Less than twenty-four hours later, I curse the sun, beer, Scotch, and the angry Lilliputians who are surely wielding tiny hammers with reckless abandon and vicious intent inside my skull.
I remember my fight with Elaine and our sudden, subsequent breakup. I remember dropping Elaine off at her house. I remember summoning Duncan to round up Nick and get the drinks ready.
After that, things are a bit fuzzy.
I vaguely recall Bets making nachos, but even the attempt to conjure that detail has my head spinning.
I lift my head, fighting off the stab of pain that sears the backs of my eyes and makes my temples throb. A quick glance around tells me I spent the night in Bets and Duncan’s basement. The giant glass of water and three Advil on the end table prove that my sister is, in fact, an angel of mercy.
Ten minutes, a hundred curse words, and one shower later, I’m channeling my inner frat boy and swearing on all that’s holy that I’ll never drink again.
I pull on yesterday’s clothes (freshly washed, dried, and folded by my saintly sister) grab my wallet and keys, and head up the stairs in search of coffee.
Bets sits at the counter, eyes on her iPad. “Oh, kid,” she says quietly, clearly in deference to my hangover. See? Angel of mercy. “You okay?”
“I have definitely been better.” I slump into the chair next to hers as she rises and pours me a giant mug of coffee. I’m telling you she’s my favorite sister, no contest. “I’m guessing Dunc’s at school already?”
“Honey, it’s nearly ten o’clock. He left three hours ago. Poor guy. I hope his head’s feeling better. I sent him off with a glass of water and some Advil, too.”
“His head? He wasn’t drinking. I don’t remember that, exactly, but I know it. It was a school night. There’s no way he’d be getting shitfaced before electing to spend the day with seventh graders.”
“Right. It wasn’t alcohol. It was the darts.”
“The—? Oh, fuck. That was me, right? Shit.” I wince as my mind grabs the memory. “It hurts to think, but I have a fuzzy visual of a dart spearing Dunc in the side of the head? God, that must’ve hurt.”
“Yea. And what they say about head wounds bleeding? They’re not lying. You may want to look into a pitching career, though, so long as they don’t mind if you’re sauced. Sober, you can’t hit the broadside of a barn, but drunk? Damn, kid. You’ve got an arm.”
“Shit! Is he okay?”
She brings a plate of muffins over to me, and I grab one, peel off the wrapper and take a bite.
“Yes, your bestie’s fine,” she reassures me. “Like I said, it bled a lot, but the dart just scratched the surface. No stitches necessary.”
“Sorry for almost breaking your husband.” I reply sheepishly.
“Yes, well. Just don’t do it again.” She refills my coffee and hers. I grab my phone and shoot a quick text to Dan, my second-in-command, letting him know he’s in charge for the day. My stomach growls loudly, and I reach for another muffin. Bets refills the plate and takes the seat across from me. “Now that you’ve had coffee and muffins, give me that bitch’s address, so I can slash her tires on my way into the office.”
I can’t respond to that without more coffee.
I down what’s left of my cup and then I fill it up again. “She’s not a bitch, Bets.” At my sister’s side-eye, I continue. “Really, she’s not. She’s great. She’s funny and smart and so pretty and you’d totally be friends with her if one, she were speaking to me and the two of you could hang out and two, you were remotely capable of forgetting the fact that she, well… that she tore my heart out and stomped the crap out of it. And the whole shitshow was pretty much my fault.”
“I do have a long memory, Simba.”
“And yet, you can’t remember the fact that I detest the name Simba. Or remember the fact that I am not a baby lion. Weird.” I grab a third muffin. She better not think she’s taking the rest of these to work. “Actually, you and Elaine have that in common.”
She eyes the muffin in my hand. “We both bake like badasses?”
“Yea, that, too. The staff go nuts when she makes brownies. But I was originally referring to your shared penchant for assigning annoying monikers to me and your staunch refusal to discard such titles, despite my repeated requests.”
“Yea? I might just like her yet. What does she call you? Wait—if it’s some freakyStar Warssex name, I’m better off not knowing.”
I roll my eyes. “No sex names orStar Warsnames, I promise. She was appalled by the sheets, if that helps. She calls me Wonderboy, which I also hate, though it’s definitely a step up from Simba… Well, she called me Wonderboy. I’m pretty sure Elaine’s not calling me anything from here on out.”
Bets flits around the kitchen, tidying up the space and simultaneously packing her lunch. She pulls up the shade on the window over the sink and sunshine streams in. I say a silent prayer of thanks that she didn’t raise the shade ten minutes ago. My head’s still throbbing, but now I can turn it in both directions without feeling like someone’s driving a sword into my skull, so that’s an improvement.
She zips up her lunchbox—it’s some sunny floral print that totally sums up Bets—and sighs as she leans against the counter. “Kid.” She sighs again, and I know I’m about to be mothered. It’s both a gift and a hazard of having four older sisters. “I said this last night, but I said it before you drank your weight in alcohol, and it bears repeating. This completely sucks. Completely. And I’m sure, despite her dumping you yesterday, that she’s perfectly lovely. Because let’s face it, the thing with mom was a bit of a clusterfuck. But if she can’t see past her own hang-ups and realize that she’ll never do better than Simon Walker, then screw her and the aged horse she rode in on.”
I flash her a half smile. I know her heart is in the right place. “Yea...well, let’s stop talking about screwing Elaine, huh? I’m still half-hungover, and I’m not at the pissed off stage just yet, but I’m sure I’ll make it there by week’s end, so no worries.”
