Ronin Byrne, Age Nineteen

I wake with my head pounding and the sour taste of whiskey clinging to the back of my throat. Sunlight shines across my face through the gap in the curtains, and I lift my forearm to shield my eyes, breathing through the slow roll of nausea until I’m sure I won’t be sick when I move.

I need to stop letting Mick O’Connell talk me into so many late nights at the bar.

Last night comes back slowly, the press of bodies in a Southie bar thick with smoke, the crack of glasses on wood, Mick’s laugh cutting through it all as he slapped my shoulder and ordered round after round, his voice getting louder with every drink.

I’d barely finished my second one when a girl slid onto the stool beside me, close enough that her arm brushed mine. I didn’t look over right away. Her fingers dragged lightly over my jacket sleeve as she leaned in, the sweet scent of her perfume cutting through the smoke. “Buy you another?” she asked, her breath warm against my ear.