Page 37 of Pour Decisions
“Sage advice from a tipsy lady.” She yawns and stands up again. “I’m going to bed. Or at least I probably should.”
“You don’t want anything for that hangover you’re going to have?” I ask.
“I’ll be fine. I think. I have some water.” She drums her nails on the door frame. “Night, JD. Night, Bubba.”
She disappears down the hallway, and Bubba follows her. I sigh and sit on the couch again. I’m too awake after that short interaction to go back to bed, and I’d rather not toss and turn when I don’t have to. Especially since Bubba has clearly chosen to go sleep with Kat.
I’m awake for another few hours before Katrina comes back out, Bubba on her heels. She groans and wanders into the kitchen.
“You alright?” I ask.
She gasps and puts her hand to her chest, then to her head. “God, you startled me. And I can’t sleep because of this stupid hangover. You can gloat internally, please. Now I’m stone-cold sober and filled with regrets.”
I go into the kitchen. She’s changed into a big t-shirt that hits her mid-thigh. Surely she’s wearing shorts under it, right? I stare at her legs for too long as she looks through the fridge.
“Sit down. Let me help,” I say, nudging her toward the island.
She hops up on the counter, wincing. Bubba sits next to her, licking her ankles. She doesn’t seem to mind.
“Why are you still awake?” she asks.
I shrug. “Just am.”
“Is it because of Bubba not being with you?” she asks. “We were cuddling and I passed out hard. At least for an hour or two.”
“Might be part of it.” I dig through my cabinets for my pain meds and a glass. “I’m used to falling asleep with him but I can usually sleep without him if I have to.”
The idea of all three of us curled up in bed is too appealing, and I’m not even someone who likes lounging around.
“Take these.” I hand her two painkillers and a glass of water. She throws them back with a single swallow. “Let me get the other stuff together.”
I open the cabinet and grab my powdered Gatorade.
“You still do this?” Kat asks with a laugh. “You cannot be serious.”
“It works every time.” I grab my electric kettle and fill it with water before putting it on to boil.
“Just because it works doesn’t mean it’s not cursed. Maybe you’ve cursed yourself to drink this for the rest of your life,” she says, wrinkling her nose and leaning over to watch me grab two mugs. “Is it blue flavor?”
“Arctic Blast? Yes.” I find the tiny scooper inside the tub and dump a bit into each mug.
Yes, hot Gatorade is a gross concept, but nothing works better to prevent a hangover. There isn’t a lick of science behind it. Back when I worked the bar, a patron talked about it as a hangover remedy at length. I must have been desperate one day because I tried it. It’s worked ever since, and I’m not going to question it.
“If there’s any flavor thatshouldn’tbe heated up, it’s that.” She lifts her foot and pets Bubba’s back with it. “And call it blue flavor like a normal person.”
“There are different blue Gatorades.” I open the freezer and grab a bag of frozen corn. I’ve eaten frozen corn as a snack since I was a kid, which confused the hell out of her the first time she saw me eat some.
“Not the corn too, JD,” she says, putting her hand to her chest.
“Yes, the corn. It’s food but won’t make you feel queasy.” The kettle beeps and I pour hot water over the Gatorade. “And the drink.”
“This is the worst combo. I want to call the FBI on you just for this,” she says. “They’ll put you on a watch list.”
A snort spills from my mouth with ease the way it only has around her.
“No one’s making you eat it,” I say, popping some corn into my mouth.
“I want to. It’s nostalgic.” She sips her hot Gatorade and wrinkles her nose. “This better work.”
