking the glass, heading to the bar.

When he’s walking back, you turn your head to catch the way his pretty tattoos look against his pale skin. Admiring his lean torso, the happy trail leading to your favorite part of him.

“Oh, cabana boy,” you singsong, peeking above the rim of your sunglasses. “Are you single?”

He laughs, handing you the chilled drink. “No, I got a sexy little wife at home.”

“Booo,” you tease, knowing he’s talking about you. “She sounds like a drag.”

He smirks, hungrily eyeing your glistening body, “Well, she’s actually the best woman I know. Gonna give me a baby an’ everything.”

Laughing at the way he manages to sneak that hope into almost every conversation you have. “You wish.”

“Oh, I don’t wish, sweetheart. I’m plannin’ on it. I hope you know you’re getting filled tonight. Wanna make a baby in Hawaii, baby.”

You scoff at his shamelessness, “Eddie! Control yourself, we’re in public!”

In fact, it was big enough to hold regular parties, with a fridge full of beer and a balcony off of the living room that could hold five whole people and a keg or two. Honestly, the only reason you and your roommate could afford to stay there was because your landlord was using the empty apartment beside you as a grow room. The smell of weed and regular power outages were easy to put up with when your kitchen had an island and your shower worked through the winter months.

It was filled with your things, second hand furniture and vinyls from the knock off record store on Cherry Street, Polaroids filled the refrigerator door and there was a collection of stupid things that littered the shelves and surfaces.

Your trophy from high school that declared you the least able to hold your drink.

A battered copy of Stand By Me that had been taped over seven times and never returned to Family Video.

An impressive array of sunglasses that your roommate lost, purchased, lost and found again.

An obligatory road sign that lived on the wall behind the sofa, screwed precariously into the crumbling brick.

A bong made from questionable materials.

A fish tank with zero fish.

A bedroom door across from your own, the front of it scratched and worn from being nudged open with hands filled with car keys and coffee cups, old boots and impatient feet. It had stickers from bands over the worst scrapes, another road sign that had “for a good time, call Steve Harrington,” written in sharpie in the middle of it. More Polaroids, more than a few of them featuring you. You and Steve when you were both four years old and half naked in the Harrington's backyard one summer, sticky with melted popsicles. Another at graduation, Steve’s arm slung over your shoulder, you laughing at the camera. A party, two years ago, both of you drunk and the whole scene a little blurry, the cameraman just able to catch you both in an armchair amongst a night of chaos, heads together and you on the boy’s lap as he looked up at you through his lashes, listening to whatever it was you had been drunkenly talking about.

You looked like a couple in that one.

You look like a couple in a lot of them.

But you and Steve? A couple? No.

Roommates, yes. Best friends? Yes. Drinking buddies? Absolutely. Platonic movie night partner? Of course.

And have you kissed him before? Sure, maybe, like… five years ago. But you were both drunk and someone dared you - Robin, no, Jonathan? It didn’t matter. You did it and Steve kissed you back and he tasted like lemonade and cheap beer and a little like the weed your landlord had given you and it was only for a second, really.

Definitely less than a minute. No more than three.

And then you never spoke about it again. Ever. And that was fine.

It was really, really fine.

You had more parties, threw more ragers. Collected more Polaroids and Steve lost more sunglasses and you found them again for him weeks later. You both tried to keep the plants that your mom gifted you alive and it was a good week if there was more than a carton of milk in the fridge.

It was an even better week if you made it through without thinking about the time you kissed your best friend over four years ago.

Especially since your boyfriend really didn’t like him.

That wasn’t ideal.

And honestly, you weren’t really sure you liked your boyfriend all that much anymore.

That wasn’t all that ideal either.

Was it?