I arched an eyebrow. “Did you just throw that in my face?” I left him standing alone, sitting next to Kirby on the tailgate.

Taylor began to speak, but the sounds of footsteps crunching against the snow took away his attention.

A small group of teenagers walked toward us, bumping into each other or the buildings or falling off the curb.

“Hey,” one of the guys said, smiling, “you got any weed?”

“Nope,” Gunnar said before continuing his conversation with Kirby.

Taylor began to respond to my question, but the man knocked on his truck.

“Hey! I’m talking to you!” the man said to Gunnar.

Gunnar and Taylor traded looks.

Then Taylor glowered at the entire group. “Don’t touch my fucking truck, kid.”

The man puffed out his chest, attempting some form of intimidation, but he was so wasted that he failed to look directly at Taylor. He wasn’t completely unfortunate-looking. He had a respectable amount of scruff, and his arms were built nicely enough to fill the sleeves of his flannel shirt.

“Is he high?” Kirby asked.

Gunnar shook his head. “You don’t go looking for a fight if you’re high. He’s just drunk.”

Kirby didn’t seem fazed as she watched the man sway, waiting for what he might say next.

“Move along,” Taylor said.

The man was a couple of inches shorter than Taylor, but he didn’t seem to know it. He looked over at Kirby and me. “I’m thinking about crashing your party.”

The men behind him laughed, slapping each other on the shoulders and trying just as hard as their bearded friend to stand upright.

Gunnar stepped down off the tailgate, towering over all of them. All three men took a step back.

“You have a giant,” the first man said, his chin tipped up.

Taylor’s posture instantly relaxed, and he laughed. “Yes. Yes, we do. Now, quit fucking with us, and go back to wherever you came from.”

They chuckled among one another and began to move on, but the bearded one paused.

“Don’t you work at the Bucksaw?”

I wasn’t sure which of us he was addressing. None of us answered.

“I’ll come see you,” he said, attempting to be flirtatious while struggling to keep his balance.

“No, you won’t,” Taylor said, his jaw working under his skin.

The drunk laughed, bending at the waist to grab his knees, and then he stood up, pointing at me. “Is she your girlfriend? I’m sorry, man. I won’t steal her.”

“I’m not worried about it,” Taylor said.

“Sounds like you are,” he said, using the back corner of the truck bed to hold himself up. Then he flattened his hand on the tailgate next to where I sat.

Taylor glared at his hand. “I don’t like you touching my truck. Think about it. What am I going to do to you if you touch my girlfriend?”