Page 56 of The Turning of the Tables

maybe

I was,in fact, very drunk and feeling very sorry for myself. Work was absolute shit. Noah was pissed at me because I’d missed dinner with him because work was absolute shit, and I’d forgotten to text him and tell him, so he’d waited for me for almost an hour. I had no personal life and no interest in the dates Noah kept offering to set me up on because all I could think about was a stupid badger shifter half a country away.

Who I’d proceeded to text while completely shitfaced to ask what he was doing and then try to sext with him.

Because I’m a sappy, pathetic drunk.

I stared down at the phone screen, feeling sorry formyself and guilty about dragging Elliot Crane back into my life because I couldn’t stop thinking about him.

He hadn’t replied to my last text, and there weren’t any little dots suggesting he was working on it.

I tried to take another swig of beer, but discovered the bottle was empty.

I didn’t have the energy to bother getting another one.

I’d already drunk the nip bottles of vodka and whiskey I’d collected from various stupid holiday parties and whatever.

I hadn’t even gotten this drunk after I’d left Devin.

Pretty close, though, on margaritas with Noah because that’s what twins do for you when your boyfriend cheats on you and you decide to move out of his apartment at two in the morning.

In my defense this time, I felt like working a crime scene with the bodies of three mutilated kids was a justifiable excuse for drunkenness.

Still no reply.

Then my screen lit up.

It took me far too long to realize that Elliot was calling me.

Calling me.

I dropped the phone, but still managed to answer it before it stopped ringing. “Hey.” It sounded pathetic, even to my drunken self.

“What happened, Seth?” His voice was familiar and rough, but strangely gentle. It was enough to melt my already thawing heart.

“Work sucked,” I muttered, embarrassed by my own neediness.

“Bad case?” Of course he’d figure that out. He was best friends with an ex-cop-turned-fed, for Christ’s sake.

“Yeah.”

“But you don’t want to talk about it.”

“No.”

There was a pause. Then he sighed. “Gym shorts and a t-shirt.”

It took mewaytoo long to realize that he was answering my earlier texted question.

“That’s not exciting,” I told him, feeling extra stupid.

“Not particularly, no,” came the response. “Unless varnish stains are exciting.”

I couldn’t help the laugh that came out of me. “Never thought about them that way,” I admitted. “But on you, maybe they could be.”

He snorted into the phone. “You’re definitely drunk.”

“Yes,” I agreed, nodding emphatically, even though he couldn’t see me.