I choke on my beer.
Me: Do you now?
Doc: Yes.
Doc: I want to run my hands through it.
Silence stretches. I need to shut this down and turn my damn phone off for the night.
It buzzes again.
Doc: Oh my God. I didn’t just send that.
I grin into my palm.
Me: Oh, yes, you did.
Doc: It’s the shots’ fault.
I knew it. The Storm women and their tequila shots.
Me: Take it easy on the shots, Doc. You’re not used to it like my cousins.
Doc: You’re bossy.
Me: You like it.
Doc: Maybe.
That’s it.
That’s where I should stop.
Instead, I sit there, staring at the dark phone like an idiot who’s forgotten how to breathe.
I shove it into my pocket and stand up.
My cabin suddenly feels too small. Too quiet. Too empty. I begin pacing.
My pocket vibrates.
Doc: Axle?
I start to ignore it, but then I read back the messages.
Me: Who bought you the Kool-Aid?
Doc: What?
Me: The pink drink.
Doc: I told you, a handsome cowboy.
Me: What cowboy?
A second later, another picture comes through. It’s her, her face flushed from dancing or tequila, and some asshole with a shit-eating grin. She’s looking at the camera, but his eyes are fixed on her.
Doc: This one. His name is Alex.
