Page 28 of Clinically Awkward

Winnie looked as if she was about to throw her coffee at him, her patience stretched to its breaking point among her eccentric, beloved team.

Julien pushed himself to his feet, the chair emitting a faint squeak that mingled with the persistent buzz of flickering fluorescent lights overhead. Shadows quivered across the conference table, pooling beneath coffee mugs and stacks of files. “Okay,” he said, his voice gentle yet strained, “I think we need to take a step back and⁠—”

Before he could finish, Winnie—Fitz’s long-suffering, unofficial confidante—cut him off with a glare sharp enough to pierce glass. Her patience, already threadbare, finally snapped. “I’m not done,” she hissed, her grip white-knuckled around her cooling paper cup, jaw clenched as she tried to keep her composure from fracturing completely.

Julien lifted his hands, palms out, a fragile peace offering. “I really think you should be done,” he said, his tone hovering between concern and the weary amusement of someone who’d seen too many of Fitz’s misadventures.

“Oh, I’m not close to done,” Winnie shot back, sarcasm sharpening her words. “I drove to the police station at THREE IN THE MORNING. I bailed him out with my OWN MONEY. And do you know what he did when I got there? Take a wild guess, since apparently I’m the only adult in this room who’s on the night shift for disasters.”

Every head swiveled toward Fitz. Even the humming lights seemed to pause, as if the room itself was holding its breath.

Fitz, ever the picture of oblivious optimism, gazed at the ceiling as if hoping for divine intervention—or maybe inspiration for his next misstep. He gave a tiny shrug, his lips twitching with an unspoken joke only he seemed to understand.

“He tried to serenade me,” Winnie said, her voice flat, “with his version of Queen’s ‘Fat Bottomed Girls.’ In front of four police officers, a very confused janitor, and—to my everlasting horror—a camera that I’m pretty sure was on.” She shot Fitz a look meant to incinerate. “Let’s just say, if you’re auditioning for American Idol, your timing stinks.”

“It was a gesture of gratitude,” Fitz protested, genuinely baffled by the lack of appreciation, then added with earnest cheer, “I thought my performance might lighten the mood. Besides, I hit the high notes. Sort of.”

“It was a nightmare,” Winnie declared, pinching the bridge of her nose. “And by the way, you owe me a venti and about six hours of sleep. In that order.”

Fitz shrugged gamely, still missing the point by a mile. “I thought you’d appreciate the sentiment—and the encore. Next time, maybe ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’?”

“I appreciated nothing about that experience, Fitzpatrick. Nothing. Not the singing, not the confusion, definitely not the bail receipt. Next time, ask Siri for help.”

Nathan—Fitz’s childhood friend, who’d weathered more than his share of these antics—was doubled over, tears of laughter streaming down his cheeks. His laughter bounced off the sterile walls, echoing around the room until even the stoniest faces cracked.

Gabriel, usually the group’s pillar of calm, had his head in his hands, shaking with silent, helpless laughter, his shoulders quaking as if he was trying to maintain composure and failing splendidly.

I clung desperately to the tatters of professionalism, the laughter ricocheting around me while I steadied my voice for the next inevitable revelation. “How did you even get arrested?” I asked, unable to keep a hint of morbid curiosity from coloring my question.

Fitz shifted uncomfortably. “It’s a bit of a story.”

“We have time,” Hayden said dryly.

“Well,” Fitz began, “I was at a pub.”

“Shocking,” Winnie muttered.

“—and I may have had a few drinks.”

“A few?” Winnie’s voice was incredulous. “The police report said you blew a .18.”

“That’s barely over the limit.”

“The limit is .08!”

“Well, that seems arbitrary.”

“It’s THE LAW!”

“Anyway,” Fitz continued, ignoring her, “I was walking home, minding my own business, when I saw a group of people gathered outside the police station. Naturally, I assumed they were having some kind of event.”

“It was a DUI checkpoint,” Winnie said.

“I didn’t know that!”

“There were signs.”

“I don’t read signs when I’m walking. That’s what peripheral vision is for.”