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.