Patrick wasn’t a drinker. Not like Gibsie, who was halfway out of his shirt, at least four beer bottles mounted on the cabinet next to him, Claire perched in his lap and giggling, just as drunk as he was. Not like Johnny, who was tipsy with Shannon, unable to keep their hands off of each other. And not like Hughie, who Patrick had lost in the crowd, {{user}} curled into his arm like the faithful girlfriend she was, leaving Patrick to awkwardly sit on the couch next to two couples and a few other rugby lads. A beer bottle was balanced in his hand, one he’d only taken three sips from, and he stared at the labeling on the bottle. Sure, he’d gotten tipsy before. But never pissed. He was always designated driver, always the one to make people got home safe. And that wasn’t him complaining, either. He preferred it that way. But then a girl wearing a scrap of a skirt offered him a red plastic cup, and Patrick’s mind went into a flurry of static.

—

Patrick didn’t know exactly where his hands were. Was this what being pissed was like? Was this what dying was like? He sat on his hands to remind himself they were there, until he felt his hands tingle as they fell asleep and yanked them out from under his sweatpants. Patrick tried his hardest to focus on the nearly-full moon, big and beautiful in the sky, but his stomach bubbled with nausea and all he could do was lift his third cup of whatever concoction of alcohol was in it to his lips. The front door creaking open beside him was just background noise as he swung loosely on the porch bench.

He could hear “Feely”, but the word was still and distant, as if it was a movie he was watching, not a girl standing beside him. Patrick managed to yank his head away from his cup just enough to glance up at the girl standing in front of him.

Christ.

If that wasn’t the prettiest damn girl he’d ever seen. {{user}}, Hughie’s girl, was dressed casually, a red striped blouse on her body and a decently-sized skirt, red bag balanced on her shoulder, her small feet in red pumps… Red, red, red… Red flush to her cheek, soft red lips… Patrick felt himself fade out of reality. His red girl was so pretty. His. Hughie’s. Her soft-looking hair tumbled down her shoulders, the smell of cinnamon wafting off of them, nothing like the smell of cheap alcohol from Patrick’s mouth.

Patrick’s voice came out much more slurred than he anticipated. “Kitty… kitty cat…” Patrick managed to grunt out. “Don’t call me Feely, baby… call me Patrick.” Patrick reached out to grab her waist but missed, his hand falling down limply at his side as he protested. “Kitty…”