It’s possible Davie-boy thought he was being romantic, but she won’t be hearing that from me.

I shake my head. “What a prick.”

“Right?”

I refill her glass again.

And she sips.

“Plus, I’m pretty sure he’s screwing around. With an intern!”

I snort. “Who does this clown think he is—Bill Clinton? Next thing you know, he’ll be playing the saxophone and not inhaling.”

“Exactly!” Then she stares at her hands and her voice goes softer. “The worst part is, it didn’t bother me. Not even a little. That means something, right?”

“Shit, yeah. It means you should’ve kicked that asshole to the curb a long time ago.”

As she finishes off drink number three, I can tell she’s starting to get a little fuzzy around the edges. Just the slightest thickening of her voice. “But still—I can’t believe I did that. When a man proposes, he deserves not to have you run away, doesn’t he?”

I keep nursing my own drink. “Technically you were carried away, but, tomato/tomahto.”

“My parents . . .” She smacks her palm to her forehead. “My mother loves David. She’s going to be so disappointed in me.”

“My father’s been disappointed in me for years—it’s not as bad as you think.” I finish off my drink.

Time to move on to happier topics. “We should go out and blow off some steam. You’ve earned it. Call Vicki and Brian—we’ll pick them up.”

Kennedy gets Vicki on the phone and gives her the Cliffs-Notes version of our epic escape. From this end, it sounds like Vicki wasn’t a huge fan of Prince either. And when Kennedy asks her if they want to come out with us, I hear Vicki’s voice from across the car.

“Brian! Call your mother!”

And it looks like we’re a quartet.

• • •

We end up at a college bar not far from Brian and Vicki’s house. It doesn’t look like any of the press followed us. After a few rounds, Brian Gunderson tries his hand at karaoke. He sings “I Can’t Feel My Face When I’m with You” and his wife claps and dances the whole time.

A couple of rounds later, Kennedy goes for it. She sings “Fight Song,” and while her voice isn’t anything she should quit her day job over, her smoking little body wrapped in that white dress, swiveling and gyrating, gets her a standing ovation from every frat boy in the place—and there’s a lot of them.

An hour before closing, I’m enjoying a good buzz and my three companions are totally hammered. Vicki begs Kennedy to do another song, but when she tries to climb on the stage, she ends up on her ass, laughing like a nutcase.

A college kid moves to help her, but I’m already there. I chase him away with a dark look, then I tell her, “Okaaay. Time to go, peanut.”

“Go? But I like it here! It’s fun.”

I sweep her into my arms. Even at dead weight, she feels like nothing. “It’s all fun and games until someone gets a concussion.”

• • •

Brian climbs out of the car in front of their house. He rests his forearm on the roof and offers me his other hand. “Dude, we should do this again sometime—I’m so happy you’re not the asshole you were in high school anymore.”

I guess it’s a compliment. At least that’s how I choose to see it.

“Thanks, man. That means a lot.”

Vicki gives Kennedy a bear hug in the backseat.

“I love you, Vicki!” Kennedy slurs.

“I love you, Ken-ken!” Vicki returns.

Then Vicki pokes my shoulder. “And you! You take good care of my Kenny! Don’t make me hafta kick (poke) yer (poke) ass (double poke)!”

I give her a nod. “The ass-kicking days are behind us now.”

“Good! Then there’s somethin’ you should know.” Vicki’s expression sobers, and she gestures me closer before ruining the effect by whispering loudly, “Kennedy hasn’t had an orgamsum . . . orgamsam . . . Kennedy hasn’t come in a loooong time. Like, years. At least, not with a guy.”

“Shhhhhhh!” Kennedy swats her best friend like a fly. “Tha’s a secret!”

“Maybe Brent can help you wif it?”

I give Vicki the thumbs-up—and it’s not the only thing that’s up, that’s for sure.

“Don’t worry, Vick, I’m on the case. And I believe in retroactive pay, so she’ll be compensated for all the fun she missed out on.”

With that, Brian helps his wife out of the car and into the house.

They were fun. Kinda nuts, in a way that makes me think they’d fit right in at one of my family functions—but still fun.

• • •

“Do you remember when we were fourteen and we talked about masturbating?”

This, however, is not fun.

“I asked you if you really did that, and you said, ‘They cut my leg off, Kennedy, not my hand—I do it all the fucking time.’ ” She presses her face against my neck, dissolving in a fit of adorable giggles.

It started in the car. A slip of her hand, an innocent touch that didn’t feel innocent at all. And the talking—Christ—Wasted Kennedy likes to talk.

“Then you asked me if I did it. And I said, ‘Absolutely not.’ ”

About sex. All kinds of sex. Oral sex—she loves giving and getting it. Anal sex—never tried it, but she really, really wants to.