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Taylor puts her hand on her husband’s shoulder. “Take a breath, Alex.”
But he’s right. He has every reason to be pissed. That’s probably why I smirk and shrug.
“You should’ve just left me at the bar. Sounds like I was having a good time.”
Taylor looks over Alex’s shoulder at me and blinks.
“Let him go, Alex,” she instructs.
He listens, his body heaving as I watch him take a half step back from me.
“Get out of the house, Wyatt,” Taylor says.
“What?”
“You heard me. I don’t know why all of a sudden you’re acting like this, but I won’t have it in my own home. You’re looking for a fight, and I know Alex would give you one, but it’s not happening in my house and I’m not cleaning either of you up,” she says the last part to Alex.
“She’s right. I don’t know what’s going on, but if you keep it up, we’ll both wind up doing something we regret. Go home, man. Sleep it off,” Alex says.
They’re both right of course. I am looking for a fight. I want someone to beat me up so bad I can’t function for a week. Or maybe I just want to get drunk enough to forget the dam my sister opened.
“How am I supposed to go home?” I grumble. “I don’t have my truck.”
“Walk, call an Uber, or your sister, or someone else. I don’t care.” Alex shrugs.
Someone else. Lucy. I push past Alex and walk outside. I pull out my phone and out of instinct, dial her number.
“Hello?” she answers on the fifth ring.
“Hey, um, can you pick me up? I really can’t go home right now.”
“Where are you?” Her voice sounds hollow, but there’s a tremor of worry in there.
“Standing in the parking lot of Alex and Taylor’s apartment.”
“Why can’t one of them take you home?”
“Um, because they both hate me right now?”
“Why do they hate you, Wyatt? What happened?”
“I really don’t want to talk about this right now. Please, can you just come get me?” I run a hand through my hair, hating how desperate I sound.
God, I stink. I don’t even want to think about how bad my breath probably smells and I’m almost positive there’s puke on my right boot. My head is splitting, and I just want a shower.
“Text me your location,” Lucy finally says.
“Okay. Lucy?”
“Yes, Wyatt?”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
It takes Lucy twenty minutes to pick me up. She’s in jeans and a T-shirt, her hair is pulled up into a ponytail.
“You look like crap,” she tells me.
