Kings

“Is that natural?” His mom paused mid-flip of the second filet on the stovetop, her eyes lighting up as she studied my hair. I furrowed my brows, sitting up straight at the kitchen table, raising my hand and letting spaghetti strands slip between my fingers as I glanced at my ends. The chandelier’s light caught the soft caramel-brown of my bangs, which fell into my eyes. “Yeah,” I said, the words feeling small against the warmth of her compliment.

“You have such gorgeous hair,” she continued, her bright crooked smile mirroring his, resembling his two large front teeth and dull canines. That genuine smile made me wish I could believe her, too. If only she understood what having curly hair really means. This was me after three products. I used two conditioners in the shower to weigh it down and prevent it from looking like a puffy lion’s mane (though humidity or rain would still enlarge it). Then, after the shower, I added a serum for shine and a gel to define the curls. Finally, I’d sit upright on a couch, avoiding any contact until it dried, or I’d have to wet it and start all over—two hours every day. If I wanted it straight, I’d use the same serum, blow-dry, straighten, then add gel and hairspray, still taking two hours. Looking at her, I couldn’t help but envy her pin-straight, bleach-blonde hair, so easy to manage. She didn’t see the behind-the-scenes work that went into mine. He had inherited her straight hair—light brown, styled long on top and short on the sides, parted in the middle like a 20s undercut. But I still appreciated her comment.

“Thank you,” I replied, a bit flustered. She turned away, her jean pockets facing me as she focused on the fish, stabbing a filet with her fork and flipping it, sending a loud sizzle through the kitchen, the smell of sea wafting under my nose. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted him in the vacant dark room behind me slyly sliding a pack of Sour Patch Kids into his back pocket from a drawer by the TV console, all while gathering a stack of game cards in his right hand. It felt like a covert operation, and though his mom must have noticed, she played dumb, keeping the peace with a knowing smile, her eyes glued to the fish.

He stepped into the kitchen, the soft carpet yielding to the cool hardwood floor. Leaning against the basement doorframe, he mouthed, “We’ll be downstairs,” his voice carrying a deep crackle. His mom tilted her head in acknowledgment, eyes still fixed on dinner. “Have fun! But not too much fun,” she chuckled in a high-pitched tone. He released his meaty, stubby hands from behind his back, hovering them over his black track and field joggers, palms open and waiting to be held.

I reached for his hand, warmth radiating from his skin as I let him lead me down the creaking basement steps. Each thud of our footsteps echoed in the narrow space. 

His newly purchased pizza socks from Black Friday gilded left across the white carpet as he reached for the gleaming golden doorknob, twisting it. The white door creaks open to reveal a cozy living room with a beige couch pushed against the back wall, almost as if it were trying to escape the confines of the square room. A brown coffee table sat in the middle, and a black flat-screen TV dominated the wall to the left, its screen dark. 

He set the stack of cards down on the coffee table, and my eyes began to explore the room. I noticed the three cushions on the couch, each indented in the center, hinting at recent use. Stepping further inside, I absorbed the eclectic decor and the lingering aroma of popcorn in the air. Someone must have been here before me. I wonder what he had been watching. I nestled into the corner of the couch. 

He towered right in front of me, my blue checkered PJ’s snug against his as he leaned against the face of the couch. I tilted my head back, the overhead light glinting off his tall, broad frame. With a playful flick, he reached into his pocket, and two Sour Patch Kids tumbled into his palm with a soft thud. He popped one into his mouth, a grin spreading across his face as he chewed. “Here you go, miss,” he said, extending the other candy toward me.

I wiped the sweat from my palms, hesitating for just a moment before accepting it. The gummy texture yielded beneath my teeth, sweet and tangy. I caught his gaze—he was watching me intently, a hint of anticipation in his expression, ready to say something as my jaw worked through. 

“Be right back,” he said, darting to the black bar tucked away in the corner behind a pool table. I am not sure why he is juggling a pink punch and a lime punch, balancing a bubble soda can against his chin and chest. I didn’t think we were going to drink tonight, i was just under the impression we were going to eat gummies, but it’s a good thing I am easy going with surprises like this. He walked back, setting the pink punch down first. “And for you,” he said, handing me the lime punch. I took it, bemused.  “How’d you manage to get those? Are they yours?”

“They’re my brother’s but we can have them.” He surveyed his surroundings, first glancing at the lone chair next to the couch I occupied, then at the three empty seats to my right, before finally looking down at the floor by his feet. I could see the gears turning in his mind, his warm brown eyes darting around with rapid energy. In an instant, his shoulders relaxed, and he settled onto the floor across from me. I let out an unexpected snort. “I don’t bite, you know.”

“I know.” He reached for the stack of cards, splitting them in half with practiced ease, intertwining them and resplitting three times. “Do you know how to play Kings?” he asked, his eyebrows raised.

“What are Kings?”

His face froze in mock disbelief. “Marissa!” My name elongated, as if I confessed to living under a rock for the past decade.  

“...I don’t play many card games.”  

“I can tell.” His fingers expertly riffle-shuffled the cards as they danced between his hands. Each twirl sent a crisp rustle through the air, the cards snapping back together. 

I narrowed my eyes as I caught him glancing at my arms tucked defensively underneath my thighs.

“To be fair,” his voice softens, “my older brother taught me this game. He played it all the time in college.”

I picture the late-night gatherings, the laughter echoing in a cramped dorm room, the playful chaos of friends gathered around a table. His eyes sparkled with nostalgia which eases my annoyance a little. 

“So it’s a college game?”

He arranges the bubble soda can in the center of the coffee table. “Don’t worry, this will be great practice for college,” he added, spreading the cards around the can in a makeshift circle. “If Bentley Swim has team bonding activities…”

I leaned in closer. “So, how do you play?”

He nodded, rubbing his hands together. “Let’s do a mock round,” he suggested. The knot in my stomach began to loosen. 

He picked a card from the stack and flipped it over, revealing a black six of spades. “Of course,” he chuckles, clasping his hands together in amusement. “Drink!”

“Why?” I laugh nervously under my breath. 

“It’s a rule. Six means chicks. You identify as a chick, right?”

“Yes.” I roll my eyes. Unreal. 

“Then drink, honey.” 

I glanced at the drink for a long second. “Can you open it, please?”

He let out a long sigh, biting the inside of his cheek as he leaned forward. I slid the bottle across the table like a bartender, and he caught it effortlessly, his movements smooth and practiced. With a bang, he struck the side of the glass against the coffee table. The cap flew off, and a bit of punch splashed out, staining the red rug beneath us. Really classy, I thought, sarcasm threading.

“Was there a bottle opener by the bar?” I raised an eyebrow.

“Probably,” he shrugged. He slid the punch back to me, watching as I took a tentative sip. The tangy, artificially flavored liquid sticks onto my taste buds. Ew.

He placed the six underneath the cap of the bubble soda can. “Your turn.”

I flipped over the card closest to me, revealing a four of clubs. Instantly, he pointed dramatically to the floor, his brown eyes bold and insistent, as if I was supposed to know exactly what to do.

“Drink again,” his laughter echoes off the confined basement walls once more. I stared at him, bewildered—clearly, he was enjoying this way too much.

“What the fuck?” I shot back, half-laughing and half-exasperated.

“Four means floor. You need to point down first. The last person to point to the floor has to drink.”

“Well, now I know, thanks for that” I grumbled, smacking my palm against my forehead. I really hoped this wasn’t his idea of hazing me.

He sat cross-legged on the floor, his right knee bouncing with restless energy. A teasing grin lingered on his face, making him look oddly like a puppy waiting for a treat. Why is he acting like that? It’s so weird. “What? It’s your turn, right?” I prompted, trying to redirect the attention back to him.

“You need to put the card underneath the soda, then it’s my turn.”

I carefully tucked the corner of the four underneath the edge of the bubble soda can, the gesture feeling oddly ceremonial—like I was making an offering to the drinking gods. “There,” I said.

“Alright, let’s see what I get,” he flipped over a five of hearts and placed it flat on the table. “Five…” Without missing a beat, he took a swig of his pink punch and slid the card under the cap of the bubble soda.

“What does that mean?”  

“Well, what rhymes with five?”

“Ummmm…” I hesitated, my mind racing as I watched his finger playfully jabbing at his own chest.

“Wise,” I added without hesitation. 

“Me? Wise?” he teases. “Guess again.”

“Guys?”

“There we go,” he drums his fingers against the coffee table like he was keeping time. “Like the six is chicks, five is guys. I’m a guy, so I drink.” He took another swig. 

 “I see.”  I flipped a card from the pile, revealing the eight of diamonds.

“Okay, cheers,” he said, raising his pink punch. I tilt my head in confusion, but followed his lead anyway. I clinked my lime punch against his, the chill of the glass sending a shiver through my fingertips. As I took a swig, the sour taste tumbles down my throat, its weight settling in my stomach like a stone.

“I’m assuming the suit of the card means nothing?”

“That’s right,” he confirmed, and I nodded slowly, starting to feel like I was beginning to see the connections.

“And the color?”

“—Means nothing.”

Okay, so it’s just a numbers game, and every number has its own rule. I tucked the eight underneath the cap of the bubble soda. 

He flipped over his next card from the pile: an ace. He raised his drink, his eyes inviting me to follow suit once more.  

“So we both drink. Since it’s my turn, I can control when to stop, and then once I stop, you can stop too.”

As he started to drink, time felt like it slowed down, each gulp stretching on and on. The lime dissolved in my stomach, releasing a warm sensation that spread through me. I could feel the pressure mounting; it was as if we were locked in some sort of friendly but gross competition. What should have been just 60 seconds chugging felt like 60 years, filled with a sense of shared defiance.

He finished his drink, crushing the can with a piercing crunch before placing it horizontally on the coffee table. I paused, having made a noticeable dent in my own, and suddenly the room tilted ever so slightly, my head spinning in a dizzying whirl. Burp! He let out a loud belch, and I waved my hand in the air as if to fan away the smell, laughing at the absurdity of it all. “That is called waterfall,” he mansplained, still chuckling as he reached for the card, tucking it beneath the can with a casual ease. 

I stumbled for the next card, fingers slipping as I tried to flip it over. “Already?” he asked, feigning disbelief. 

“Shut up!” I quip, a smile breaking through my embarrassment. I fumbled with the card again, trying to regain my focus as he watched, but my head was still swimming. The game was becoming a chaotic fog, each moment a little more brain-stupid than the last.

He sealed his lips with an exaggerated gesture, then tossed the imaginary key across the room.

I flicked my wrist, finally managing to flip the card. “Three.”

“Drink.” His voice echoed like a bass note, and the word registered way too slowly, making my toes curl. “You’re kidding.” This was definitely the last straw.

His grin stretched wider. “What rhymes with three?”

“Sea?” He shook his head. “Try again.”

“Flea?” Another shake. “Try again.”

“Tree…” I offered, but he continued to shake his head, his smile growing as my frustration mounted.

“No, no, and no.” He pointed at my mount olive high school hoodie.

“Me?”

With dramatic flair, he sprang up and headed to the bar. He popped open another punch effortlessly, then plopped back down across from me. “Bingo. Tell me when you’re ready.”

I sighed, my gaze lingering on the punch, droplets of condensation glistening on the bottle. I picked it up, feeling the chill seep into my palm. “‘Kay.”

He mirrored my movements, watching intently as I lifted my punch to my lips. We swallowed together, the moment stretching between us before I set my bottle back on the table.

“Why are you drinking if it’s my turn? Isn’t the rule just for me?”

“You’re my date, honey.”

I pressed my hands to my cheeks, warmth flooding my face as if shielding myself could erase the blush creeping up. He chuckled softly, clearly enjoying my flustered reaction. “Eight means date,” he added, gesturing to the card beneath the can we flipped earlier.

“Oh. So now every time we drink, we have to drink together?”

“You’re so smart! Future Bentley businesswoman catching on.”

I laughed, trying to tuck the card into the can, but my fingers felt clumsy as the stack grew unwieldy. Air whooshed out beneath my touch as I pressed down.

“I win!” He shouted, swiftly gathering the scattered cards and returning them to their box. “Now drink the bubble soda.”

“No! What about the other cards? Like 7, 11, Jack, Queen, King? We didn’t finish, and I don’t know all the rules!”

“Doesn’t matter. You opened the bubble soda. Game over.”

I reached into my pocket and pulled out my phone, my thumbs flying over the screen as I typed “card game rules for Kings.” The display lit up with a list that made my head spin.

“Wait, what are you doing?” he asked, distracted by the glowing screen.

“According to Wikipedia—”

“No.” With a leap, he bounded around the coffee table and landed on the cushion beside me, snatching my phone from my hands.

“We can wait until the next round. We’ll play out all the rules then.” He set my phone on the side table.

I giggled, my heart racing as his arm brushed against mine. With a sudden burst of energy, I stretched across his lap, my stomach barely hovering over the armchair, reaching for my phone. In a flash, his fingers darted under my arms, sending a jolt of electricity through me. I flailed like a fish out of water, laughter spilling out as his joy mingled with mine. I needed it to stop; I couldn’t handle the tickles any longer—forget the phone.

I sat up and swung my legs across his waist, straddling him, our faces just inches apart. As I caught my breath, something shifted inside me. I felt an urge to laugh every couple of seconds, and it took effort to keep my smile from breaking. My eyes felt dry, and the surrounding noise faded away, sharpening my focus on the one person in front of me—him. I couldn’t help but smile wider, the warmth spreading from my chest to my cheeks. In that moment, I realized just how special he was to me. 

He was genuinely funny, effortlessly bringing laughter to every corner of the room. The way he explained the game felt more like an experience than teaching, and I loved how easy it was to connect with him. He had a gift for storytelling that pulled me in, and I felt like I was seeing a side of myself I often kept hidden from self-doubt—the bubbly, carefree Marissa. 

“I have a confession?” I had to gulp to swallow my feelings, but it felt slow and dry, like pins pricking my throat, a lingering effect of the gummies.

“Yes?” His lashes framed those doughy, now red and dilated eyes. It looks like he also traveled to planet Jupiter with me. 

“I really hope I find someone like you someday,” I blurted out. 

He closed the distance between us, pressing a gentle kiss to my cheek. “That’s so sweet, Marissa,” he whispered in my ear, and in that moment, everything else faded away into a blur.