Page 53 of The One I Want
Oh yeah. I forgot. In my defense, I’ve been scrolling through the app for probably two hours now and don’t know what I’ve liked, shared, or commented on. I’ve also watched a movie in ninety-two different parts.
Betsy: Yes, I’m fine. Just been a long day.
Whitley: Amelia said the divorce was finalized. How’s Wes doing?
Betsy: I don’t know. I only saw him for a few minutes after he got back. The guys wanted to take him to celebrate, let him get drunk, do whatever he needed to do. And Cara wanted a visit with the kids before she left. I took the kids to see her and Wes is currently drinking in his parents’ backyard like a teenager.
Whitley: OMG! You met Cara? What’s she like? Amelia said she’s a real piece of work.
Betsy: Oh, she is. We might or might not have gotten into it. But in my defense, she called me fat and shamed her daughter for wearing normal clothes.
Whitley: I’ll grab my keys. I can’t bury a body, but I’ll sure as hell drive.
I smile. This is what friendship is. No questions asked but will be an accomplice in a crime without hesitation.
Betsy: Thanks, but I think we’re good for now. I feel bad. Not for what I said. The bitch deserved it. But I don’t want the kids to pick up on that. They have enough mixed feelings about her. I don’t need to add to it.
Whitley: Smart. But you just let me know if she ever says anything again. I know people. One phone call and it’s done.
Betsy: Thanks, mafia princess. I’ll keep that in mind.
Whitley: Anytime. Night, sweets.
Betsy: Night.
I set my phone down, only to realize that I don’t hear the guys anymore. Did they pass out? I mean, they were already going when I got back from Nashville at seven. Though I don’t hear the guys, I do hear a rustling in the grass. I look over to my left, only to see Wes, beer can in hand, stumbling toward my house.
“Wes?”
I slap my hand over my mouth to hold in the laughter as Wes nearly jumps out of his skin. Though that effort is wasted as he can’t find his footing and falls to the ground.
“Betsy! You scared me!”
I laugh as I take the blanket off my legs and set my wine glass down. “How you feeling, big guy?”
He starts slowly getting up, though it takes more than a few seconds for that to happen. “I’m divorced.”
Oh God is he drunk. “Yes, you are.”
“So I’m feeling good. Broke. But good.”
“I’m sure your pro football contract won’t keep you broke for long.”
He stumbles over to me, but somehow finds the step and ungracefully sits on it. I join him, bringing the blanket with me.
“Where are the guys?”
He looks back to where he came from then back to me. I don’t know if it’s because he’s not sure or if he needed to check on something. “Passed out. I’m the only one who can hang.”
“Yes, you are,” I say as a cold shiver hits my body.
“Are you cold? It’s cold out here. When did it get cold out here?”
I laugh. “Well, it’s December. And I’m not drunk. Or by a fire. Or wearing a sweatsuit.”
He nods. “Very true. You’re smart, Betsy. Smartandbeautiful.”
I shake my head, reminding myself to not latch on to any words said by a drunk man. Though a sober man’s thoughts are a drunken man’s words…
