I need to learn to operate in the real world, which entails relating to average men in non-cashmere socks.
So, the first half of the Emma at the Club experiment is a success.
But then I make two strategic errors.
The first is trying to match Sadie drink for drink.
The second mistake is looking at my phone while I take a break at the bar as my sister dances with a hot guy who’s been eyeing her for half the night.
I stand there, a little bored, well past tipsy. Just a drunk girl and her phone.
I should have realized the impending danger.
I narrow my eyes, staring at my device as if it’s done me wrong.
With every drink tonight, I’ve only gotten more annoyed that Sebastian’s ghosted me for the past few days. I mean, yes, I gave my notice. And maybe I said some things I shouldn’t have in frustration.
But it’s like I ceased to exist for him. One minute, he’s trying to win me back. To work. And then the next, he’s gone no-contact.
I don’t know what to tell people who call and ask me when he’ll be back.
And maybe I’m a little worried. Objectively, I know he must be fine. I mean, if something were to happen to him, the tabloids would be all over it. But it still shakes me, this silence from someone who is a lot of things, but never silent.
The more I sip the creamy, sweet shot that Sadie shoved in front of me before heading to the dance floor, the more I decide that messaging Sebastian again is a good idea.
Tonight.
Now.
I’ll just send an easy-breezy text. I’ll inquire where he is, purely for business purposes. I will be professional. And carefree. And he will have no idea that there’s a small part of me maybe missing him.
I’ll pretend not to care about him not caring about me. Or something like that.
I down the rest of the shot and decide.
Drunk texting isnotthe same as drunk dialing.
I can compose a sober-sounding text. There’s autocorrect.
I squint at my phone and start typing, but the words on the screen keep blurring. And my fingers… it’s like typing with sausages.
So, I don’tplanon drunk dialing. One minute, I’m trying to punch letters on keys that are too teeny-tiny. And the next, I hear ringing.
I stare at my phone as if it’s at fault. It set the trap. And I fell straight into it.
Damn.
He answers before I can hang up.
At first, I’m so surprised to hear his voice that I say nothing.
“Emma? Is that you?”
I grimace, panicking. I’ve spoken to this man multiple times a day for years. Now I can’t even form a sentence.
Damn tequila.
“Em. Is everything okay?”
