She sighs. “Fucking weirdo.”
I laugh, taking a sip of my drink as I watch her head over to him. He looks at me, glaring.
It makes me smile and I raise my drink, taking a long pull.
When the game is finally over and people start to leave, and I’ve paid my bill, I stand from my chair and nearly fall over. My knee buckles, and the alcohol hits me like a fucking punch to the face.
Shit.
There is no way I can drive like this, which means I’m going to have to call for a ride. I’m fairly certain Mack already left, since I haven’t seen him and it’s still pretty crowded.
I lean againstthe bar, my finger hovering over Britt’s number. It rings and goes to voicemail, and I remember it’s a school night. She’s probably sleeping, so I hang up.
“Fuck,” I curse, knowing I only have one other option. My mother.
She picks up after one ring. “Alexander, where are you?”
“Bella’s,” I say. “I, uh… need you to come get me.”
The judgment and disdain in her voice is clear as a bell.
“You’re drunk.”
I flinch at her words, but she’s not wrong. I felt fine—before I stood up, that is.
I’ve been worse than this, this is nothing…
Vance usually gets me so fucking shitfaced I black out.
“I’m being a responsib… responsble. Re-spon-saa-ble.” I try to say the words, but they are not helping my case one bit. ”Adult.”
“I can’t believe you,” she hisses. “Just when I think you’re going to grow up and be a man, you pull a stunt like this.”
“Are you coming to get me or not? Because we can have a fucking therapy session in mah… car, but I’m tired and my leg hurts and I can’t fucking drive.”
“No,” she says bitterly. “You know the rules, Alex.”
“Mom—what do you want me to do?” I ask, and I hate the way my voice cracks. I can’t help butfeel like if Austen did something like this, she’d be half-way here already.
“You got yourself into this situation, you can find a way out. And you know what? Don’t bother coming back here until you can clean your act up and be a damn adult.”
“Fuck!” I bite as I throw the phone on the counter. Tears threaten to fall, but I shove them back. Crying when I’m drunk never ends well.
Great, now not only am I stranded, I don’t have anywhere to go. I guess my only option is to call an Uber and go home—to my house, but I’ll still have to find someone to help me through my damn recovery—
“Hey,” a deep voice penetrates my momentary freak out.
I turn, meeting familiar honey eyes that stare back at me with uncharacteristic softness.
Pity.
“What do you want?” I snap. “Come to rub salt in my wounds?”
“You need a place to crash?” he asks, his voice low and deep. He shoves his hands in his pockets.
“No,” I lie.
“Bullshit, Alex,” he says. “I heard you.”
