And the same stains, the same errors, repeat themselves every time.
Disquieted, I step away from my work. A minute’s break might be a good idea. I go to the water cooler and get a drink in a tiny paper cup, then recall that I haven’t turned my phone back on since midafternoon. Might as well see what’s going on.
As it powers up, I tell myself, You will not expect a text from Jonah. You won’t. It’s not happening.
This proves to be true. He didn’t text me, but Geordie did. Five times.
OMG Viv I’m so sorry is your dad okay?
Carmen says he’s all right but jesus you must be freaked out want to meet up for a drink bet you could use one
Hey I’m at Freddy’s Place if you feel like coming out
Theiyre beng total shitheads Viv fuck this place
If you know the owner of this phone, can you come pick him up? He is not allowed to remain on the premises.—Management
The time stamp on that last one is only ten minutes ago. I groan and grab my purse.
Most people think of Freddy’s Place as “the one next to the Mexican restaurant that turned out to be a front for the largest drug-running enterprise in town.” (No offense to Freddy’s, which is awesome. But when they busted the Mexican restaurant, it was pretty big news.) The food at Freddy’s is good, but when I come here, it’s usually for a drink or dessert after a movie, sometimes both. I love their courtyard, strung with lights, filled with laughter, and always visited by a few dogs dozing under their masters’ tables.
The person I’ve come here with most often is Geordie, and as I see him slumped on the porch, I wonder if we’ll ever be allowed on the premises again.
“Viv!” Geordie holds both hands in the air, like he just scored a winning soccer goal. “I told you she’d come!”
The manager standing next to him, arms crossed, scowls even more deeply. “You know this one?”
“Yeah, sure thing.” Oh, my God, Geordie’s so drunk. It’s not like I haven’t seen him messed up before, but it’s weird to see him this trashed this early in the day, especially when he’s out on his own. “I’ll take him home. Has he paid his tab?”
Geordie laughs. “O’ course I paid! Whadya think I am, luv?”
That much Scots accent means bad news. “Sorry,” I mutter to the manager as I scoop one of Geordie’s arms around my shoulders.
The guy shrugs. “He can’t keep doing this. That’s all I can say.”
“What do you mean, ‘keep doing this’?”
This wins me a disbelieving snort. “He shows up here at least once a week. We told him a while ago we weren’t going to allow him to drive away—so most of the time he takes taxis. Today he drove here, though, and I can’t allow him to leave. We could get sued for millions if he had a crash, and frankly, it’s just a matter of time.”
“I’m not tryin’ to drive!” Geordie bellows. “If you’d let me order some more food I’d be fine.”
The manager doesn’t even glance at him. “If he ever comes here alone again, we won’t even serve him. Maybe remind him of that tomorrow. That way he might actually remember it.”
With that, the manager walks away, leaving me standing there with Geordie’s weight heavy against my side. He smells like rum. “Thanks, Viv,” he murmurs, giving me his goofiest, most endearing smile.
“Just get in the car.” I can see his Fiat in the parking lot. Tomorrow morning someone will have to bring him back here to pick it up; probably that’s going to be me.
As I head toward his apartment complex, Geordie says, “He’s exaggeratin’, you know he is. Two times I’ve been there. Maybe three.”
“But you were going to drive like this, Geordie. You can’t do that.”
“I didn’t want to drive like this. I wanted to eat and wait another couple of hours! I’d’ve been fine then, y’know I would.”
Maybe he would have been. Maybe the manager was in a shitty mood. And Geordie’s always partied hard without it screwing up his life.
Yet I can’t help thinking over the last few times I’ve hung out with Geordie. He drank heavily every single time. Halloween, he even lost consciousness at Arturo and Shay’s. We’re not eighteen-year-olds experimenting with alcohol for the first time; Geordie is thirty. He should be past that by now.
“You Americans.” Geordie leans back in my passenger seat. The city lights flicker behind his handsome profile. “You’re Puritans, every one of ye. In Scotland, they’d call me a teetotaler.”