EMILY
ULTIMATELY, the kinder—though not exactly better—angels prevail.
"I had to stay," I explain. "I had a shot of whiskey and it hit me a little too hard."
Patrick's expression shifts, malignantly triumphant now. "So you got too fucked up and had to pass out at someone's house. Just like me. And you act all high and mighty now, judging me for doing the exact same thing as you?"
There are a lot of arguments I could volley back in return. But I truly have no energy or will to argue with him anymore.
He's not my boyfriend anymore.
The sad truth is that maybe he's not my friend, either, judging by the way he's been acting towards me lately.
He's a guy from my past, and my past is where he should stay.
I pull to a stop in front of his building. He lives in a nice condo downtown, way nicer than any unemployed college student would be able to afford on their own.
Because, of course, Garrett bought it for him.
