Free St. Nacho's by Z. A. Maxfield

blame yourself?”
    “Yes.” I nodded. He had to see that I wouldn’t dodge responsibility.
    “I see.” He sipped his coffee.
    It was my fault. I gave him the keys, I texted. It was me.
    “He could have given someone else the keys. He could have chosen not to accept them,” he pointed out. “I don’t understand.”
    “Of course you don’t understand!” I threw down the phone, feeling explosive. “No one could understand unless they’d done it. No one could know what it’s like unless…”
    “Hey.” He laid a big hand on my shoulder. “Type what you said, and then let me finish.”
    I pinched my lips together. “Sorry,” I said. I typed as much as I could remember of my outburst.
    “I don’t understand why that made you afraid of cars.” My thumbs hovered over the keys. I just can’t get into one anymore. That’s all. I still couldn’t talk about the chaos in the aftermath of the accident -- Bobby’s mother screaming, the sirens wailing. How I locked myself in the truck cab and refused to come out. Police.
    Firefighters and EMTs. How revolting I must have seemed at that moment, standing there, pierced and tattooed, shaking and scared sober. Worthless, yet taking up space while the world reviled me and wished me dead.
    No one held me responsible; I hadn’t broken any laws. It wasn’t even my truck, it was his, except we shared it, and I gave him the keys that day. I gave him the keys. The next day, with my parents’ blessing both monetary and spiritual, I took the bike to Hazelden in Center City, Minnesota, and never looked back.
    Through long practice I’d learned to keep my face impassive. I used that now as I continued to drink my coffee and eat slivers of fruit that tasted like sawdust in my mouth.
    “How old were you when you started drinking?” Shawn changed the subject. I was surprised, but not sorry. I began to breathe again.
    40 Z. A. Maxfield
    “Fourteen,” I replied, using my hands to show him. I had fond memories of alcohol leading to unexpected physical encounters, reducing my inhibitions, making it possible for me to step outside my rigid upbringing. Giving me an excuse for having sex with guys at a time when I still needed one. “My best friend Jordan and I started drinking around middle school. We thought we were such hot shit.”
    Shawn smiled. “I’m trying to imagine what fourteen-year-old Cooper was like.” He popped a piece of apple into my mouth and took a maraschino cherry for himself. “I can do that trick with the stem. Watch.” He held up a finger and with the other hand slowly lowered the cherry into his open mouth.
    I watched and he chewed, and sure enough, the red stem came out tied. I shivered a little, remembering that tongue on my dick.
    “Well?” he asked.
    I had no idea what he was talking about. “Well, what?”
    “What was the fourteen-year-old Cooper like?”
    “I don’t know.” I hated stuff like this. I typed, Maybe just an orchestra geek?
    “Nobody’s ‘just’ an anything.”
    I was the first chair violin, I admitted with my thumbs, sending it in dispatches like a telegram. I went to music camp and music lessons. I liked video games. Most of the time I was angry or horny or scared; one, both, or some exotic combination of all three.
    Shawn grinned. “You say that like it’s in the past.” What? I sent. It is in the past; he’s long gone. I think I drowned him in beer.
    “Oh, I don’t know.” Shawn smiled. He lay on his back on the blanket, biting his lip a little as if he had a private joke. “I think I may be looking at him right now.” St. Nacho’s
    41

Chapter Seven
    “It’s time,” said Shawn, changing the subject completely, “that you learned some sign language.” All business, he sat up straight on the blanket, facing me with his legs crossed. He urged me to do likewise. “Boy,” he said, pinching the air in front of his forehead. “Boy. You do it.”
    “Okay,” I said. I felt like an utter ass, but as I was