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Unfortunately, the pounding in my head isn’t helping the issue. Why did I have to drink so much last night? Oh yeah, because apparently, I’m not so great at making decisions when my heart is breaking over the thought of hurting Orson and having him mad at me.
Though it’s possible I was well on my way to intoxicated before I even started on the shots with Art.
I groan as I struggle to my feet, wanting to get my plan started sooner rather than later. I’m only in a T-shirt and boxer briefs, the hot dog costume discarded over by the bar, and I figure Art can hold on to it for a little while longer for me. I say goodbye and get a grunt in return, then stagger down the stairs from the mezzanine to the bar area below. It’s a mess, and already Art’s staff are working on cleanup, poor bastards.
First up, I need to shower, take some painkillers, and down a large, strong coffee. Then, hopefully, I’ll be able to think clearer.
My Uber driver keeps throwing weird looks at me from the front seat that I ignore during the drive, and when he leaves, I send a hefty tip his way. It’s the least I can do for filling his car with the stale stench of anxious sweat, alcohol, and cigarette smoke. My mouth tastes like an ashtray, so I’m pretty sure I had a couple last night while I was fucked off my face.
It’s been a long time since I’ve gotten blackout drunk, and I don’t like it. The taste of ginger ale has grown on me, and I way prefer a night out where I’m in control and can enjoy myself properly than this slimy, sloppy feeling hanging around now.
Maybe I’ll drink again, and maybe I won’t, but it doesn’t feel all that worth it anymore.
Once I’m feeling halfway human, I pick up the phone and call Taylor. The garage is open until lunchtime on a Saturday, and Taylor’s in charge of the grease gremlins while I’m not there.
“Everything’s fine here, boss. I’ve been going over the assistant applications and found one or two okay-ish ones.”
“Ah, good, but not what I was calling about, actually.”
“Oh, yeah?” they ask. “What is it?”
“Can you ask around and see if anyone has a fireplace I can borrow for the night?”
“Random, but okay.”
“I’m planning something romantic for my man,” I explain. “The fireplace is kinda a big part of it.”
“Let me see what I can do.”
They hang up, and I force down breakfast, which doesn’t do great things for my already unsettled gut. I’m crossing my fingers that one of my gremlins comes through for me because without the stupid thing, I’m not sure the night will hit the right sentimental note.
My anxiousness ramps up a notch when Taylor calls me back.
“Any luck?”
“Nothing,” they say. “Sorry. A handful of the guys have one at home, but they either don’t work, or they’re not available. I figured you didn’t want kids running around while you were being Casanova.”
“Yeah, kinda would ruin the ambience.” I try not to sound too disappointed, but fuck. I wanted to do something special, and the universe is going to shit on it.
“Could you use a portable heater instead?” Taylor laughs. “Or a picture of one?”
“I’m thinking it’s more the fire side of things that creates the mood.”
“Well, if you want fire, we’ve got the old drum out back that we use some afternoons.” Their words are supposed to be joking, but it’s given me an idea.
“That could work.”
“Uh … an old drum isn’t quite the same romance factor.”
“No, not that.” The idea is spinning in my head too quickly for me to keep up with. “I’m going to need some help though. Find out who there can stay back a few hours on extra pay. I have an idea.”
“Oh, really?” I can hear the smile in their voice. “Well, count me in. And don’t worry, I’ll have a crew ready when you get here.”
EMOTIONAL SUPPORT CHAT
Keller:Fuck, man, I’m so sorry.
Orson:Why? You didn’t do anything.
