Unsuitable
Page 27
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He chuckles and shakes his head.
“Then, no siree. I want the alcohol. Lots of alcohol!” I sweep my arms out.
“I think the last thing you need is more alcohol.”
“Alcohol is the only thing I need.”
“Why?” He smiles, bemused.
“Because”—I smile big—“alcohol equals happy.”
“And why aren’t you happy?”
“Who said I wasn’t happy?”
“When a pretty girl like you tells me that alcohol equals happy, then she’s telling me that she’s not happy when she’s sober.”
Oh.
My smiles slips, and then my alcohol-induced loose lips just start yapping, “So, maybe I’m not happy when I’m sober. That doesn’t mean anything. Lots of people need alcohol to feel happy. Sure, they’re probably alcoholics, but I’m thinking I should try that out because nothing else is working for me. I try so hard, and I still manage to fuck everything up. My brother hates me. Actually really hates me.” I press my hand to the pain in my chest that’s trying to force its way back. “He wishes I were dead,” I whisper that last part.
“I’m sure he doesn’t wish you were dead.”
I look him in the eye. “Oh, he does. He told me so himself, like an hour ago. But the thing is, I don’t blame him. I kinda hate me. I mean, I let him down. The only person in the world who truly matters to me, and I failed him. He’s right to hate me. I’m a fucking fuckup. I mean, even my boss hates me. And whose boss actually hates them?”
“I’m pretty sure my boss doesn’t like me.” Cute Bartender chuckles.
“Ah, see?” I point at him, like he just told me the cure for cancer. “You said your boss doesn’t like you. My boss effing hates me! I mean, like can’t-stand-the-sight-of-me hates me. And, sure, he’s a massive dickhead. But he does think I’m hot, so there is that. I mean, he thinks I’m hot, but he hates me. How fucking weird is that? And, really, what does that say about me? Hot but annoying as fuck—that’s what that says. Everyone hates me. Well, except for Cece, but she has to like me by default because we’ve known each other forever. Honestly, I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve her as a friend because I think I deserve to be hated. I’m an idiot. An actual twatting idiot.”
I feel wetness on my cheeks, and I realize I’m crying. I press the heels of my hands to my cheeks.
“Hey now, I don’t think you’re a twatting idiot.” Cute Bartender hands me a napkin.
“You don’t know me.” I sniffle, drying my eyes. “Trust me, if you did, you’d think I was a twatting idiot.”
“Well, how about I get you a coffee? We can sober you up, and then I can get to know the sober you.”
“Okay.” I give him a grateful nod, wiping my eyes because those damn tears keep coming.
“You stay right there, and I’ll be back with that coffee,” Cute Bartender tells me.
I watch him walk away. Taking a deep breath, I wipe my eyes again. Screwing up the napkin, I toss it on the bar.
Ugh, I’m such a fuckup.
I lay my arms on the bar and rest my head on them.
I should call Cece and let her know that Jesse hates me.
Reaching for my bag on the stool next to me, I rake through it, searching for my phone. My fingers find and curl around it. Pulling it out, I unlock the screen.
Bloody thing is all blurry.
I blink, trying to clear my eyes.
I go to my Contacts, all four of them.
Jesus, I’m pathetic.
That makes me snort-cry.
I wipe at my eyes as I press Cece’s number. I put the phone to my ear and wait.
It seems to ring for ages.
Then, the line connects, and a male voice says, “Daisy?”
Um, what?
I pull the phone from my ear and look at the screen.
Oh, holy mother of crap.
Kas.
I dialed Kas’s number instead of Cece’s.
Crappity crap!
I can hear him yelling my name down the phone.
I tentatively put the phone to my ear.
“Hey, Mr. Matis.” I try to sound normal. Of course, I slur the words.
“Daisy”—his voice is like stone—“are you drunk?”
“No!” I shake my head, like he can see me. “Of course I’m not!” And, of course, that also comes out slurred. I clear my throat and try to focus on my words. “I’m not drunk. I’m just happy! Happy! Happy! Happy! This is my happy voice!”
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he sighs. “Where are you?”
I don’t think I’ve convinced him of my soberness.
Shit.
“Where am I?”
“Yes, Daisy. Where the fuck are you right now?” He talks to me like I’m a small child.
“There’s no need to swear, Mr. Matis. And I’m in a bar.”
“Which bar?”
“Dunno.” I shrug.
“Daisy…” His voice is a low warning.
“Okay!” I try to think if I saw the name when I came in, but I don’t remember. I just remember seeing the place and realizing it sold alcohol, so I just went straight on in. I glance around the bar, seeing nothing. “Um…there’s nothing. I mean, there are chairs and tables and a bar and alcohol…lots of alcohol.” I giggle. “I’ve had some amazing drinks. You’d love it here. Well, probably not. But maybe you should have a drink. It might loosen you up a bit because you are kind of uptight. You should come and drink with me! We can get drunk together!”
“Then, no siree. I want the alcohol. Lots of alcohol!” I sweep my arms out.
“I think the last thing you need is more alcohol.”
“Alcohol is the only thing I need.”
“Why?” He smiles, bemused.
“Because”—I smile big—“alcohol equals happy.”
“And why aren’t you happy?”
“Who said I wasn’t happy?”
“When a pretty girl like you tells me that alcohol equals happy, then she’s telling me that she’s not happy when she’s sober.”
Oh.
My smiles slips, and then my alcohol-induced loose lips just start yapping, “So, maybe I’m not happy when I’m sober. That doesn’t mean anything. Lots of people need alcohol to feel happy. Sure, they’re probably alcoholics, but I’m thinking I should try that out because nothing else is working for me. I try so hard, and I still manage to fuck everything up. My brother hates me. Actually really hates me.” I press my hand to the pain in my chest that’s trying to force its way back. “He wishes I were dead,” I whisper that last part.
“I’m sure he doesn’t wish you were dead.”
I look him in the eye. “Oh, he does. He told me so himself, like an hour ago. But the thing is, I don’t blame him. I kinda hate me. I mean, I let him down. The only person in the world who truly matters to me, and I failed him. He’s right to hate me. I’m a fucking fuckup. I mean, even my boss hates me. And whose boss actually hates them?”
“I’m pretty sure my boss doesn’t like me.” Cute Bartender chuckles.
“Ah, see?” I point at him, like he just told me the cure for cancer. “You said your boss doesn’t like you. My boss effing hates me! I mean, like can’t-stand-the-sight-of-me hates me. And, sure, he’s a massive dickhead. But he does think I’m hot, so there is that. I mean, he thinks I’m hot, but he hates me. How fucking weird is that? And, really, what does that say about me? Hot but annoying as fuck—that’s what that says. Everyone hates me. Well, except for Cece, but she has to like me by default because we’ve known each other forever. Honestly, I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve her as a friend because I think I deserve to be hated. I’m an idiot. An actual twatting idiot.”
I feel wetness on my cheeks, and I realize I’m crying. I press the heels of my hands to my cheeks.
“Hey now, I don’t think you’re a twatting idiot.” Cute Bartender hands me a napkin.
“You don’t know me.” I sniffle, drying my eyes. “Trust me, if you did, you’d think I was a twatting idiot.”
“Well, how about I get you a coffee? We can sober you up, and then I can get to know the sober you.”
“Okay.” I give him a grateful nod, wiping my eyes because those damn tears keep coming.
“You stay right there, and I’ll be back with that coffee,” Cute Bartender tells me.
I watch him walk away. Taking a deep breath, I wipe my eyes again. Screwing up the napkin, I toss it on the bar.
Ugh, I’m such a fuckup.
I lay my arms on the bar and rest my head on them.
I should call Cece and let her know that Jesse hates me.
Reaching for my bag on the stool next to me, I rake through it, searching for my phone. My fingers find and curl around it. Pulling it out, I unlock the screen.
Bloody thing is all blurry.
I blink, trying to clear my eyes.
I go to my Contacts, all four of them.
Jesus, I’m pathetic.
That makes me snort-cry.
I wipe at my eyes as I press Cece’s number. I put the phone to my ear and wait.
It seems to ring for ages.
Then, the line connects, and a male voice says, “Daisy?”
Um, what?
I pull the phone from my ear and look at the screen.
Oh, holy mother of crap.
Kas.
I dialed Kas’s number instead of Cece’s.
Crappity crap!
I can hear him yelling my name down the phone.
I tentatively put the phone to my ear.
“Hey, Mr. Matis.” I try to sound normal. Of course, I slur the words.
“Daisy”—his voice is like stone—“are you drunk?”
“No!” I shake my head, like he can see me. “Of course I’m not!” And, of course, that also comes out slurred. I clear my throat and try to focus on my words. “I’m not drunk. I’m just happy! Happy! Happy! Happy! This is my happy voice!”
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he sighs. “Where are you?”
I don’t think I’ve convinced him of my soberness.
Shit.
“Where am I?”
“Yes, Daisy. Where the fuck are you right now?” He talks to me like I’m a small child.
“There’s no need to swear, Mr. Matis. And I’m in a bar.”
“Which bar?”
“Dunno.” I shrug.
“Daisy…” His voice is a low warning.
“Okay!” I try to think if I saw the name when I came in, but I don’t remember. I just remember seeing the place and realizing it sold alcohol, so I just went straight on in. I glance around the bar, seeing nothing. “Um…there’s nothing. I mean, there are chairs and tables and a bar and alcohol…lots of alcohol.” I giggle. “I’ve had some amazing drinks. You’d love it here. Well, probably not. But maybe you should have a drink. It might loosen you up a bit because you are kind of uptight. You should come and drink with me! We can get drunk together!”
