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That made Wes laugh. “The DTs are the worst, right? I see you’re in the sweating stage. Have your guts gone, yet? The only thing worse than the sweats—is when your guts revolt. Now that’s fuckin’ inconvenient.”
I didn’t admit to him that I’d been sweating.
I also didn’t admit that my guts were indeed beginning to churn.
“I’m fine, thanks.”
He chuckled like I’d said the funniest thing he’d ever heard. “Aww, Son. You can’t hide the DTs. It’s admirable to dry out. I respect that.” He picked up the nearly empty bottle of rye on the coffee table and poured the last two inches of it into his glass.
He tossed it back and winced. “Not to mention it’s your only hope of winning back my daughter. Even then, she might not take you. Alexis learned early that a leopard doesn’t change its spots. So, you might be fucked either way.”
I shook my head and ignored him. Changing the channels on the TV gave me something else to look at.
“Trey,” he called my name about ten minutes later.
Against my better judgment, I turned to him. “What?”
“It’s a better idea to dry out in rehab. They know what to do. It still sucks, don’t get me wrong. But, if you do it—I’d go in. Trust me.”
I turned back to the TV. “I’m fine.”
About an hour later, he laid down and started to snore.
I figured it was a good time to go shovel up the garbage on the driveway while he was out.
Not that I wanted to.
I was still frozen to the bone from being outside earlier.
Christ, why did Canadians put up with this shitty weather?
I got up and quietly wandered downstairs. I tossed my shorts onto the floor and grabbed a pair of sweats. Then I pulled off Wes’ coat and yanked on a hoodie before putting his coat back on.
Good God.
Who would have thought babysitting a man in his fifties would be this much work?
The next day—or was it the day after that?
Shit, I couldn’t remember.
I was still busy sweating my brains out.
Well, what was left of my brains.
The headache I’d developed nearly leveled me.
Somehow, I was still able to follow the old man around and clean up after him.
Sort of.
I mean, I tried my best.
But, Christ could he make a fuckin’ mess.
I’d planned on switching out the dishes in the dishwasher—but my guts were really—not great.
And being in the kitchen and around food only made me queasier than I already was.
