Releasing half my body from my sister’s grip, I look around and find Story also on the verge of a meltdown, completing this alcohol-soaked double act.
I’m living my worst nightmare.
A guy, who I dearly hope I don’t know, subtly pumps his fist at me. I appreciate the solidarity, but I want nothing more than to get out of here.
“Okay, you two, let’s go.” I pick up two jackets, two bags, and one really old phone. “The car’s outside.”
Without any help from Eddie, who’s watching on in amusement, I grab one girl with each hand, while making sure I don’t drop anything, and guide them gently but quickly out of the pub.
“Eddie, we’ll bring you the list in the morning,” my sister calls behind her before the door closes.
I might be busy trying to ferry two drunken girls, but my ears perk up nonetheless, because as a parent I have a sixth sense for when things sound suspect. “What list?”
“None of your”—Clemmie’s finger spins toward me until she presses it against my nose—“beeswax.”
It takes just as long to wrestle them into the car as it did to get them out of the pub. I no sooner get into the driver’s seat when Clemmie’s head pops through from the back seat.
“Are you mad at me, Hen?”
“No.”
Then Story decides to join in, pulling Clementine back to make room for her head. “Are you mad atme?”
“What? No.”
“You know what?” shoots drunk number one. “I don’t even care if you are. I’ve done nothing wrong. Arsehole.”
“Andyouknow what?”
“What, Stor?”
“Me either.”
“Kill me now,” I mutter to myself as they dissolve into giggles in the back seat and congratulate themselves for who-the-fuck-knows-what.
I hit speed dial for Lando, who has the audacity to send me to voicemail. So I try again.
“I’m kind of busy right now, Hen.”
“I don’t fucking care. I’ll be outside the front doors in five minutes, and I need your help.”
To his credit, he’s waiting next to Holiday. I jump out as quickly as I can because if I’m not mistaken, Clementine’s on the verge of being sick. I’m proven correct when I yank the door open, and she leans out to vomit in spectacular fashion.
“Fucking hell,” grunts Lando, jumping back, as Holiday surges forward to take her from my arms.
“Oh God, Clemmie, what’s happened?”
“They’ve been in the pub all afternoon.”
“They?”
Rushing around, I open the other passenger door, where Story is much more graceful and less pukey inher exit from the car. On closer inspection, she seems marginally less drunk too.
Even though Holiday is guiding Clementine up the steps to the front door, her brows shoot up at the sight of my arm around Story. Lando sports a similar expression as we watch her teeter toward the front door and into the house.
“Does Story need to go home?”
I nod. “But I’m not taking her back to her parents’ place in this state.”
