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If Mike and I had slept together, at least we could chalk it up to being such close friends getting drunk and doing something stupid. It would be weird, but I think we’d both find a way to live with it.
No, the truth is much worse.
“Hey, is anyone in there?”
It’s him.
“Just a minute!” I call out.
There has to be a way for me to get out of this. I know I told him that he could move in here, but in my defense, I was drunk, and drunken people should not be held accountable for their phone calls.
Now that the generalities of the mistake are clear, the specifics start to set in. I can’t really be certain, but I think he was having sex while he was on the phone with me.
“I don’t have a key yet,” Dane calls through the door, and I bite my fingernails on one hand while, with the other, I unlock the door.
“Dane, look, I—”
“I’m glad you called,” he says, trotting in. “Fucking thrilled is more like it, actually.”
“When I called you last night,” I start again, but lose my train of thought.
He shrugs and says, “I don’t have that much to move in, really. I’m having my mattress delivered here today along with some other essentials, but I’m sure I’ll be all settled before I have to go to work.”
“Isn’t it Saturday?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says. “It’s my busiest night of the week.”
“That’s right,” I yawn. “You’re a musician.”
He shoots me a look that I’m nowhere near interested enough to decipher, and starts talking again. It’s insufferable.
“Yeah,” he says. “In this city, the two best jobs to have are also the ones that’ll kill your Saturday night more than any other.”
I wait for him to expound on his philosophy, but he either chooses not to or simply hasn’t thought it through far enough to have decided what the other “best job” would be. Neither possibility would surprise me.
“Listen,” I say. “It’s Dane, right?”
“You’re good at that,” he says. “I can’t remember someone’s name if we’re fucking.”
I get the feeling the statement isn’t hyperbole.
“Charming,” I mock. “You and I are going to have to talk about that little phone call last night, but before that happens, I have got to get some more sleep.”
“I can tell,” he laughs. “Looks like you got hit by the drunkest train in the state.”
“U
h huh,” I say dismissively. “Anyway, so, why don’t you help yourself to some food and make yourself comfortable for a while? Just keep it down. I’d really rather not have to kick you out before I’ve had a chance to drift into a hangover-induced coma and die.”
“You know what helps with that?” he asks.
“What?” I ask, for the first time looking forward to hearing something that’s about to come out of this idiot’s mouth.
“Hair of the dog,” he says.
“What does that even mean?”
“Hair of the dog that bit you,” he says. “It means to have a couple of shots or a Bloody Mary or something. Trust me, that shit fucking works.”
