“Question. Do you have an awesome husband who will keep an eye on your kid at a moment’s notice, so you can go to a bar and get trashed? Asking for a friend,” I add, starting up the truck and backing out of the driveway as I hold the phone between my cheek and shoulder. “As a matter of fact, I do. On a scale of one to ten, how trashed are we talking?” Ember asks. “Eighty-seven.” “Shit. That’s defcon, emergency level drinking. I’m in.
