Cohen says, motioning around the semicircle booth. “I told all of you, no bachelor party.” “Right, and I told you to stop wearing your vagina in public,” I say, sliding another shot toward him. “I didn’t need all of this,” Cohen gripes, taking the shot. In the grand scheme of bachelor parties, this isn’t really much. Ryan secured us a nice yacht, and we’re out floating in the ocean with some beers and mezcal I swiped from our father’s study and rad food. It’s mellow, but we figured Cohen wouldn’t want it any other way. “I’d be just as happy sitting home with Maren, watching Breaking Bad,” Cohen continues, like he’s dead set on being an old, wizened Mexijew before his time. “Kensley,” Deo coughs into his hand. Even I can’t hide the pure shock that makes me choke on my drink at the mention of Cohen’s ex——the girl who stomped all over his heart and then set it on fire just to be sure it was good and destroyed.
