I downed another shot of vodka. It smelled like rubbing alcohol, chicken nuggets and permanent marker, but it burned like a block of dry ice sliding down into my stomach. I reached for my can of Coke to chase it. My phone vibrated in my pocket and I dug for it awkwardly. I read the text and sighed, swinging around on the stool at the kitchen island.

“I’ll be right back,” I said to my friends. Everyone was so engrossed in their conversations and drinks they didn’t notice me shrug into my hoodie and step outside. I punched in her number then listened to it ring. She picked up within ten seconds.

“Hey! Are you busy?”

“Nah,” I lied trying to keep my teeth from chattering. “What’s up?”

“Guess what…” Her voice was bubbly.

“What?”

“I’m engaged!” she shrieked through the phone.

I almost groaned. She had been dating this guy maybe six months and we were only seventeen years old. More importantly, after my grand epiphany I was still her friend. I still sat in the second fiddler’s chair, holding my breath, just dying to get a chance. I knew what I knew and I couldn’t walk away. The sad reality of my life was turning me into a weekend alcoholic.

“That’s great!” I exclaimed. “I’m happy for you.” I was lying when I told her it was great. I thought it was stupid. But I wasn’t lying when I said I was happy for her. I always meant that. I was always happy when she was happy. Even if it hurt my heart so bad that alcohol couldn’t numb it.

I listened to her talk a few more minutes then told her I was outside and freezing. We said goodbye and hung up. I crammed my cellphone back in my pocket and stood there in the cold, winter air for a few more minutes. I waited until my fingertips hurt then I walked back inside.