Wilde by Abby Brooks
Chapter Twenty-Five
Leo
My phone buzzes. It’s Amy. She keeps calling, but I’m drunk and she can wallow in her bad choices for a little longer.
The way she looked at me as she climbed into the ambulance…
“I was standing up for you,” I mumble, haphazardly swiping a glass of whiskey into my hand. The amber liquid sloshes over the sides, spilling onto the table. “For you!” I choke back the contents in one long swallow, then clench my bruised jaw through the burn. “What choice did I have? I warned him. I told him to walk away—and sweetheart, I don’t give second chances. But what did heee do?” I wave the empty glass around to help further my point only to have a sharp pain remind me of the wild punch that landed against my shoulder. “He came at me again, didn’t he? You probably think I should’ve let that slide too.” I snort at the refrigerator. “Sorry, hon. Not gonna happen.” I bring my hand to my chest. “Loooook—you can’t blame me.”
Suddenly feeling like I’m on a boat trapped in rough seas, I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose while settling back in the chair to focus on making the room stop moving. After the swaying passes, I recenter my attention on the refrigerator and try to remember what I was saying. The screen on my phone lights, showing a new message as it vibrates on the table.
I’m still not ready to talk to Amy, but I check the message anyway.
Hank: Just checking in to see how you’re feeling. Any idea if they’re going to press charges?
I’m in no mood to chat, but I owe him a response. It’s the least I can do after he dropped everything to come pick me up from the sheriff’s office. I still can’t believe they brought me in. Stupid deputy thought he’d make a point about an old issue between us by plopping me in the back of his car.
Me: I’mm ggoood.
Other than finding it difficult to make out the letters on this little keyboard.
Me: Just an old beef btweeen me and the daputy who responded to the scene.
The phone doesn’t stop buzzing while I set it down to wipe the blurry from my eyes.
Hank: Just a wild guess here. Have you been drinking?
Hank: NM, doesn’t matter.
Hank: What happened?
Hank: You sleep with that deputy’s girlfriend or something?
Squinting to try and make the words more readable, I answer, while defending my honor.
Me: His wife. Told me she was single. Shoulda known better.
Now, what was I doing?I wonder as I pick up the bottle and pour myself another drink.
Hank: I have to admit you work harder than any of us to earn the last name, little brother. Take care of yourself. Remember help’s always a phone call away when you need it.
I choke back the bourbon and consider the statement. For the first time in a long time, I don’t immediately call bullshit on the idea of family. Some family anyway.
* * *
Why is the kitchen sideways?
My eyes open slowly, all too aware of the harsh morning light blaring through the window above the sink—and the hangover so intense I feel it in my hair. After sitting up, I realize I’m still at the kitchen table. Classy.
My cheek burns where it’s been pressed to the wood for hours. The clock on the stove reads seven thirty as I stand and stretch. Yawning, I head to the bathroom to take a leak and splash water on my face. Morning shines brightly through the windows in the living room as I pass and I shield my eyes, grumbling curse words at the floor. I can’t shake the feeling that something happened last night. Something that feels important. Then again, in the condition I’m in right now, breathing feels important, so that’s not saying much.
When I pass the bathroom mirror, I finally understand why my cheek hurts. There’s a purple indentation in the skin. Like a giant dimple—roughly the size of the lid to a handle of bourbon. “Not your finest hour, friend,” I confide in my bruised and bloodshot reflection.
I wash my face and brush my teeth, then pull the hand towel from the rack to dry off with as I wander back into the kitchen to start the coffee. My phone lurks beside the empty glass on the table like a wild animal about to attack.
The towel falls free from my hands.
Something important did happen.
“Shit. Drinking plus phone always equals bad.” I shake my head. “Always. How many times before you learn?”
Reluctantly, I sit. I don’t want to look, but I have to know how bad it is.
I open my messages, see that Amy is the most recent thread, and scroll up to discover how much damage I’ve done.
Okay, the first text went out at 2:17. Not great, but the content is fairly innocuous.
Me: Remember me?
I’ve sent worse. If only I’d stopped there.
Rubbing my temple with my free hand, I slowly scroll through the one-sided thread that reads like I’m attempting to work out in text why she’s giving me the silent treatment. I stop and hover over the message sent at 3:35. A real piece of work if I do say so myself.
Me: Y dont u just tell me what your problm is
For all my rambling (fourteen barely legible messages in total) I could’ve saved myself the embarrassment and only sent the last one. It sums up everything that needed to be said.
Me: This wasn’t my fault.
It’s also the only one to get a response.
Amy: We need to talk.