From What I Remember (35 page)

elicidades!”
someone yells out for the fifth time in ten minutes, and we all drink. Again. A guy appears and refills our plastic cups. Where did he come from? And how much tequila do they have? An endless supply? We’ve been knocking back shots with the crowd on the pier since we got out of the water, about a half hour ago. People have gathered here for some kind of massive wedding. We hopped out of the water, practically naked and smack into the ceremony. We tried to bail, but no one was having it. So we got dressed and joined the party, as we’ve joined every party that would have us since arriving in Ensenada. Man, these people know how to live it up.

Kylie holds her glass up to mine. “To Saint John the Baptist. I think he seems like a very cool dude. And he throws a kick-ass party.”

Kylie clinks glasses with me and downs what must be her fourth shot. I’ve had three and am really starting to feel it, so she’s got to be pretty blasted at this point.

“Maxie, wassup? You’re not drinking?” Kylie asks me.

Maxie?
Definitely way wasted.

“I’m taking a break. You might want to do that as well.”

“Don’t think so. I’m feeling gooood. Wanna feel even better.”

“You don’t want to get sick.”

Suddenly I’m the responsible dude. This is not my thing, but I’m worried about Kylie, and I never really worry about anyone. Usually I let people take care of themselves, but there’s something about Kylie that’s vulnerable and fragile. I want to protect her. Giving her valedictorian speech with a nasty headache is going to be brutal. She has no idea.

“Oh my God, look at you. You’re such a little worrywart,” Kylie says, slurring her words. She’s got it bad. She’s going to have one wicked hangover in the morning, but, man, she is hot as hell right now, with her eyes at half-mast and that one dimple on her left cheek.

Kylie goes to grab my arm, misses, and nearly falls over. I catch her. She collapses into me. I don’t mind. I love the feel of her body next to mine. It just…fits. She smells like an ocean-and-tequila cocktail. It’s a potent mix. I want to lie down right here on the pier with her. Unfortunately, we’re in the middle of a massive group wedding. My timing is a little off. Maybe later.

A priest is in the process of marrying couple after couple. It’s a tradition, at midnight, on St. John the Baptist. After each mini-wedding, everyone drinks, and Kylie has thrown herself into things with abandon. So far, ten new marriages. Five more to go. Most of the brides wear dresses just like Kylie’s. And the grooms wear tuxedos. I can’t tell if this is serious or not. Are these people married now? Is this just some elaborate party ritual? Because the tequila is a big part of it, that’s for sure. I think the priest might even be taking a shot every now and then.

The crowd yells out,
“¡Felicidades!”
again.

“¡Felicidades!”
Kylie screams, practically in my ear.

Everyone lifts their glass. Another one bites the dust. The couple kisses and then swerves off down the pier.

“That priest is churning ’em out,” Kylie says. “You think he gets some kind of kickback for each wedding? Maybe he works on commission?”

I laugh. She’s still damn funny, even toasted.

A man approaches us with a fresh bottle of tequila. We’ve moved on from Patrón to the off-label stuff, maybe brewed at home. Things are deteriorating rapidly. Kylie shoves her glass out for the man to fill. I put my hand over it.

“I’m cutting you off,” I say.

Kylie frowns. She looks so freaking cute, I move in to kiss her, but she pulls away.

“I want to get my drink on,” Kylie says.

“I’m saving you from yourself. How are you going to speak tomorrow?”

“I’ll worry about that tomorrow.”

“Okay,” I say. “Fill us up.”

He does and we both drink. The liquor burns my throat, but the warmth that flows afterward feels good. I’m really buzzed. Things are getting a little fuzzy around the edges.

“Are you two next?” I turn around to see the priest standing behind us.

“Yes! Totally!” Kylie says.

I turn to Kylie. “What are you doing?”

“We’re getting married, Maxie,” Kylie says, pulling me into a hug. “I want to do this.” She stares at me. Her big golden eyes couldn’t be more serious. Is this the alcohol or Kylie talking? Or a combination? She wants to get married? Seriously?

As I stare into Kylie’s face, I realize I’ve never wanted to do anything more. Kylie looks so fucking beautiful. This is the most romantic, exciting, awesome night of my life. I think I’ve fallen for Kylie Flores. Hard.

“I dare you to marry me, Langston,” Kylie says.

“You’re on,” I say. “Let’s do this.”

Kylie and I come crashing together in our drunkenness and euphoria. We kiss wet and sloppy. I get down on one knee.

“Marry me, Flores,” I say.

“I thought you’d never ask, Langston.”

“Do you have the rings?” the priest asks.

“We forgot our rings. Do you have any extra?” Kylie asks.

“I always bring extra. People forget the most important thing,” the priest says, handing Kylie two gold rings that probably came out of an old-fashioned gum ball machine. Kylie holds on to one and hands me the other.

“One for me. One for Maxie,” she says.

I look at Kylie wearing that rocking dress, backlit by the moon, and I can’t help but wonder how I didn’t notice this girl years ago.

The priest says something to us in Spanish. He waves his hand above our heads and touches his chest with his fingers. We exchange rings, fumbling to get them on each other.

“I now pronounce you husband and wife,” the priest tells us. “You may kiss the bride.” And that’s exactly what I do.

Everyone shouts out,
“¡Felicidades!”
as Kylie and I kiss and kiss and kiss and kiss. An older woman comes up and hugs us both. Several others join in, and soon we’re in the center of a group hug. I’m still holding on to Kylie, but she’s sliding out of my arms and down onto the ground. I hold her tighter, trying to keep her upright.

“Kylie, you okay?”

“Hey, you,” she says. She’s half asleep. She can’t fight the alcohol anymore. And then she completely passes out. Her head falls to the side. I grab her under the arms so she doesn’t hit the ground. I’ve got to get her into bed. So much for the wedding night.

il, what are you doing here?” Charlie asks, when he sees me sitting on the hood of his Jeep.

It’s a valid question at five thirty in the morning.

“I’m coming with you,” I say, trying to sound all chipper, like I’m going to make the best damn driving buddy a guy could want. As if.

“We talked about this. You agreed.”

Technically, he’s right. I tacitly agreed by not arguing, as I normally would have. I didn’t have the energy. I wasn’t exactly on my game last night. I was already losing my shit over Dad’s news, and then Max’s bizarro phone call to Charlie telling him he was in Mexico, with no further explanation and absolutely no interest in talking to me, only added insult to injury. So I didn’t force the issue because I hadn’t fully realized just how enraged I was at Max. Blowing me off on the last day of school to go hang in Baja, probably to surf and get drunk all day.

“A girl can change her mind,” I say.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea.…”

“You shouldn’t drive alone. It’s not safe. Besides, it’ll be fun. A little end-of-the-year road trip. And”—I hold out a shopping bag filled with junk food—“I brought snacks. Your favorite. Oreos and Yoo-hoo. You can’t kick a girl out with Yoo-hoo.”

I’m thinking the best sell is positive spin and lots of ammunition. I came locked and loaded. I figured I was going to need it. And I was right. Charlie is such a stupid slave to Max. Blindly following his every request like it’s the frigging word of God. He may be a nice guy, but nice guys finish last, my friend.

I still can’t believe Max didn’t even bother to text or call me. All day. So rude. And hurtful. Especially in light of what I’m going through (not that he knows, but still, Max needs to start putting my feelings first a little more often). Petty as it is, I kind of feel like I need my pound of flesh. And I’m going to Mexico to extract it.

“Look, I don’t know what’s going on with him, but Max really wanted me to come alone. I feel like I should respect that,” says Charlie.

“I know. You made it abundantly clear. Which is insulting, but I’m choosing to rise above and accompany you anyway.

With Yoo-hoo and Oreos. That’s just the kind of loyal friend I am. You’re welcome, by the way.”

Charlie isn’t making this easy, and I don’t have the patience to play nice much longer. Here’s the deal. I’m going. My boyfriend blew me off the entire last day of school. He has inexplicably and suspiciously found himself stranded in Mexico. I am not going to sit in La Jolla and wait for him to come find me. Given that the rest of my life has gone to shit, I’m not going to let Max slip away without a fight. I am hightailing it south, and then, on the off chance that Max hasn’t done anything too offensive, I will be there for him in his time of need. In the event that Max has been a total selfish asshole (far more probable), I will be there, front and center, to ream him out and then graciously consider forgiving him, which should earn me a few Brownie points.