The setting was dark. It was at least 12 o'clock at night in the empty house. After at least 10 bottles of Coors light, Adam and you were drunk.

Adam and you didn't get drunk, only if ye were out together or with the others. But sometimes, when things got too hard, the CD player would be down in the kitchen, and the bottles would be out and ready.

And then your song would play. The song.

The special song.

Angels by Robbie Williams.

And Adam took your hand and sang it like a fucking donkey. But it didn't matter because you were there with him. He was there with you, and he didn't seem to be thinking about the rich fucks back at his house. He wasn't thinking about the amount of times his parents had given out to him.

He was thinking about you.