PEYOTE

“I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU made such a big deal out of the beer at Jack’s,” I said, cracking open another Miller Lite and tossing the cap onto the kitchenette counter. Cal smirked and shrugged, going so far as to hold her palms up. I laughed. I couldn’t help it. Also, I had already had three whole beers, which was more than I had had in a row in centuries. I was euphoric.

“I hope you can forgive me.”

“I’m going to drink all of this,” I said, pointing to the fridge with a full six-pack still inside. “You owe me that much.”

“Fair enough,” Cal said. “You really were a work of art in there.”

I smiled and fell back against Cal’s couch. I hadn’t been in another person’s Fifth-Floor apartment in a long time, but it was exactly the same as mine.

“It was a pleasure,” I said, and I meant it. Watching Trey’s face fall—I took so much pleasure in it, there was no denying I belonged here.

“Can we talk about KQ and her fucking feet?” Cal asked, sitting down next to me.

I snorted. “She’s a nightmare.”

“And with the skirt today? Did her vagina take a power-pose workshop or something?”

I laughed again, so hard I almost slapped my knee. Almost. I took a sip of beer.

Cal stood up suddenly and reached her hands up until the tips of her fingers pressed against the popcorn ceiling. Her T-shirt rode up with her hands, and I could see her stomach, her belly button. I hadn’t seen another person’s belly button since I’d worked on Second. I’m not proud of it, but I stared. If you go too long without seeing parts of yourself in others, you start to think you’re made wrong.

“What do you want from this life, Pey?” Cal asked, holding her arms out to her whole apartment, the whole of the Fifth Floor, the whole of everything.

“This isn’t life,” I said. “This is what comes after.”

“Quit dodging the question,” she said, waltzing to the stereo and clicking up the volume. The music in the living room got louder. We have only a couple of stations in Hell, but unlike our booze, our music is personalized against our tastes. For example, in my apartment, my only musical choices are Jock Jams and K-pop. Yours would be your own worst cacophony. Cal’s was deep and throaty.

“Dave Matthews?” I asked.

“Creed,” she answered. “I think they might be growing on me.”

I smiled, remembering the words to some Korean song I’d memorized but couldn’t understand.

“I want to keep going exactly like I have been,” I said. “Except I would like less Trey.”