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At one point, Brady had asked how much we would pay him to drink all the garlic butter sauce straight from the small cups, but no one took the bet—it was pretty obvious he’d do it for free if he had a few more beers.
Oh hangover gods, please forgive me. What offering must I make that you might take this cup of suffering from my lips?
“You okay?” he asked. “Fine,” I wheezed. “Good.” He looked over his shoulder at me. “Because you know if you die, they’ll definitely blame me. They always look at the husband first.”
“I think maybe we were supposed to be friends…” he swallowed, “first.”
“It’s too short to waste on people who don’t give as much as they get. And it’s way too short to waste on not going after what you want because you’re scared.”
