Read Online St. Nacho's by Z. A. Maxfield - Free Book Online Page B

shot. I painstakingly typed, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I did a lot of spilling my guts in rehab. Exorcised a lot of demons. It wasn’t a habit I wanted to cultivate or keep when I left.
    “Some things are important, if we’re going out.” He indicated the car.
    I know. I nodded.
    “Well, shit,” he said, then stood for a while. “I don’t feel like going to a play anymore.” 38 Z. A. Maxfield
    I could do tea, I typed. Or coffee.
    “Still cold?” he asked. It made me feel a funny something in my chest when he said it. I realized I was warming up from the inside.
    Or hot chocolate, I typed. But I’m getting warmer.
    It probably wasn’t until that moment that I realized my development had been arrested at about fifteen, when I’d started drinking and partying with my friends, and that everything that was happening to me now was, essentially, happening to that kid. No wonder I didn’t know how to do this stuff. I hadn’t been in the game. I’d been lying on the sidelines, in a stupor composed of alcohol and vanity. Stupidity and ignorance and false bravado.
    I am probably A LOT more work than I’m worth, I sent to his phone, by way of truth in advertising.
    “I know,” he said, and put his arm around me to lead me to the entrance of Nacho’s.
    “Alfred is here.” He nodded toward the bar. “I’ll ask him how he makes his spicy hot chocolate. Why don’t you go clean up?” He took his jacket from around my shoulders and spoke directly into my ear. “You don’t smell so good.” He followed this up with a gentle kiss on my forehead and a pat on my ass. I saw him walk away, and I went to my room.
    Since my shirt was wet through, I took a quick shower and changed clothes. I brushed my teeth. I was as fresh as I was going to be. When I got back downstairs, Shawn met me with a blanket, a bag, and a thermal carafe. He indicated I should follow him, and I did as he walked down the boardwalk all the way to the pier. In the darkness, the pier looked like the skeleton of some giant serpent, the hulking wooden structure slithering onto land from the sea. Its old timbers looked decrepit and splintery in this light.
    I’d seen the Balboa Pier and Santa Monica Pier and knew they were tourist destinations with restaurants and fishing and bait stands. This one appeared to have no other use than simply to jut out over the water.
    Shawn made his way under it, to the cool damp sand there and set out his blanket. The tide was well out. He lit a little battery-operated camping lantern and brought out chips and salsa from Nacho’s, and a bowl with some of the fruit that I’d cut up for the bar. He took out cups and saucers and poured coffee, giving me creamer and sugar. He’d thought of everything, including those little sticks to stir with. He looked up at me and smiled, but it looked a little…different somehow. Sad, maybe.
    I leaned over and kissed him. “Thank you.”
    “You’re not off the hook,” he said. “Tell me about cars.” I took out my phone again, waving it around until he got his. Then I typed the words I had hoped not to have to share with him. I was in an accident, I sent, beginning a new text message, breaking it up so I didn’t have to shoot it out all at once. I was too drunk and I gave my keys to my lover.
    Shawn frowned. “Was he killed?”
    St. Nacho’s
    39
    No, someone else. I couldn’t close my eyes like I wanted to because I had to fucking type. I had thought about that moment maybe forty-two thousand times every day, but who’s counting. A child.
    Shawn furrowed his brow thoughtfully, but said nothing. As I watched his expressive face, I felt like I was hanging over a precipice. I picked up a piece of orange and ate it just for something to do while he made up his mind if he was going to say something. Finally, he put his hand on mine and said, “Shit, Cooper.”
    I remember trying to trot out some sort of a wry smile, going for resigned. “Yeah, well…”
    “You still