“Like, noon.”
“Oh. Shit.”
“Tell me you’re sick.”
He squints like the sunlight streaming through the blinds burns his retinas. “I’m sick.”
“Bullshit.”
“I think I’m supposed to be at the restaurant.”
“Yeah, that’s what you said last night. You don’t look like you’re in any shape to get yourself there, though.”
He manages to sit up. He looks like a Weeble, these teetering egg-shaped toys my mom played with when she was little and saved to share with me.
He groans again. “I’ll be all right. Just need a shower. And some hair of the dog.”
I lean against the doorjamb. I have no idea what he means byhair of the dog. His eyes fall closed as he seesaws on the mattress, using his hands to brace himself on either side.
“Are you going to throw up?”
He hauls his eyes open, swallowing thickly, considering the trash can. “I think I’m good.”
He gets up like a man who hasn’t been on his feet in months, then hobbles into the bathroom. The door shuts, the shower powers on, and I leave him to it.
I don’t understand people who forfeit control this way. It used to drive me crazy when Whitney would call late at night, drunk with her friends. She’d go on about how much she loved me, her words sluggish, too syrupy to be sincere. All I ever wanted was toget off the phone because that girl—loose-tongued and sappy—wasn’t who I’d signed on for.
Dad overdoing it is even worse. He’s too old to be getting so sloshed he’s gonna feel like shit the next day.
In the kitchen, I text Piper:
My dad’s nursing a wicked hangover. Tati too?
She responds after a few minutes.
No idea.
It has to have been Tati who brought Dad home. She must’ve gotten him into bed. She took off his shoes and made sure he had something to heave into. For all the crap Piper talks about her sister, she’s not so bad. Drunk Davis isn’t for the weak of heart. Tati stepped up.
I shoot Piper another text, telling her I’ll come by tonight, then set my phone on the countertop as Dad comes lumbering in. He looks human, more or less. He opens the fridge, plucks a Corona off the shelf, and pops the top with his trusty bottle opener.
I watch, my jaw unhinged. “Hair of the dog?”
“Yeah,” he says, followed by a weak laugh. “Quickest way to cure a hangover.” He pulls peanut butter out of the pantry, grabs a spoon, and scoops out a huge dollop. He devours it. “Second-quickest way to cure a hangover,” he says, his mouth sticking and smacking. “Greasy bacon works too.”
“Gross.”
“You’ll thank me one day.”
I shake my head—I can’t believe these are the life lessons he’simparting to me.
“I’m going to Piper’s later,” I tell him. “You going in to work?”
He checks the time. “In a while.”
“What about Tati? Are you seeing her tonight?”
He blinks, brows knitting together.
