A Sticky Situation (Awkward Love 7)

“Well it obviously is if he’s moved in. Oh God, are you pregnant?” Mom gasps. “Hannah? Answer me!”

“Jesus, Mom, of course not,” I snap. “Jump to conclusions much?”

“Well, do I at least get to meet him? How about you bring him to your Grandad’s birthday?”

“Grandad’s birthday?” I repeat.

“Yes, his birthday is coming up. Remember?”

“Mom, his birthday is months away,” I say, my tone testy. “

“So? It doesn’t hurt to be prepared. If you’re not confident in your relationship with this man, maybe I should be coming down there to meet him.”

That would be a fucking nightmare.

“Can we have this discussion when it’s not nearly one in the morning?”

“When you’re not too drunk to think up plausible excuses, you mean?” she sighs. “Fine. But, in the meantime, I'm putting you down for a plus one so I can meet this mystery boyfriend of yours.”

I open my mouth to let her know there’s no way in hell that’s happening, but she’s already hung up. Well fuck. How the hell am I going to get out of this?

It isn’t even my fault. Brix is the one who started it by making her think he was my boyfriend.

Which means he should be helping me get out of it.

I’m sure the large amount of alcohol has imp is partly to blame, but the more I think about it, the more annoyed I get at him. Not just the boyfriend thing, but him in general. I hate him for being so…Brix.

I should call him right now and tell him that.

Who the fuck cares that it’s one in the morning?

Not me.

I rustle through the papers Luke gave me with contacts details for everything Brix related. They came with strict instructions for me not to abuse them, but let’s face it, I’m way past the point of rational thinking tonight. It takes me three attempts to input his number into my phone, but it’s only once I press call, I have the realization that the guards might still have his phone. I shake my head. I’m sure he’s charmed one of the nurses into getting it back for him.

If not, I’m about to have one very awkward conversation with security.

When I hear that familiar husky voice float through the line, the abuse I had ready to fire at him flies out of my head. My thoughts are all over the place, which is probably a good indication that this isn’t a good idea.

“Hello?”

“You’re an asshole,” I declare. The wobble in my voice probably gives away how inebriated I am. If not that, then the slurring sure does. “A complete fucking asshole. Everything that comes out of your mouth is either snide or offensive. You’ve been holding what happened last week over my head, and I’m sick of it.”

“Yeah, you got me.” He pauses for a moment. “So . . . who is this?”

My mouth drops open. Is he kidding me?

“Asshole,” I hiss.

And then I hang up.“Fuck me,” I groan.

I roll over onto my stomach. My head screams at me to stop moving, but I don’t listen and attempt to sit up. I immediately regret it and collapse back into my mountain of pillows behind me. The soft vibration of my phone against the nightstand sounds again, reminding me that’s what woke me in the first place.

This better be good.

I squint through my blurred vision at the screen. It’s a text from Sasha.

Sasha: Are you sick?

Shit.

I’m supposed to be at work.

I jump out of bed, then realize that it’s nearly midday. Holy shit, I’m not just late, I’m beyond late. Getting my ass fired kind of late. I’m also hungover, which makes me a safety risk, anyway. I fall back into my bed and text her back, hoping she’ll think of a way to cover for me.

Sasha: Already done. Said you called in sick this AM. Agency is covering you. Call me later, K?

Me: Come over tonight. I owe you a drink.

Sasha: Sure. I’ll come over after work. Did I mention Brix not happy?

I lay back down, still holding the phone. Brix. I groan, as all the memories from last night come flooding back. How many times can I fit the term asshole into a single conversation? God, I can’t believe I did that. He’s probably not happy because he wants me to be there when he tells Luke I called him.

I bring up his number on my phone, debating whether or not I should message him an apology. At the very least, it will make facing him tomorrow easier. I write out several messages, but delete them all. When I finally have something that doesn’t make me gag, I press send before I can doubt myself.

Me: I owe you an apology for last night. Sorry.

Doubt creeps in as I reread it. Maybe that was a little harsh. I sound like I’m not sorry in the slightest. Another thought strikes me. What if he really didn’t know who I was? Shit. I tap out another message, telling him it’s me, then I shut my phone off before one apology message turns into ten random texts, all trying to fix the mistakes of the last. I need a distraction, something to stop me checking the phone every five minutes for a reply. The problem is, my head pounds and I’m so sore, I don’t trust myself to walk farther than the bathroom. In the end, I give up, and go back to sleep.