Page 17 of Otto: The Hawthornes

“Or I could juststay.”

“Not happenin’,” I replied, reaching out to yank her hair.

“It’s not even that crazy in here! Is this because of the chick in the corner?” she asked, whipping her head up to look at me. “I’ve seen boobs before, Otto. Ihavesome.”

“Jesus Christ,” Micky muttered in disgust. “Shut up.”

“Boobs,” Myla yelled. “Tits! Boobies! Breasts! Titties! Nipples!”

“She gets that from you,” my dad muttered as Micky strode quickly toward the door.

“Yeah, right,” my mom replied dryly.

“Pretty sure it’s from both of you,” my grandpa Grease joked as he joined the group. “How the hell did she get here?”

“Titus drove her,” I said, watching Micky wrestle Myla out the front door.

“He’s dead,” my dad muttered.

“She paid him forty bucks.” I choked back a laugh. It was probably the easiest forty dollars Titus had ever made.

“And got caught less than five minutes after he’d dropped her off,” my mom said in amusement. “Poor Myla.”

“Poor Myla, my ass,” I scoffed. “I told her she couldn’t come. Micky told her. Even Rumi told her.”

“I would’ve guessed that Rumi snuck her in,” Gramps said thoughtfully.

“Nova’s mellowed him out some,” my mom replied. “She’s good for him.”

All of us looked across the room to where Rumi was dancing on the top of a table, his hips grinding on some invisible partner. As we watched, he tore off his shirt and Nova whistled, leaning forward to tuck a dollar bill in the waistband of his jeans.

“Oh, yeah,” Gramps said dryly. “She’s really calmed him down.”

The rest of the night had no more surprises and went by in a blur of back slaps, congratulations, and drinking. I’d slowed down quite a bit because I didn’t want to have big black spots in my memory, but I still drank way more than I should’ve. When I woke up on a couch the next morning, my head felt like it was going to explode and even the dim light coming through the windows felt like knives stabbing into my eyes.

I stumbled to the bathroom and when I came out a few minutes later, my sister-in-law was waiting for me.

“I brought you coffee,” Emilia called softly. “And a breakfast sandwich from Charlie’s shop.”

“Bacon?”

“Of course.”

“Thanks,” I murmured, sitting down beside her. “I feel like shit.”

“I figured you would,” she replied with a smile, handing me the coffee cup and sandwich. “You always do after you drink.”

“The price of vice,” I joked.

“Do you still get migraines?” she asked thoughtfully as I unwrapped my sandwich.

“Not very often.” God, my stomach was churning but the food still smelled so fucking good. “Once a month, maybe?”

“And any time you drink, right?” She kicked off her shoes and curled her legs up under her.

“Yep. Can’t escape the hangovers.”

“Micky barely gets them.” She dug in her purse and pulled out a small bottle, handing me a couple of Tylenol.

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