The bartender raises his hand. “That’d be me. It’s all right, Adam,” he says and patsmyboyfriend on the shoulder. “Like I said, he’s had a rough day. I told him the movie business can be a real bitch sometimes.”
I don’t care for the way he says my boyfriend’s name with such familiarity, or how he seems to know more about the situation than me. I really don’t like that Adam came here and talked to this man, rather than call me when he was upset. This is not proper boyfriend etiquette, surely something that will need to be remedied, and soon. My mind begins to turn like a whirling pile of shit set aflame. Damn his impulsive, reckless behavior.
“Thank you for contacting me,” I tell Billy the bartender and drop a hundred-dollar bill on the sticky bar top. “Please don’t hesitate to do so again should my boyfriend wind up here crying in his beer.”
“It was vodka,” Adam corrects. “Lotsa, lotsa vodka.”
“Lotsa vodka,” Billy echoes.
“Have you eaten anything today?” I ask Adam.
“You didn’t make me dinner,” he whines like it’s my fault he holed himself up in a bar instead of coming home, like I’m his personal fucking UberEats. I shake my head at his theatrics.
“We’re going home,” I say briskly.
I enlist Billy’s help in loading Adam into my car. I certainly don’t need to throw out my back to prove my manliness. Adam sways drunkenly in the passenger seat. The constitution of his stomach worries me.
“Do you have a bag or a bucket in case he pukes in my car on the way home?” I ask Billy, and he retrieves a plastic trash bag from inside. I make Adam hold it in front of his face as we ride home. He wobbles in his seat, head turning to glance over at me every now and then, grinning like a tipsy lunatic.
“You’re like my genie in a bottle,” he says, then sings part of the Christina Aguilera song, badly, before trailing off, having forgotten the words. Still, he shimmies in his seat.
“How’s that?”
“You make all my wishes come true.” His brow furrows. “How many have I used up so far?”
“More than three,” I assure him.
“I’m not going to set you free,” he taunts while wagging his finger at me. “Nope, nope, nope. I rubbed your dick, and now you’re mine forever.”
I smirk, despite my irritation, because most of his cultural references relate to Disney movies and pop songs. And the idea of him rubbing my dick to get what he wants is pretty accurate. We arrive at home, and I work on getting him out of the car. Just when I think he might have charmed his way back into my good graces, he ends up projectile vomiting, missing the bag completely but drenching my cashmere cardigan in his gastric juices. And lotsa vodka.
“Goddamnit,” I curse, nearly vomiting myself from the putrid smell.
“I’m sorry,” he laments with a wail that could wake the entire cat colony of West Hollywood.
“You are going to work this one off on your knees,” I swear to him as I tug him roughly out of the car.
“Too wasted,” he says, “I think I’m gonna—”
He pukes again in the driveway, missing me this time but assailing himself. This must be the very definition of “for better or for worse.”
“Yuck,” he says, looking pitifully at me while trying to swipe at his mouth with his hand and missing.
“March your drunk ass inside or I will hose you down right here in the yard.” I shove him toward the front door and then grip the back of his shirt, steering him with one fist between his shoulder blades. Inside, I manage to remove his shoes, then put him in the shower directly, still with his clothes on, and turn on the water so that it’s ice cold. He howls and screams and begs me to make it stop. I add hot water while I strip down to join him. After rinsing and washing myself, I undress him, shoving his pile of wet clothing to the corner of the shower stall to be dealt with later.
“You’re a fucking mess,” I scold as I scrub him down roughly with a bath sponge and bar soap. His skin will be raw by the time this is over but he’s likely too drunk to even feel it.
“But I’myourfucking mess,” he says, trying again to win me over.
“The next time this happens, you are to call me directly. What the hell was wrong with your phone?”
“It died.”
“And what made you think getting wasted alone at a dive bar was a good idea?”
“I didn’t want you to think I’m a baby. Or stupid. Or helpless,” he says, eyes rimmed red with tears, but maybe it’s just the shampoo.
“And look at you now, acting like a stupid, helpless baby.” He frowns, not liking that, but it’s the goddamned truth. “That’s why you have me, Adam, because some things are beyond your scope of comprehension.”
