guilt of last night weighs heavily on me. My body shakes as the urge to make a pit stop overwhelms me. I pull off to the side of the road.
“What happened?” he questions. There isn’t an ounce of accusation or confrontation, just understanding.
“One sec,” I respond, right before opening my door to puke. My lungs constrict as I retch out the fluids my body doesn’t have. The pills and water I drank before running after Joey wasn’t enough, and as my body convulses with each gasp, I keep heaving even as the contents of my stomach no longer exist.
He always knows when I drink. Like with Nate, he’s a fucking psychic. “Last night,” I mutter softly into the phone after picking it up, not wanting to be weak anymore. The burn in my lungs from holding my breath becomes too much. “I fucked up, Francis.”
Yeah, my ex-best friend’s ex-best friend’s ex-husband is the one who keeps my head on straight.
“How much did you drink, T?”
Again, the utmost concern is all that I hear. He’s too good to me. “I’m not sure. I can’t even remember everything. Whether it be from a full blackout or from selective avoidance, I fucked up.”
I can imagine him nodding, mulling over how to respond. That’s just how he is. “How far are you?”
“Barstow.” I only made it this far before giving in to call.
“You waited that long to call me?”
I cringe, hearing the disappointment in his voice. He’s right, I could have crashed. Alcohol runs through my veins more than blood. If you sliced me open, that’s the only scent that would fill your nostrils. That and self-loathing.
“Yeah. Didn’t realize I made it this far, to be honest.”
“Then you shouldn’t be driving,” he chastises.
“You’re probably right. I have a fuck-ton on my mind. Like a new chef, giving Lo the main Su Casa location, and realizing how fucking dumb I am for drinking.”
“Well, you’re beating yourself up enough for the both of us. Tell me more about Lo and your restaurant.”
Of course, that’s what he wants to hear about. Since I barely utter her name, he tries lobotomizing it from my brain whenever it’s mentioned. “Nothing,” I divert. “My new chef is feisty, though.”
“New chef? Why did you need a new one?”
Man. I completely forgot it’s been days since we’ve really talked. “Debra walked out, I guess. I had a limited time to get a replacement and decided to show up at Culinary Con.”
“Isn’t that some big ordeal that lasts all week?”
“Not for me, it doesn’t. I got what I came for, gave more than I should, and now I’m trying to convince her to show up to work.”
“Good luck with that,” he mocks. “If you say she’s feisty, then she must be a helluva catch.”
“Yeah, if you crave being drowned by a fucking siren. She’s smoking hot, but that mouth... it’s going to get her into trouble.”
“I guess it’s a good thing you dig that kind of thing.”
“Not before now,” I argue.
“That’s not true. Lo used to be a contender for witticism. She didn’t bow down until all that shit went down.” I nod my head at his response, not realizing he can’t see me.
“I guess.”
“That’s awkward,” he starts, a teasing lilt to his words. “Tell me, how do you feel?”
“Like I died and came back to life just to experience the agony all over again.”
“Nothing new, then? How about you come to dinner Sunday? We can catch up, and you can meet Gray and her friend.”
“Teenagers? No thanks.”
“Believe me, she’s not just a teen. She’s something else.”
“Is that admiration in your tone, Francis?”
“It’s a lot more than that.”
“Color me intrigued.”
“Oh, and Toby...”
“Yeah?”
“Sors-toi la tête du cul.”
“Huh? What’s with the French, dude? You never spoke French in high school.”
“That was before I spent eighteen years in France where my family only spoke French.” He scoffs, then continues, “It means, get your head out of your ass before you ruin someone else’s life along with yours.”
“Thanks... glad to have you as a friend.”
“Believe me, I’m being kind. You’re really dumb sometimes.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
“See you Sunday, man. Bring some wine.”
Chapter Fourteen
Present
Joey
“I was worried about you,” Francis comments immediately when I come down from my room after a shower and change. I wish he wasn’t here, standing in the foyer like a caring person who has no reason to show me an ounce of kindness. Wish he didn’t see me this way. Ragged. Hungover. Disgusting.
Vegas has that regretful film once you leave, lingering, permeating,