don’t feel very good,” I say as JP and Huxley walk me to my apartment. “Because you had three shots of Scotch in ten minutes, realized your mistake, tried to counteract with buttery croissants and water, and now your stomach has no idea what to do with itself,” JP says. “If you puke on my shoes, I’ll murder you,” Huxley says. “Why did I have to come home? I don’t want to hear her having sex.” I rest my head on Huxley’s shoulder. “I bet she’s a sweet moaner.” “Can you not speak so closely to my face?”
