Page 45 of All In
Tonight. I meant tonight. Fucking autocorrect. Calling…
Theo hated texting because he made so many typos. Which was fine with me, I preferred hearing his voice anyway. I liked its deep roughness in my ear.
My phone rang. “Yes, I’m working tonight,” I said. “I need the money to pay my gigantic phone bill.”
“You’re telling me,” Theo replied. “I had to take out a small loan after you kept me up until four in the morning last week.”
“All you had to do was concedeThe Princess Brideis the most quotable movie in existence and I would have let you off.”
I grinned, remembering how Theo tried to argueMonty Python’s the Holy Grailhad earned that title. I’d badgered him with “Inconceivable!” until he gave up.
“Don’t start,” he said, “or I’ll fart in your general direction.”
I’d no idea stern-faced Theodore was a huge Monty Python fan. But during our marathon conversations, I learned he could quote the entireHoly GrailandLife of Brianmovies almost verbatim, accents and all.
These monster phone sessions started out as him checking in on me. Brief chats, once or twice a week, making sure I was okay. The craving for booze was a constant. On bad days it flared into an insatiable thirst, laced with grief for Jonah. On good days, it was background noise, sometimes hardly noticeable.
The good days, I noticed, were growing more and more frequent. I had friends now: Yvonne next door. Big E. Even Grant and Phoebe were more like friends than business partners.
And I had Teddy, who now called me almost every day.
“So,” he said. “Oscar and Dena’s wedding.”
“Yes. Next Saturday. I’m so excited. Especially since my bridesmaid dress isn’t a total nightmare.” I glanced at the coral-colored, strapless dress hanging high on the door of my bedroom. “Not really my style but it’s pretty. Just the right color for a spring wedding.”
Theo grunted an acknowledgement of the girly dress talk, and then said, “When are you flying in?”
“Friday,” I said. “I’ll be there in time for the rehearsal dinner.”
“Cool.”
“You don’t sound super thrilled about it.”
“I never should’ve agreed to be the best man. It’s going to suck.”
“Why? Not a fan of making toasts in front of hundreds of strangers?”
“Something like that,” he muttered. “Anyway, are you bringing anyone?”
I blinked. “You mean like a date?”
“Yeah.”
“God, no. I’msoooonot ready for that.” I plucked at my duvet, making little wrinkles in the material. “Are you?”
“No,” he said.
A small smile spread over my face, and I smoothed the duvet down. “Why not?”
“There’s no one I want to fly all the way to New York,” he said. “That’s an expensive date.”
“Good point,” I said.
Oscar and Dena were getting married at an exclusive club Oscar’s parents belonged to in upstate New York. The east coast location was easier on Dena’s grandparents—both in their eighties—who had to fly from Tehran, via London, to the US.
“So, we can be each other’s date,” I said. “At the least, you can save me a dance or two, so I’m not sitting alone at the table all night like a pathetic loser.”
“You’re not a pathetic loser,” he said darkly. “And I don’t dance.”
