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A man like that walked out of my fucking life yesterday.
Tears fill my eyes and I hate myself for it. Archer’s face shifts into momentary panic before he forces his features to relax again. “You wanna talk about it?” I nod a few times, wiping roughly at my face, probably smearing mascara down my cheeks, and grab the bottle of whiskey. “That bad?”
“I fucked up,” I say as I round the bar. I pour some liquor into his glass, then pour some down my throat. He watches me swallow it down, grimacing at the burn, his eyes wide.
“You must’ve fucked up. I’ve never seen you drink like that.” He takes a sip of his drink and sets his glass back down. I take another long pull, then set the bottle down in front of me.
I have an empty stomach, and the warmth of the liquor affects me immediately. The room barely spins as I shift my head toward Archer. More tears fill my eyes as I stare at him.
I can’t say it out loud. I can’t tell someone what I’d said, what he’d said. I can’t. If I do, it’s real. It’s real, and he’s in a different state, and I’m fucking sad, and—a sob spills from me.
“Shit,” Archer swears, then scoots closer to me. “Talk to me, babe.”
So I do. I tell him everything. I tell him every fucking thought I’ve had about Kiwi, about the fight, and how bad it was, how guilty I feel. As I do, I take long pulls from the bottle. Before I know it, half of it’s gone and I’m slurring and the room is fully spinning.
I get to my feet, swaying. Nausea hits me and I put my hand to my mouth. Archer swears again, then scoops me into his arms and runs across the floor toward the bathrooms in the back.
“Do not fucking puke on me, Kenny,” he says. The jostling from him running makes my nausea worse and I feel bile rise in my throat. “I swear to God. If you puke on me, I’m going to puke, and it’s going to be so fucking gross—” He gags when he hears me do it, and kicks the bathroom door open.
Suddenly, I’m dropped on the dirty floor in front of a toilet and Archer runs to the one in the stall next to mine. The sound of him dry heaving makes me dry heave. The more we listen to each other, the worse it gets, but we can’t stop. It’s a vicious cycle that would be comical if it was happening to anyone else but us.
Somewhere behind me, the door opens. “What the fuck—fuck.” Resting my arm on the toilet, I drop my forehead to it, feeling exhausted and too drunk to keep my head up. “Kennedy, are you drunk?”
“Mmm.” It’s all I can manage.
“Fuck.” Finally, I turn my head enough to find Spencer standing in the doorway, his brows low.
“You’re mad,” I slur and he folds his arms over his chest.
“A little bit,” he says. I close my eyes, dry heaving again when I hear Archer do it. “Go home.”
“I can work.” I try to push myself up, but slide back down to my ass. “Help.” I hold my hands out to Spencer and he looks thoroughly shocked. So shocked, I start laughing. I can’t help it. I make grabby hands at him and he takes a hesitant step forward.
Slowly, he helps me to my feet, dropping his hands to my waist to steady me when I start swaying. I bang my fist on the stall wall, laughing when Archer groans.
“You okay in there, buddy?” I laugh again, then my head falls back, nearly toppling me off balance. Spencer’s hands tighten and I give him a big smile. “Thanks, bossy boss man.” I pat his chest, then laugh at his expression again.
“Arch, come on. I’m taking you both home,” he sighs.
“I can work,” I say, remembering I need to do that. Spencer shakes his head, his big hands still on my waist. I pluck one of his fingers, giggling to myself. “Kiwi’s gonna cut your hands off.” My voice comes out light, like a song, and I laugh again before singing, “Cut your hands off. Cut your hands off.”
Suddenly, my heart dips as I remember he hates me. I don’t blame him. I hate me, too. I should apologize to him. Maybe I’ll call him. Yeah, after I’m done with my shift, I’ll call him and tell him how sorry I am.
Archer comes out of the stall looking green. “I’m not drunk,” he says, resting his forehead against the stall door. “I just don’t handle puke–” He holds his fist in front of his mouth as he gags and rushes back into the stall. Spencer grimaces while we listen to Archer.
“Come on,” Spencer grumbles. “You sure you’re not drunk?”
“All good, Prez,” Archer groans. Spencer shakes his head as he wraps his arm around my waist, helping me walk toward the door.
“I’ll get you home,” he sighs. “I guess I’ll be on bartender duty tonight.”
“I can—”
“If you say you can work again, I’m going to fire you.” My mouth snaps shut, and when my chin wobbles, he sighs again. “I won’t really fire you, Kenny. You know that.” I rest my too-heavy head against his big arm as he ushers me down the hall toward the back door.
“My purse.” I try to turn, but he holds me in place.
“I’ll get it after I put you in the truck,” he grumbles as he shoves the door open. The balmy night air helps sober me some, but everything is a blur as he opens the truck door and shoves me in. “Stay there.” He points at me and I salute him, then laugh as I rest my head back against the seat.
