I don’t know why I still try to get away with anything with Leila around.
“Yeah,” I tell her. “I’m dying over here. This hangover is murder.”
“I would imagine,” she says inscrutably.
One more swig and the vodka goes back into the freezer, right along with the unopened box of waffles.
“So,” Leila starts, “do you remember anything from last night?”
“Yeah,” I tell her. “After the shower it’s a little fuzzy, but I’m sure with some minor discussion the rest of it will come back.”
“Well,” she says, turning around on the couch to face me, “you begged me not to move to New Jersey.”
“That sounds like something I’d do,” I tell her, pulling two coffee mugs from the cupboard. “That sounds exactly like something I’d do. I both love you and hate New Jersey.”
“Yeah, that came up during our discussion,” she says. “Do you remember where the conversation went from there?”
I’m right in that in-between area where the alcohol is starting to hit, but the hangover’s still overpowering it and I want to stick my hand into a running garbage disposal just to take the focus away from my throbbing head.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her. “It hasn’t come back to me yet.”
“Do you think it’s going to, or do you just want me to tell you?”
“Tell me.”
I have both mugs filled with coffee before she considers responding.
“It seems that you have a bit of a problem with Mike,” she says.
This can’t be a good turn of events.
“Really?” I ask. “What did I say?”
“You said it was kind of messed up that you’re doing everything to keep your past relationships away from ours while I’m still hanging around with Mike.”
“I said that?” I ask, not sure whether to be proud or nervous.
“Yeah,” she says. “At one point, you called him a douche nozzle. It was a mean sentiment, but I have to admit it did get me to laugh.”
“Sorry about that.”
“I think we need to talk,” she says.
I bring her coffee as a peace offering, but it doesn’t seem to have the magical powers with which I had so intently tried to imbue it.
“Mike is my best friend,” she says. “I get that you’ve got a little jealousy going on, but he and I have known each other for a really long time, and I can’t just stop being friends with him because you’re feeling threatened.”
“Now it’s coming back to me,” I say.
“We’re still talking about it,” Leila rejoins, and my devious plan to get out of having this conversation falls on its face.
“All right,” I tell her. “Do you understand why I might be a little uncomfortable with that? Of the two times I’ve met the guy, the first time, I walked in on the two of you making out, and the second, he ignored my existence while engrossed in looking for a place for you to live.”
“I get why you’d feel that way, but it’s not what you think,” she says.
She explains how he was feeling self-conscious about the way he kisses and that he badgered her into giving him a capsule review. I just happened to walk in at the wrong time.
The story, despite its vague familiarity, doesn’t do much to ease my concerns.