Page 38 of The Breaking Point

It didn’t take her long to ask me if I was drunk. I thought about our role reversals: I was the mess this time.

“Do you need me to drive you home?” she asked when she called me a few minutes later.

It took me a long time to answer. “Uh, no,” I slurred. I burped loudly.

“Oh geez, please don’t get behind the wheel. Call a taxi or something. Please, Brady. Promise me.”

I was annoyed now. “I’m not fucking stupid. I don’t drive drunk.”

“I know you don’t. You’ve always been careful, which is why I’m worried about you now.”

My chest hurt for some reason. Why did Grace even care about me? She shouldn’t care about me. I was a piece of shit who didn’t deserve her friendship.

“Where are you?” she insisted. “I’m coming to get you.”

I told her. She told me to stay put. I laughed, because I’d just done the same thing with her.

When she arrived, she sighed as she sat down next to me. “You look terrible,” she said.

My head lolled to the side. “You look great,” I shot back.

She looked down. She was wearing a ratty T-shirt and leggings, her hair in a messy bun. She looked like she’d been in bed.

“Okay, come on, let’s go.” She grabbed me by the arm.

I nearly stumbled and fell flat on my face as I tried to stand. The whole thing made me laugh like an idiot. Grace just sighed and hustled me out to her car.

When she asked for my address, I was surprised that she didn’t know it. But why would she? She’d never been to my place before.

A half hour later, she stopped in front of my apartment building. She turned to me, frowning.

“Is this it?” She pointed. “I must’ve gotten the address wrong.”

“No, that’s it.”

I got out of the car, only to realize that Grace hadn’t put it in park. I stumbled, hitting the pavement with a jolt.

Grace stopped the car and got out, hurrying to me. “Jesus! Brady, are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” I was fine—probably. I was too drunk to feel much pain. “I’ll meet you inside. It’s the first apartment on the left.”

Grace joined me inside my place a few minutes later. She looked frazzled. For the first time, I felt guilty for bothering her like this.

“I hate parallel parking,” she grumbled, sitting down next to me.

That statement made me laugh. “Babe, you live in LA.”

“Oh, the irony isn’t lost on me.”

She kept looking around like she was confused or something.

I knew my apartment wasn’t the cleanest, but it was hardly a dump. I’d even gone so far as to get an air fryer recently, and I no longer had my clothes in giant plastic bins.

“This is your apartment?” she said, looking at me closely.

“Yeahhhhhh,” I drawled. “Pretty sure it is, at least,” I said jokingly.

She frowned. “It’s so small.”

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