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"I'll make it up to you. I promise," he says solemnly.
"Don't. Just tell me who brought me home last night," I tell him coldly.
He winces at my harsh tone but I brush it off. I don't have the energy to feel bad.
"Yeah...about that."
If he drove me home drunk, I'll punch him again.
"What did you do? You didn't drive, right?"
"No. Of course I didn't. I, ugh, may have called your sister to come and get you," he stammers.
I groan. "You what? I'm going to hear it now for sure,"
"I wasn't about to send you home in a cab, so it was her or your mom."
"How did that happen anyway? Where did Layla get the drugs?" I ask him, genuinely confused as to where she managed to get enough drugs to knock my two hundred and thirty-pound ass out cold.
"She’s been hooking up with some drug dealer from Kelowna. When I went back downstairs and watched you pass out on the couch with her in your lap, I lost my shit," he spits. I roll my eyes. "Oh, before I forget." He tosses me my phone. "It's been blowing up all morning."
Nerves—and fear—wash over me as I scroll through all of my missed calls and messages. Every one of Ava's texts hurt more and more. Then I find the messages about a picture. A seemingly shameful picture.
"What picture are they talking about?"
Andre's face falls. "I'm sorry, man. If I got downstairs a few seconds earlier..."
"What picture?" I ground out through gritted teeth.
"Layla sent it to Ava," he mumbles.
I pull open my conversation with Ava and find the picture, bile rising in my throat. This is bad. Really bad.
"No, no, no," I grunt and dial Ava's number. Straight to voicemail. I try again and again and again, to no avail.
"She'll forgive you. You just have to explain," Andre mutters.
“For your sake, you better be right.”
