I’ve called forty-nine times. Forty-nine fucking times. Forty-nine. Do you know how many rings that is? A fucking lot. Too many to count, or at least I can’t think clearly enough to count them. But if I could, it would be a massive amount of fucking rings. If I make it through the next three minutes, I plan on ripping the front door off the damn hinges and smashing Tessa’s phone—the one she apparently doesn’t know how to answer—against the wall.
Babe she drank like five bottles of wine. She's asleep.
