And he is—Oh well! He is just himself, and I
miss him, and miss him, and miss him. The
whole world seems empty and aching. I hate
the moonlight because it's beautiful and he
isn't here to see it with me. But maybe you've
loved somebody, too, and you know? If you
have, I don't need to explain; if you haven't,
I can't explain. ╱ Jean Webster

It was my sixteenth birthday. Lucky was wearing one of his cashmere sweaters despite the eighty-five degree heat. The light blue complemented his eyes perfectly. He paired it with khaki shorts, like a madman. As the month waned, the evening air grew cooler, and our sweat glistened like dew in the glow of the rising moon.

            In his hand, a crumpled brown paper bag was squeezed between his fingers. Golden bands encompassed them, decorating his tawny skin. We laughed as we crossed the ravine on the outskirts of my family's ranch, our sneakers scraping over the jagged rocks that served as our makeshift path.

Lucky's grip loosened once the soles of our shoes reunited with the soil. He tugged me toward him, unraveling the bag to reveal a forty-ounce container of liquor tinted a light shade of pink. Celebratory, of course. It was something we'd only made attempts to try once before during a dinner party his family hosted in their sprawling lake house.

Back then, it was a forgotten bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon tucked away in the depths of their wine cellar. Barely thirteen, we sat beneath a wooden beam, taking tentative sips of the rich liquid, feeling it burn as it slid down our young throats. We pretended to be connoisseurs—swirling the dark wine in the bottle, making exaggerated gestures with pursed lips and pretentious glances, as though we understood its complexities.

He led us further until we came upon a clearing—Pasture Five. It was devoid of cattle, save for a small grape vine and a few scattered apple trees. A small-scale pond sat quietly beside a weathered English Oak, a family of ducks drifting lazily on its surface. He ushered us over, our shoulders brushing, before we lowered ourselves onto the cool, damp earth. Our bottoms sank into the sod, leaving dark impressions on his khaki shorts and my favorite patterned sundress. But, in that moment, it didn't matter. It was worth it, every bit of the memory.

He tore the cap off with his perfectly aligned, white teeth. I slapped his arm playfully, my eyes blown wide, but a smile still curling at the ends of my lips.

One graced his as well, "How else was I supposed to open it, Mags?" he asked with a chuckle, his eyes swirling with mischief.

"Not with your teeth!" I exclaimed, watching closely as he tilted the bottle toward the sky and took a massive gulp. "Your parents paid good money for those!"

He didn't even flinch. No wince, no grimace. Back then, he had spent a lot of time going to parties then, urging me to tag along with a familiar plea: "Just this once!" But I never did. I had heard far too many rumors about the going on's at those gatherings—specifically when it involved him. I never asked him about the hearsay. I don't think I wanted the answer at that time, and even still.

There were plenty of reasons I avoided those parties. Mostly, it was because of the crowd, the noise, the people. God, the people. I knew Lucky wouldn't stray from me and leave me at my own disposal as he mingled at one of those things, but just the thought of attending used to raise the hair on the back of my neck, sending my stomach into a tizzy. He was always such a social butterfly, while I was a misanthropic moth, drawn to the edges, and never the center.

            We balanced one another out in that regard.

He'd given his neck a twist then, encouraging me to take the elixir with the slight shake of his wrist, "Don't remind me," he said with a shiver. "I can still taste the metal if I think about it too much." He coasted his tongue along his teeth, reminded of his teeth's lengthy stint behind bars.

            Finally, I took the forty-ounce from him.

I spun the tip of my index finger around the rim, hesitating. With a silent rally, I tilted my chin up, marking each and every star and trying to carve them into my memory, accounting for every constellation in the dark sky.

I felt his gaze on me—always so intent, perusing and studying in that way he had made a habit. Lucky had a way of studying people, as if he could unravel what lingered in the depths of their minds with a single stars. It was something he inherited, like a quiet trait passed down from his father, who watched like a hawk—silent, patient, and unsettling. Except his dad was more brash about it than Lucky. Beneath the older man's glare, you were made to feel like a bug being dissected beneath a microscope. Picked apart and prodded at with a focused scowl.

I raised the bottle to my lips, letting the liquid slide down my throat in heavy gulps until my throat flared, heating my chest with the force of a thousands suns, smoldering my stomach and clouding my vision.

Through hazy eyes, I'd glanced over at Lucky to find a grin splitting his face into two perfect halves. Slow, astounded chuckles departed from his lips. I settled the drink between us, resting my hand on his knee, gasping for air between laughs.

I felt his hands against the nape of my neck as I clutched my chest, "Damn, are you gonna be alright?" he asked through stifled laughter.

My eyes were already growing heavy, my brain already swirling on the cusp of inebriated. When I finally regained some sort of equilibrium, I slumped backward, still able to decipher the heat of his palm along my neck. For a moment, his hand lingered, then slipped away, leaving a gentle trail as it moved.

One hand shifted at the base of my skull. Relaxed fingers tangled in the loose strands of hair that had unraveled from the single braid down my backside as he detached himself from me. Lingering touches along my arm. Shared sighs. Stolen glances of assurance. His pinky jutted outward, barely grazing my own as he eyed me, carefully monitoring my state.

Satisfied enough, he'd slumped back against the tree trunk as well, releasing the bottle from my hold and assuming possession.

A goofy spread across my lips, now varnished in a sour raspberry glaze from the forty-ounce, of what I now realize was rosé.

We polished off the bottle, draining it completely in less than an hour. I don't recall talking much, just laughing childishly about things I can't possibly recall now.

Regrettably, it was a night I longed to remember, because I'd tasted his lips. My best friend and I had shared a drunken kiss beneath the stars. My best friend. Luther James Sommers.

The boy it has always beat for, the boy my heart can't seem to escape, the boy who ended up breaking it with a single phone call the day after my twenty-fourth birthday, the boy whose wedding I'm essentially planning.

A wedding I had always anticipated being in, and not by headlining as the best woman. It sounds a little crazy in retrospect, doesn't it? Maybe because it absolutely is.