"No, let me finish." She's literally bouncing up and down. "I live in Boston. You're trying to get traded here, but you need a wife to do so. Make me your wife! Marry me!"
Chapter 17: Ophelia
I'm never drinking again.
Ever.
The mere sight of the three (three!) empty bottles of wine on my floor makes me want to throw up. Again. And the rolling in my stomach is nothing compared to the pounding in my head.
Oh. My. God.
Good thing it's Sunday, and I don't have to do anything today. What time is it even?
I look for my phone. Actually, I feel around for my phone because opening my eyes hurts too much. But it's not where I expect it to be. I broaden my search, keeping my eyes tightly closed. However, when no amount of feeling around on my bed produces my phone, I'm forced to open them.
It's not on my bed. It's not on my nightstand. Shit. It's not even under my bed. It is, however, inside a wine glass on my coffee table.
At least the wine glass was empty, courtesy of my luscious—and lush-ous—self. I resist the urge to retch right here and now. Aaaand my phone is totally dead. Great.
I can't believe I didn't charge it. Wait—why didn't I charge it? I'm sort of a nut about that. A battery percentage below seventy-five percent is enough to give me heart palpitations.
I squint, not only because the overcast November sky outside my window is too bright, but also in an effort to remember last night.
I remember a penis, that's for sure. And then crying. And then …
Oh shit.
Did IFaceTimewith Xavier Henry?
Yup. That's it. Time to empty the contents of my stomach.
Drunk texts are one thing. Drunk Facetiming? There should be a breathalyzer on the phone that prevents you from opening apps if your blood alcohol content is above a certain level.
Definitely, if you put away three bottles of wine on an empty stomach.
I hope I didn't say anything embarrassing. I mean, this is me we're talking about, so the chances of that are zero, but I can hope.
Right now, I'm happy not to have a memory of this mortification—because I'm sure I did something mortifying—at least for the time being. After a three-hour nap and a pile of greasy eggs, I start to feel a little more human.
Not enough to dry my hair after I shower, but at least I was able to summon up the energy to shower. Fine, I sat in the tub the whole time, but it still counts. I no longer smell, so that's one win for the day.
I should probably go to bed for the night while I'm still ahead. I'll ignore the fact that it's only three p.m. I check my phone, now almost fully charged.
I have text messages.
A lot of them.
I don't recognize the number. It's not a Boston area code. Probably spam looking to talk to me about my car's extended warranty or to tell me how I can lose eight inches in two weeks.
It'd better not be penis man from last night. Although I'm pretty sure I blocked him immediately after leaving the restaurant.
But as soon as I open the first message, the roiling in my stomach is back. My knees start to buckle, and I sink quickly down onto my bed. Sundance joins me, talking to me fervently about how I've neglected him all day. Absently, I pet him on the head, not wanting to believe my eyes.
I quickly open my messages on Instagram and confirm what I'm afraid is true. Yup, this number, with its 410 area code, is Xavier Henry.
That would be the same super-hot, professional soccer player, Xavier Henry, that I drunken FaceTimed with. I only have to read one message to know that whatever I thought happened last night, it was about a billion times worse.
Xavier: You okay? You seemed pretty far gone.
