Page 1 of Doctor Hot Mess

ONE

Jonah

Friday, March 17

The Red Shamrock

42 Manning Place, Birmingham

11:28 PM

“Alright, karaoke time!”Carly announces, swaying slightly as she hoists her green plastic cup. “Who’s in?”

The table groans in unison, half the group already collecting coats and clutching Uber confirmations like life preservers. St. Patrick’s Day had, predictably, spiraled into one too many rounds of Jameson shots and “just one more” rounds of Guinness.

“Not me,” Shep mutters, his normally sharp gaze glassy. “I’m tapping out.” He stands, bracing himself on the edge of the table. “My dignity’s already questionable without adding karaoke to the mix.”

“Same,” Kate says, yawning. “This was fun, but I’m not drunk enough to butcher Journey’s 'Don't Stop Believin’ in public.”

“You mean you don’t want to witness history in the making?” I pipe up, sliding a mischievous grin across the table. We are just getting started. “Because I plan to bring the house down tonight.”

“More like burn it down,” Carly teases, rolling her eyes.

“Don’t threaten me with a good time,” I fire back, tipping my chair slightly as I balance it on two legs.

This is my zone—charming, sharp-witted, keeping the energy up so no one wants to leave. A few beers in, the edges of the world blur just enough to make everything feel a little brighter, a little easier. I know how to play the room, how to keep the laughs coming. It’s second nature by now, and it works. It always works.

The group trickles out, leaving just me, Harper, and two of Carly’s friends from her old nursing program—a guy named Seth and a bubbly blonde named Amanda, even though Carly took off.

Lightweights.

Saturday,March 18

Neon Moon

2316 2nd Avenue N, Birmingham

12:42 AM

The karaoke barreeks of bad decisions and stale smoke. This is the kind of place where the walls are tinged yellow from years of poor ventilation and questionable life choices.

It’s both a relic and a disaster—the last bar in Birmingham where you can still smoke inside because it’s technically a “private club.” The irony? Membership is just signing your name on a clipboard at the door.

A haze of cigarette smoke lingers in the air, swirling under neon beer signs that flicker like they’re on their last legs. The faint tang of spilled beer clings to the sticky floor, and somewhere in the corner, a guy belts out a screechy rendition of Bon Jovi’s "Livin’ on a Prayer" with all the confidence of a rock star and none of the talent.

It’s a train wreck, but no one looks away. This is where the drunk and desperate end up when the night refuses to die. It's a beautiful mix of misery and comedy that’s somehow both disturbing and brilliant.

And honestly? It’s perfect.

I’m sweating from my "performance" of "Sweet Caroline,"but it’s the good kind—the kind that leaves your cheeks sore from grinning and your chest lighter than it’s been in weeks.

Harper’s leaning on the high-top table. Her cheeks are flushed from laughing too hard, and her hair’s a little messy from the pure debauchery of the night. She throws her head back as I make some ridiculous comment, and it hits me how easy it is to be around her. It always has been.

We’re the last two standing from our group, which is saying something. The last few hangers-on finally dropped off a little while ago. Just me and my ride-or-die. It’s one of the things I like most about her—she’s not afraid to stick it out and enjoy the party while it lasts.

“You realize this makes us the most fun people in the room,” I say, raising my almost empty, lukewarm beer to her.

“Or the dumbest,” she shoots back, her eyes sparkling. “Probably both.”

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