“Psh.” She shoves my arm then pulls me in for a tight hug with her free hand, sniffling all over me. “You kidding? Like I’m going to let a little hiccup interfere with our plans. A-a-a—” I duck out of her grasp just in time. “CHOO!”
Well, this should be interesting.
By the timeevening rolls around, Jamie’s tucked into my bed like a tall, skinny burrito. Her naturally tan face is tinted with rosy splotches, and used tissues are littered all around her. Claire’s scooting the rocking chair and rug aside, making space for the air mattress she brought over for our sleepover.
“Seriously, you guys,” Jamie mutters for the millionth time this hour. “You do not need to stay in just because I’m a wreck. Go out, have fun. Get drunk for me.”
“We’re not going anywhere,” I repeat, also for the millionth time. “Staying in with you and Claire beats going out and getting drunk any day.”
“Liar.”
“Yes.” I smirk, and she snickers.
A loud noise hits our eardrums as the mattress begins filling up, and Claire shouts to be heard. “I’m not old enough to buy alcohol!”
“Use your fake ID!” Jamie shouts back.
Claire scrunches her nose. “I don’t have a fake ID.”
“What?” Jamie’s eyes go wide, but she quickly replaces the shocked expression with an excited one. “Lou can go out and buy some, and you guys can party here! Then I’ll get to watch you two embarrass yourselves, and I can make fun of you in the morning while you’re puking over the toilet seat. See? It’s a win-win for everyone.”
Claire laughs. “Clearly.”
“No one’s getting drunk tonight,” I holler. “We’re taking care of your sick butt and watching the classics.”
The blaring noise around us finally simmers down as Claire unhooks the air pump. She turns to us then, an eyebrow quirked. “The classics? Um, I’m not really one for old movies—”
Jamie chuckles, shaking her head. “No, sweetie.Ourclassics.” She flicks a finger between me and herself. “Clueless, Ten Things I Hate About You, and Mean Girls.”
The familiar tuneseeps into my ears, distant and hazy. What the hell is that? I groan and roll over, my arm falling on Claire’s, causing her to stir. Then it starts again, that high-pitched rhythm I’m slowly becoming able to place.
My phone. Great.
I climb off the air mattress, careful not to disturb Claire this time, and grab the object lighting up a few feet from me. I don’t even look at the number before I answer the call and slip into the bathroom. I gently close the door behind me.
“Hello?” I whisper groggily.
“Yeah, is this Lou?” It’s some guy’s voice I don’t recognize, and there’s loud music in the background.
“Um, yes?”
“Listen, I’m sorry to disturb you at this hour but . . .” He pauses, his reluctance obvious. “Uh, well, your boyfriend is passed out on my bar’s floor, and we closed over ten minutes ago.”
What? I finally pause to glance down at my screen. It’s Bobby’s number. I return the phone to my ear, and the man is already speaking again.
“I really don’t wanna have security kick him out. I like the dude. But he can’t stay here all night.”
It takes a minute for his words to really sink in. Bobby is on the floor. Passed out. At a bar.SoberBobby is passed out in a bar. Oh, no.
“Um, yeah. Yeah, of course. I’ll be right there. Can you text me the address?”
“Yup, sending it now.”
“Thanks.”
We hang up, and I quietly exit the bathroom. Claire is still asleep on the air mattress, and Jamie looks like she’s in a full-on coma under my covers. I consider waking Claire for a minute since I really don’t want to pick up my ex alone at some bar at two in the morning, but I’d rather not get her involved in this. It’s not the first time I’ve received this kind of phone call regarding Bobby, and I’ve learned you never know what you’ll find when you pick him up.
Instead, I grab a long, heavy winter coat from the closet and drape it over my pajamas, then snag Jamie’s car keys from her purse, slide my feet into warm boots, and tiptoe out of there.
