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“Not with your head, that’s for sure.”
I shrug. “What would be the point of a long-distance relationship?”
“What is the point of any relationship?”
I have no clue, but I do know that I want Brooklyn physically next to me, not as a little picture on a screen. “This conversation is getting tedious.”
Mason spreads his hands. “I told you that I didn’t see the point of you telling me anything.”
He did, and he hasn’t been useful in the slightest, but somehow, I feel a tiny bit better. Enough to stop drinking, anyway.
“Thanks,” I tell Mason. “I think I’ll go lie down.”
“Lightweight.”
“Compared to a bear like you, everyone is a fucking lightweight.” Am I officially drunk, or was that a good comeback?
I have no idea, but I think Mason smirks before he hangs up.
Pushing the vodka bottle away, I notice how much is gone.
Shit.
I get to my feet, and the stupid room starts spinning.
This is what happens when you talk about your feelings. I hope I don’t have alcohol poisoning.
It’s a good thing I fed Harry and Sally. I can’t do shit now. The best I can hope for is to make it to my bed.
I wake up on the couch in the living room.
Huh. Guess my ambitious post-drinking journey to the bedroom didn’t pan out as I hoped. Then again, I should have a splitting headache, but I don’t. Just a wooziness and lack of desire to drink ever again.
Maybe I should call Mason and tell him I’m not such a lightweight after all?
Speaking of that conversation, now that I’m sober (or at least soberer), I realize Mason was right when he accused me of overreacting to the news of Brooklyn having a son. I would’ve reached that conclusion myself, I’m sure, but I guess it’s helpful to have it pointed out. I did overreact, and I suspect it was partly because Brooklyn happened to say “you hate children,” a phrase I’ve heard a bunch of times during breakups, usually after I share about my vasectomy.
I don’t hate children. If I did, why would I volunteer at the camp? I got a vasectomy for a different reason altogether.
Speaking of the cursed vasectomy, I never told Brooklyn about that, which might be as much of a lie of omission as her not telling me about her son. And let’s not forget, I did lie to her about the treasure, which she took rather well.
Fuck. What right did I have to get so pissed off? No idea, but I bet being hangry was a variable yet again.
I have to fix this.
Leaping to my feet, I sprint to the bathroom and make myself presentable before hurrying over to Brooklyn’s rental—which is empty.
Well, not completely empty. On the kitchen table is a note with my grandmother’s earrings on it.
I couldn’t throw them out, and I can’t take them with me, it says.
Shit. She checked out. Just like that. No goodbye?
I guess I don’t deserve one after almost biting her head off.
Sticking the earrings into my pocket, I call Boone.
“Howdy,” Boone says.
