Page 35 of Unmanageable

I am currently slumped in a patio chair on the terrace, staring down a glass of iced tomato juice like it’s a personal enemy.

I haven’t taken off my sunglasses since I dragged myself out of bed at nine, and I have absolutely no intention of doing so anytime soon.

To my left, Brick makes a low, guttural groaning sound that seems to vibrate the entire table. He is face down on a linen napkin, his forearms framing his plate like a protective barrier around a mountain of cold scrambled eggs and untouched sourdough.

“If anyone clinks a fork against a plate,” Brick mumbles into the napkin, his voice thick and muffled, “I am going to change my name, cut off all contact with humanity, and move to a silent monastery in Tibet. I mean it. I will join a vow of silence just to never hear the sound of cutlery again.”

“Shut up, Brick,” Nico croaks from across the table. He’s slumped so far down in his chair that his spine is basically a hammock. “Your voice is too loud. Your very existence is too loud.”

“We are a broken people,” Marcus observes from the end of the long table, leaning back with a bottle of blue Gatorade pressed firmly against his forehead. “We are a defeated, lawless nation. We peaked at 2:00 AM, and now we’re paying for it.”

I try to move my head to look toward the far end of the terrace where the newlyweds are sitting, but the effort sends a jolt of pain behind my eyes.

Callahan looks like he’s been run over by a Zamboni, but he has this ridiculous, permanent, dopey loop of a smile fixed on his face. Ivy sits right next to him, looking remarkably put together despite the faint, bruised-purple shadows under her eyes.

She is wrapped in an oversized white knit sweater, her feet tucked up onto the seat of her chair, nursing a cup of green tea while Callie mindlessly traces soft, slow circles on the back of her hand.

“They look disgusting.”

I turn my head—very slowly, like I’m diffusing a bomb—and look at Scottie.

“They look happy, Scottie-girl,” I say, my voice raspy. “Don’t be a hater just because your liver is currently staging a protest.”

“Happiness is overrated,” she retorts. “And my liver is fine. It’s my patience that’s the issue.”

Dean slides into the empty chair between Scottie and Ivy, holding a plate stacked high with nothing but strictly organized bacon strips and a bowl of fruit.

He looks entirely too awake. His skin is clear, his eyes bright with that classic, annoying, morning-person energy that makes you want to throw a biscuit at his head.

“Morning, losers,” Dean says cheerfully, dropping a hand onto Ivy’s shoulder and giving it a solid squeeze before leaning over to look at Scottie. “How are my girls holding up? Scottie, you look like you’re about to sue the sun for defamation.”

“I’m drafting the injunction in my head as we speak,” Scottie mutters from behind her sunglasses, though she doesn’t pull away when Dean reaches over and hooks an arm around her neck, pulling her into a brief, lazy side-hug.

“You did great last night, by the way,” Dean says, snagging a piece of bacon. “The speech was beautiful. Even if you did expose yourself as a massive, Grade-A nerd who kept a diary.”

“It was a historical document, Dean,” Scottie says, allowing a small smile to crack her stoic expression. “And it worked. Ivy cried like a baby.”

“I’m still crying,” Ivy chimes in from the end of the table, leaning her head on Cal’s shoulder. She points a finger at Scottie. “You’re paying for my waterproof mascara replacement, Scottie. I looked like a raccoon by the time we got the cake back to the room. It wasn’t a good look for the honeymoon departure.”

“Speaking of the cake,” I call out, leaning across the table toward Callahan. “Did you two actually finish that entire top tier on the floor, or did you leave some for the cleaning crew?”

Callahan lets out a loud laugh that immediately makes Brick flinch and bury his face deeper into his napkin. “We brought the box up to the suite, man. I think there’s still a corner left. It’s breakfast.”

“You’re an animal, Callahan,” Carter grumbles, not opening his eyes. “A literal beast.”

Cal ignores him, standing up from his chair and grabbing his empty coffee mug. “Cash. Come with. Need a refill.”

I groan as I stand, my muscles tight from hours of terrible dancing and a few too many highballs, and follow him through the French doors into the air-conditioned, blissful quiet of the club’s main dining room.

We stop by the large silver coffee urns, the low hiss of the machine the only sound in the immediate area. Callahan fills his cup, his expression flattening out from the goofy, exhausted grin into something more grounded and serious as he turns to face me.

“You good, man?” Cal asks.

“Yeah,” I say, filling my own mug. “Just a regular hangover. Nothing a three-hour nap and a gallon of water won’t fix.”

“I’m not talking about the booze, Cash,” Cal says, leaning back against the counter. “I saw you last night. During the speeches. And afterward at the bar.”

I tighten my grip on my mug, a sudden, uncomfortable spike of guilt hitting me right in the chest.