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He pops the cork and tosses it across the room. He sits on the floor at the back of the room and tips the entire bottle up as he slugs back the wine. "Turn off my phone to save the battery." He places the bottle next to his leg, which is bent at the knee.
"But then we'll be in the dark."
"You said you weren't afraid."
"I'm not."
"So come sit next to me, drink some wine, and turn out the light."
"I'm not drinking from that bottle."
He blows out a breath and stands. "Red or white?"
"Cabernet," I answer.
He searches a bit, takes another bottle out, opens it, and hands it to me. "Drink up. It'll calm your nerves."
"Fine." I use his phone to find a wine glass and pour myself a generous amount of wine.
As I sit down with my full glass, the rough brick scratches the exposed skin on my back, and the cold tile squishes against my wet butt.
The buttery drink tastes bitter and tart. I glance at his phone to see how much battery he has left.
His screensaver is a quote that says "Maybe self-destruction is the answer," and it has a picture of a bloody fighter's face in the background.
"Your phone is at twenty-five percent."
He twists his screen away from my view when he sees me checking out his screensaver. "It'll last an hour if we're lucky," he says.
"I can go get my cell phone upstairs. Then if yours dies, we'll have mine." I don't like the idea of running out of light.
"No. Don't risk it."
It's quiet in the small space. The wine warms my chilled skin, and the smell of old wood and dusty bottles fills my nose.
After a minute, the quiet sets in. We could be in here for a long time. "All right," he says. "You have one hour to tell me everything about you and finish that bottle."
I'm surprised by his question and laugh it off. "It won't take an hour." My story is short and I'm happy to get drunk after the night I had.
"Get started."
Gosh. What do I tell him? "We're a typical family. My parents immigrated here from Sicily in the seventies. We had a small house in New Jersey. My uncle helped my dad get into commodities trading. That went well. We bought a bigger house. My dad met rich people and we moved to Manhattan. My brother died." My voice falters. "Then my mom died." He leans in closer and our shoulders touch. I have to take a deep breath to continue. "I run my dad's charity now. That's it."
"Typical, huh?"
"Not typical I guess."
"I'm sorry about your mom and your brother."
"Yeah." I really don't want to talk about it as the sadness wells up in my heart, but something about Foster makes me feel comfortable enough to share. "I miss them all the time. Ricky was so young. Only five years old. He used to ride his little fire truck all around the house and my dad tried to stop him,but nothing could get that kid off that truck. Even when he outgrew it, he still folded his legs and pushed himself around on that truck." My chest tightens. It hurts but they were right, it does get better with time. Then of course I feel guilty for not being as sad as I used to be.
"That's rough. And your mom?"
My mind fills with the image of her long brown hair, her caring eyes. "She was so loving. She loved us kids. We were her whole world. She didn't care about all the nice houses and jewelry my dad would buy her. She liked 80's music and old cassette tapes. She bought me puppy figurines instead of the fancy statues my friends collected." I'm rambling a bit now, but the memories bring a warmth to my chest, and it's not just from the wine or Foster sitting next to me. "Losing Ricky shattered her."
"I didn't realize you'd lost so much."
I shake my head. "I don't think we ever recovered from losing them."
