Page 15 of Super Hot Wingman
About me.
Our phones go silent as the string of texts ends. And I know one thing with absolute certainty.
The party I’m throwing tomorrow just got a lot more interesting.
IT SEEMED LIKE A GOOD IDEA AT THE TIME
MARK
The sound of my alarm is very soft today. Almost so soft that I can’t hear it.
Wait.
Prying my eyes open, the first thing I see is Blackbeard on the coffee table. He’s staring at me with judgment in his one eye.
Uh-oh.
I lift my head off the arm of the sofa. A shooting pain runs from my aching neck to my shoulder. I spent the whole night on my couch? What the hell?
As I swing my body into a vertical position, my empty stomach gives a sickening lurch. Oh, boy. I’m not much of a drinker. Usually. I only drink when I’m out with friends.
But Brett and I were playing chess at the bar, and instead of switching to beer, I turned to rum and tonics.
Wait. Scotch too. I switched to single-malt.
A lot of single-malt.
Shit. I’d better find some aspirin. And I’d better shut off my alarm, which is still trilling in the bedroom.
I grab my glasses from the table and put them on, then stand up slowly. Something clatters to the floor. It’s my phone.
Huh.
I bend carefully to retrieve it, because everything hurts and I want to die. The phone wakes up and glows brightly right in my eyes. Ouch. Everything is ouch.
Lifting my thumb to shutter the phone, I catch a glimpse of the text string on the screen.
They’re all in shouty caps.
Lots of them.
A long tirade authored by me.
To Hannah!
Oh. Shit.
The memory of my intention comes flooding back. And everything that seemed like a good idea late last night has turned out to be a horrible idea in the light of day. I only wanted to warn her. I just wanted to dispense some brotherly advice. But drunk brothers aren’t nearly as smart as they think they are.
Frantically, I scroll up through my rantings.
And it’s bad.
Like, awful advice. Delivered thoughtlessly.
This is . . .
Wow. I lost it last night. I owe Hannah a huge apology.
