“Is that safe?” Caleb asks, but he’s already rolling up his sleeves to help.
“Safe’s a spectrum,” Z grins. “And we’re on the fun side of it.”
“I’ll gather kindling,” Marie offers, already moving toward the treeline.
“Take your phone,” I call after her. “Use the flashlight.”
She gives me a thumbs up and disappears into the shadows.
Again, when did I become this person? This mom friend who worries about flashlights and makes sure people have their phones?
It takes us twenty minutes and way too much arguing about fire-building techniques, but eventually flames crackle inside the barrel, heat and shadows spilling across the weathered barn walls.
Z unveils his prize—the stolen bottle of whiskey, expensive enough that I know it belongs in some leather-bound study, not a rusted barn in the middle of nowhere.
He raises it high like it’s the Olympic torch.
“To liberation,” he intones like it’s a sacred rite, and takes a swig before passing it to Caleb.
“To liberation,” Caleb echoes. His swallow is way too big, and he coughs through it, eyes watering, but the determination on his face makes my chest ache.
“To saying fuck it and actually meaning it,” I add when it’s my turn. The whiskey burns like hellfire down my throat, but it’s a good burn. A cleansing burn.
Marie takes the bottle with both hands, studying it like it might explode. “I’ve never...”
“First time for everything,” Z says, but his voice is gentle. “Small sip. Trust me.”
She does. Makes a face. “That’s disgusting.”
“Welcome to the club,” I laugh.
Z sparks up a joint he’s been saving, lighting it straight from the fire like the little pyromaniac he is.
“Oh, Idefinitely shouldn’t—” Marie starts.
“You don’t have to,” I say quickly. “Seriously. No pressure.”
She looks at me with relief. “I think I’ll stick to one new vice at a time.” She smiles and takes another little sip of whiskey.
But Caleb stares at the joint like Z just pulled out a live grenade. “I’ve never...”
“Of course you haven’t,” Z snorts. “Golden boy like you? But hey, tonight’s for firsts, right?”
I watch Caleb’s face in the firelight. The flicker of indecision. The exact second he makes the choice.
“Fuck it,” he says, reaching out. “How bad can it be?”
Famous. Last. Words.
Twenty minutes later,Caleb Graham—future valedictorian, Mr. Harvard-bound himself—is flat-out giggling. At nothing. At everything.
“You guys,” he says, eyes fixed on the jagged hole in the barn’s roof, “the sky is so big. Like... stupid big. Do you see it? Do you see?”
I snort into my sleeve. Z’s already howling. Even Marie’s giggling, curled up against my side for warmth.
“And stars!” Caleb goes on, gesturing with both hands like he’s discovered a new galaxy. “Stars are literally giant balls of fire just... just floating out there! And we’re down here like ‘aww, pretty lights’ when actually—ACTUALLY—they’re fucking explosions, millions of miles away!”
“Oh my god,” I wheeze. “You are the most adorable stoned person I’ve ever seen.”