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I hang up the phone.
“By the way, my mother lets me watch anything I want. I can see R-rated horror movies,” Summer says hopefully. “She won’t mind at all.”
“And when you are with me, you will watch PG-13-rated non-horror movies,” I reply firmly.
Summer lets out a martyred sigh. “Worth a shot.”
4
PAXTON
Throb. Throb.
Ugh.
Sunlight burns my eyes through closed lids. I roll over and turn my back to the window. It feels like a tiny demolition crew took up residence in my skull and is trying to drill its way out.
Hazy memories swim through my head. I was at a Lower East Side dive bar last night, shooting pool and getting smashed. I don’t normally drink a lot, but in the past week since we lost the Stanley Cup, I’ve been making up for lost time.
The only self-destructive thing I haven’t done is take home random chicks. I am off women for the summer.
Hope Ruby’s having fun with her football asshole. I really do.
My phone starts ringing, and every chirp is like a slap to the head.
Ugh. Once upon a time, when I was in high school, I could drink and not get a hangover. I’m remembering now why I don’t like to get completely drunk. Hopefully I’ll remember tonight, too, when I get bored and I’m trying to find a way to distract myself.
I sit up, looking around the room. Last night, I passed out in the armchair in my living room.
Something smells bad.
It might be me.
I lift my arm and sniff.
Yep. Me.
Bleary-eyed, I look around the room. Stacks of empty pizza boxes on the coffee table. Piles of empty soda cups and beer bottles on the floor. Dirty laundry mounded on the brown leather sectional that Ruby helped me pick out. She and I went to a high-end furniture store in New Jersey, and she helped me pick out my entire living room suite, from the chunky wooden chairs to the modernist wood cube of a coffee table.
I should get rid of my living room furniture, I guess. I’m lousy at interior decorating. I thought Ruby did a great job. I could... call my mother for help, maybe? Or ask Rowan?
No, I won’t.
I promised myself I’m not letting this whole situation get to me, and I am not.
Definitely not.
It’s the Stanley Cup loss that has me spiraling, not her.
The papers went surprisingly easy on us, overall, but I didn’t feel like we deserved it. That game was ours, and we just handed it over.
My family was sympathetic. They all told me I played a great game. My brothers thumped me on the back so hard I almost needed a lung transplant.
It was a pretty miserable visit, all told. I was in a funk. I did my best to put on a happy face for them and failed. After a day of ferrying them around the city, I was relieved when they all flew home and I was left alone to sulk. And drink.
Consciousness is overrated. I flop back into bed and pull a pillow over my head.
The cell phone rings again, and I glare at it as I grab it off the coffee table, knocking over a half-empty soda cup, which dribbles brown liquid on the floor.
