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Wyatt
“God,man,whathappened?”
I open one eye and groan—loudly. Alex’s worried, and slightly angry face slowly comes into focus and I groan again, throwing an arm over my head.
“Is he okay?” I hear Alex ask.
“He’s dehydrated,” Taylor’s deadpan voice says.
“And probably hungover.”
“Oh, he’s definitely hungover.” Taylor huffs.
I groan again.
“Why are you two yelling?” I hiss.
“Yup.” I can hear the grin in Alex’s voice. “Hungover.”
“I hate you.” I open one eye again.
“You owe me lunch.” Alex points to my left where I am assuming Taylor is standing.
“Again, why are you yelling?” I repeat.
“Do you even know where you are, man?” Alex asks, concern in his voice now.
I slowly open both eyes and take in my surroundings. The walls are gray, and I am on a couch. There’s a tiny kitchen to my left and a hallway to my right. A door a little to my left, a recliner to my right, and TV on the wall in front of me. Alex is sitting on a small wooden coffee table in front of the TV.
“Your apartment?” I guess.
“I’m going to make coffee,” Taylor announces, pushing away from the small island in the kitchen she had been leaning against.
“How did I get to your apartment?” I ask.
I start to sit up and am hit with an overwhelming wave of nausea.
“Don’t youdarethrow up on my couch, Wyatt Hayes,” Taylor calls from the kitchen.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I reply through gritted teeth.
“You got drunk,” Alex informs me.
“I gathered that from the splitting headache and nausea, yes.” I try to glare at him but moving my eyes feels a lot like dying.
“To be more specific, you got so drunk Willa called me worried out of her mind. She was crying, Wyatt. You scared the crap out of her. Apparently, you two had some kind of brother-sister moment that made you go to Tipsy’s and get mind-numbingly drunk. You sent her some weird text messages at, like, one o’clock in the morning so she called me. Thankfully, you have your location turned on so Willa could figure out where you were, and I picked you up. You threw up in the parking lot—before you got in my truck, thankfully— and I brought you home so Willa wouldn’t have to see her big brother like that. Taylor forced you to drink a glass of water before you passed out here, on our couch.”
“Thanks,” I mutter.
“Thanks?” Alex blinks.
“Uh, yeah?”
“Alex . . .” Taylor warns.
Alex stands up and grabs me by the front of my shirt, his hand fisted in it. His blue eyes are ice cold.
“I drag your stupid, drunk butt out of that bar and bring you into my apartment instead of just dropping you off to terrify your twenty-one-year old little sister and you reply with ‘thanks’? I answer her terrified, one o’clock phone call, thinking you’re in the hospital or dead or something, and you have the freaking nerve to mutter ‘thanks’? What iswrongwith you, man?” he yells.
