Page 31 of Not My Finest Hour

Seaweed foam? This place has even ruined dessert!

I politely state that no, we don’t want any dessert, and ask her what she was serving to Wesley tonight.

“Oh, he was having a Marsala wine from Italy. It’s some pretty strong stuff. I think it’s twenty percent alcohol by volume, and he had almost the whole bottle.” She says this with a chuckle and a grin, like this whole situation is nothing but a joke to her. Meanwhile, I’m staring at my drunken date trying to figure out how the hell I’m going to get him out of this restaurant, let alone home.

“We’ll just take the check. Thanks.”

I look across the table at Wesley. He’s still sitting up, but now his posture is slumping, and I’m afraid that soon, I’m going to be picking his ass up off the floor. At least he finally put his hand down.

She returns promptly with the check and tells me to take my time with it. Wesley makes no move for his wallet, so I remind him that it’s time to pay. He stares at me blankly, a stupid grin across his face.

“You need to get your wallet out so you can pay for our meal,” I say firmly.

Still nothing.

I’m sure as hell not paying for this meal, so that means I have to get Wesley’s wallet out of his pocket and still keep him upright in his seat. While trying not to draw too much attention to our table, I get out of my seat and go over to where Wesley’s slumping further and further down in his seat.

“Oh, hi,” he says to me, like it’s the first time he’s seen me all night.

“Hi.”

“You’re pretty,” he says, brushing his hand across my cheek.

“And you’re drunk,” I say. “I’m just going to get your wallet out of your back pocket, okay?” I’m telling him this not because I think he’s going to somehow snap out of it and get his wallet for me. I’m saying this because I don’t want him to think that I’m trying to put the moves on him. Wesley might be a very affectionate drunk, and I really don’t want to find that out in this restaurant.

“Okay,” he replies, that stupid grin planted firmly on his face.

I don’t know what pocket he keeps his wallet in, so I take a chance and start with the left side. With my shoulder, I lean into his body to push him out of his seat slightly to give me access to his back pocket. I reach in and feel around.

“Ooohhh…you want it like that, huh?” Drunk Wesley says, giggling a little.

I can’t even find the words to respond to him.

There’s something firm in his pocket, and I reach in just a little deeper with my hand, and voila! Found it on the first try. His wallet is one of those slim ones with the hard sides, and I pull out the first card that’s in there. I figure if it’s in the front, it must be the one he uses the most.

The server returns for the card and is back within minutes with the receipt along with Wesley’s card. I decide that it’s probably best if I keep his wallet out because I’m not going to try and get it back into his pocket.

The insurmountable task of getting him out of this restaurant looms before me. That’s step one. Then I can worry about the rest of the journey home after that.

“Wesley, can you stand?” I ask. And when he doesn’t respond right away, I ask again.

“Stand?”

“Yeah, can you stand up?”

He nods. So he doesn’t fall on his ass when he tries, I offer him my hand for support. He pushes himself up from the table, wobbles a little on his feet, then grabs my hand and almost knocks me off-balance. My side hits the edge of the table and rams it into the wall, making a very loud thud which turns a few heads our way. With a smile to show that we’re okay, I drape Wesley’s arm over my shoulder and support his weight while we walk unsteadily out of the restaurant.This is totally normal. Nothing to see here.The hostess gets the door for us and wishes us a good evening. I can’t help but laugh because the rest of my evening is definitely not going to be good.

The nearest bench is a few doors down, and I manage to get him that far. But what to do from here? I can’t get him to his car on my own. I’m not that strong, and what if he falls and hits his head on the sidewalk? What if he falls into me and I get injured? And even if I could get him to his car, I can’t drive it. Wesley’s probably the only person in the world who would choose to drive a stick shift, and I never learned how to drive one.

I have to call for help, but who should I call? Definitely not my parents. They’re likely asleep by now, and they hate driving at night. I can’t call Chelsea or Lorelei for obvious reasons. Fern is probably still at the concert or at Brett’s place, and although I know she’d drop everything to come get me, I don’t want to be the reason her evening is cut short.

Thereissomeone else I could call. But I’m not sure he would pick up for me.

ChapterTwelve

My finger hovers over his name in my contacts. I have to do it. I don’t have any other choice.

Behind me, Wesley tugs on my pant leg. I turn toward him, and he’s sprawled out on the bench, using the armrest as a place to rest his head. He can’t be comfortable having his head at such an unnatural angle, but he’s not complaining so I’m going to leave him alone.

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