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Or sober, for that matter.
Jason went to take a sip from his glass, hitting his chin instead of his mouth.
Jesus.
I took his drink—the remaining contents inside worth more than my hourly wage—and placed it on a coaster on the coffee table. Looking around for help, I locked eyes with the only other sober person in the apartment.
Ken was standing in the kitchen, talking to Allen, but his eyes were on me.
With that single desperate glance, Ken crossed Jason’s living room, met my look of pity with one of his neutral aqua stares, and placed his hand on Jason’s shoulder. “Hey, man. You okay?”
Jason’s head slumped forward violently, a bead of drool hanging from his open mouth.
“Shit.” Ken looked at me with genuine concern peeking through his facade of nonchalance. “Let’s lay him down. Maybe on his side in case he pukes.”
“Okay.” I stood and watched as Ken guided Jason’s sad, lifeless body onto its side on the sofa. “I’ll get a trash can!” I ran to the hall bathroom, returning seconds later with a white plastic receptacle.
Unlike his fucking Valentine’s Day present, Ken accepted the trash canfrom me without hesitation, placing it on the floor beside Jason’s head.
I looked around, hoping to share a pitiful glance with someone over the state our birthday boy was in, but not a single pair of eyes was watching. Everyone was laughing and shouting and drinking and dancing as if nothing were wrong. Not one of them had noticed that the person they were supposed to be celebrating had already drunk himself unconscious.
Maybe Jason had been right about them.
I couldn’t just stand there and watch him sleep, but I also didn’t feel right about partying when my friend might or might not have alcohol poisoning.
I could smoke though. I could always smoke.
Reaching into my purse, I realized that I’d left my cigarettes on my passenger seat.
“Hey, I gotta run to my car real quick.”
I hated that I felt obligated to tell Ken where I was going, and I hated even more that he felt obligated to come with me. We weren’t a couple—he’d made that abundantly clear over dinner—but Ken followed me anyway, grabbing his black wool coat off the back of the chair in the foyer on our way out the front door.
We headed down the stairs without a word. I led the way around the side of the building, annoyed to see Ken’s maroon Eclipse parked right next to my Mustang. He stood in between our cars as I opened my passenger door and retrieved my babies.
“Fuck, it’s cold out here,” I complained, fishing a Camel Light out of the flimsy cardboard box.
“You could quit smoking,” Ken deadpanned with an arched brow. His arms were folded across his chest, and his shoulders were pulled up around his ears.
I knew he was freezing, too; he was just too fucking stubborn to admit it.
I popped a cigarette into my mouth and rolled my eyes before lighting it. Warm, dirty smoke filled my lungs, and I relaxed. With a long, delicious exhale, I gave him my signature response. The one I told my doctors, my parents, my employers—basically, every responsible adult in my life—when they suggested that I give up my favorite vice.
“I’ll quit when I get pregnant.”
Ken’s other eyebrow shot up to join the first. “When you get pregnant?”
Simmer down, asshole.
“Yeah. In, like, ten years,” I sassed.
Relief washed over his face.
Oh my God. Like I’d actually want to have your apathetic babies. Puh-lease.
“How much money do you spend on cigarettes a month?” Ken asked as I took another drag.
I wished he’d go back inside and let me enjoy my bad habit in peace. “Are you serious?”
