It was as though I was the little brother; he spoke very authoritatively for
an eighteen year old.
“Why?” I asked.
“You’re wearing fucking mascara.”
“Yeah?”
“How wasted are you?” he asked.
I didn’t know how to answer that. “None?” “Not?” “No?”
“I’m not drunk,” I said. I decided not to flip the question back
on him. He was having problems with volume control—which happens
when you combine Tresnans and alcohol—but I let it go. I guess his heart
was in the right place. At least he thought he was doing the right thing.
“Then you’re alright with those pictures?” he said.
“Yeah,” I said. “I like them. We had fun. I think I looked good.”
A pause.
“Alright,” he said. Another pause. “I love you, man. You know.”
He was the only person who actually seemed to consider that I
wasn’t embarrassed. I was impressed and proud. “Yes, Tyler,” I said. “I love
you too.”
“I got your back. We’re brothers. I got your back,” he said.
“Of course.”
“Alright, man,” he said before we said goodnight. “You do you.”
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