Kombucha.
“Shiiiiiiiiit,” I say. No,sing, performer. Sing.“The kombuuuuuucha was druuuuunk.”
“You’re drunk,” Grey says.
“I’mhaaaapppppyand mymoooouth is on fiiiiii-ya!” And the kombucha was hot.
Heavy.
Hard.
It washardkombucha.
“I’m a altitude on liiiiiightweeeeeight,” I sing.
“Elevation,” Theo says. “It’s only altitude if you’re not touching the ground.”
“Sabrina’s gonna kill me for not recording this,” Grey mutters.
“I’ll kill you if you do.”
“I know.”
“Was an assident,” I say on a sigh. “My assit—asskit—assistantwas trying to find an email from Emma Wass—Wax—Watson’s people. That’s know I how. Know I how.Hew I now. Shit.”
I. Drunk. Am. So.
“Can I wakey-wakey tomorrow on Emma’s porchy-porchy?” I ask my friends in my best Ryan Reynolds voice.
Yeah.
We’re friends.
Friends tell friends things when they’re high on the booch.
“Why would you want to do that?” Theo asks me.
“Start over. Be better. Be what she deserves.”
There’s a heavy sigh.
And a snore.
I don’t know who’s doing what.
But I know the stars are back behind my eyes, and they’re pretty.
I want to show Emma the stars.
She’s pretty.
And she’s strong.
And she’s brave.
And I like her.
28
