C H A P T E R • 45

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Monday morning, I woke up on the couch downstairs. When I picked up the edge of the duvet, tentatively, I was relieved to see I was in my PJs. When I tried to sit up, the head was screaming and the stomach was swishing and I wished I was dead.

“You slapped me.”

I whirled to face him, which was a big mistake, and I had to stop and hold my head in my hands.

“Obie. I don’t remember. But I’m glad if I did.”

“You’re lying. How could you not remember?”

“I’m not the liar; you are. I thought you said you would wait for me.”

“Janice is what I’ve been doing while I’ve been waiting.”

“I wish I wasn’t so sick, so I could slap you again.”

I got up and when I got back from the bathroom, there was a Coke and a Gatorade on a tray on the table.

“What are you doing here? Did you undress me?”

“I was afraid you’d go out.”

“I’m at home. You can go now.”

“I am afraid, disappointed, sad. How did this happen? Is this how they do it in L.A.? Get all drunk and stupid?”

“Is this what we’re going to do now? Talk about my drinking instead of grief and broken promises?”

“This is bad. Your father’s pancreatic cyst was related to his drinking years ago. You have a family history.”

“Mind your business.”

“You’re right. My mom used to get like that. I know what to do, but not if you don’t want me to. It’s too hard.”

“You need to go see about your girl Janice.”

“I’m going.”