I wedge my fingers into the slivered opening of the pocket and am suddenly very aware of where my hand is.
This won’t be a big deal. Get in, get the keys, get out.
Except, remember how I mentioned that Collin’s jeans fit him like a glove?
It may as well be latex. The kind of glove that’s like a second skin. The keys are cemented in the bottom crook of his pocket, and I have to work to wiggle them loose.
“Ouch! You’re scraping me.” Collin pouts, and I roll my eyes.
“Please tell me you’re kidding.”
He cracks a grin. “I am. How’d ya know?”
“Because I’m sober.”
“Too bad. This is very nice. I don’t feel a thing.”
“You’ll be singing a different tune in the morning.” He’s going to have a hangover to end all hangovers.
Finally, I get the keys out. I hold them up triumphantly, and Collin has the gall to say in his playful, drunken stupor. “Took you long enough. Thought maybe you were lingering down there.”
“You wish.” I put the key in his lock and shove open his front door.
Collin stumbles inside and dive-bombs face first onto his couch. “Home sweet home.”
His voice is muffled by the cushions.
I flip on the lights and glance around. I’ve never been inside Collin’s place, and I’m not sure what I was expecting, but it’s nice. Neat. The walls are painted a warm gray. He’s burrowed himself on the oversized leather couch that sits opposite a big-screen TV. The living room is open to a dining room and, beyond it, a kitchen.
I head that way. I bang open the cabinet doors and find a glass. I notice a powder room off the back of the house and flip open the door to the cabinet above the toilet. Bingo. Medicine.
I fish out three tablets of ibuprofen and return to the living room with them and the glass of water. On my way, I peek through the sliding glass door off his kitchen and into the backyard. There’s a detached two-story garage off to the side. The upper level looks like a loft of some sort.
When I return to the living room, Collin has rolled over and is squinting at the ceiling.
“How’re we doing, hotshot?”
“The whole room is spinning. I think I can see the moon.”
I glance up. “That would be your living room light. Don’t stare directly at it, or you’ll burn your corneas.”
“Corn-y who?”
“Never mind.” I sit down on the coffee table and use my thumb and forefinger to tip his chin down. It takes him a second and a few extra blinks, but he focuses on my face. “Drink this.”
“So bossy,” he mumbles as he attempts to grab the glass from my hand. He misses wide left, and I sigh.
“Here.” I hold it to his lips, and he laps up a couple sips. “Can you swallow these?”
“‘Course I can.”
I give him the medicine, and he palms the tablets into his mouth. I help him take another sip, and he swallows them down.
“Good. Do you feel sick?”
He scowls. “Why do you think I’m going to puke?”
“Because you’re wasted.”
