“I’m sure. I feel bad making Waffle stay there without me, anyway.”
Between my perfect kitty and the promise of moving into the new place, I’m ready to handle anything.
Even knowing the man I love is just down the hall.
34
RYAN
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Ria asks quietly as I pour more whiskey into my glass. I shrug. “Nope. Want some?”
“No,” she says drily. “I’d like to actually win this tournament.”
I dangle the bottle from between two fingers. “Good. More for me.”
She snatches the bottle out of my hands. I can see my own face reflected in her black sunglasses, my cheeks hollow, the bags under my eyes gigantic. I look like I didn’t sleep last night, which is…accurate, actually.
James and I stayed up late, finishing off his whiskey. He didn’t make me talk about my feelings, and he let me ball up his fancy personalized stationary and practice throwing paper balls in the trash can. I’ve officially revised my best friend rankings, bringing James all the way up to the top—sorry, Beau.
After that, James dragged me back to my apartment and laid me out on the couch. I probably could have made it to my room, but 3:00 a.m. Ryan wanted to be waiting out for Pippa in case she got home late. Shortly after that, 3:30 a.m. Ryan went toPippa’s room to see if she was there. He knocked, and when she didn’t answer, he opened the door.
She wasn’t there, which got him thinking that she was probably still out with Jacob. Which is probably why 4:00 a.m. Ryan was stupid enough to comment on that Toronto Tea article, denying that he could ever be interested in Pippa.
Stupid,stupid4:00 a.m. Ryan.
I managed to get maybe an hour of sleep between tossing and turning on my bed. Once the sun was up, I decided to get an early start on the poker tournament. I headed down to the third floor and made sure the registration was ready, that the tables had all the right chips, that the seating charts all looked good.
Once all that was done, I remembered my stupid, stupid fucking comment on that blog. I deleted it, but nothing is really gone on the internet. Now, screenshots are circulating, and the whole world knows what a fucking asshole I am. Worst of all,Pippawill read it. And knowing her, she’ll assume I actually meant it.
So I started drinking, and I haven’t stopped since.
Ria’s not the only one with an opinion about it. The server apparently decided that he didn’t need to come to my poker table for refills, so I had to head to the bar and take matters into my own hands.
And now, Ria’s taking them into hers. Because she pours my full glass down the drain and shoves a Red Bull in my hand.
“Get your shit together, Archer,” Ria says in a low voice. “I don’t know what’s going on with you, and frankly, I don’t give a shit. But you’rehostingthis tournament, and you have to at least pretend that you want to be here.”
“Why? ‘Cause Idon’twant to be here.” I don’t bother keeping my voice down. Ria’s right, this is my tournament. The third floor is full of players thatIinvited, most of whom would cut offa finger to earn an invitation. I can act however I want, especially since I’m sober enough to correctly use the word “whom.”
Apparently, Ria disagrees, because she kicks me hard in the shin.
“Ow!” I yelp. “That’s assault.”
“That’s a reality check. Because when you sober up, you’re going to remember that youlovehosting this tournament, and you’re proud of its reputation. And when you realize that you yelled at a server for bringing you the wrong brand of whiskey, you’re going to feel like an asshole.”
“I yelled at a server?” I blink. That doesn’t sound like me. Iloathepeople who are rude to servers, and I’ll drink just about any kind of whiskey someone hands me.
“You’ve almost lost all your chipstwice, and you’re only still in this because Arthur got unlucky on the river. Now, I’m telling you this as a colleague.” Ria lifts up her sunglasses so she can glare at me. “You need to sit out for a minute. Hydrate. Caffeinate. Get right with your god. Do whatever the fuck you need to do so you can sit down at the final table tonight and play like you’re not the biggest loser in the room.”
She puts her glasses back on, whirls on her heel, and marches away from me.
I haven’t been scolded like that—with that brusque kind of tough love, as opposed to the open contempt my father scolds me with‚—since I was seventeen, and Emily caught me trying to sneak a girl in my bedroom.
So I crack open the Red Bull and lean against the bar. I sip slowly, trying to give the caffeine a fighting chance against all the alcohol I’ve been downing.
I know I’m spiraling. The sensible voice in the back of my head—the one that sounds like Nate—has been telling me to quit, but I’ve been ignoring it. Because there’s a hole in my chest,and I’ve got to fill it with something before my heart falls out of it.
I rake my hands through my hair. I’ve fucked up before, but never like this. First the argument with Pippa, then that stupid fucking comment. Pippa’s not the opposite of my type—she’s the fucking definition of it. I was hurt and lashed out in the stupidest way possible.
