"Second Best", part 1

“Miss, is there someone I can call for you?”

“Nope,” I giggled. “I’m aaaallllll by myself,” I sang, playing with the straw in my drink.

“I can’t allow you to drive.”

“Of course you can,” I protested indignantly. “You’re not the … the …” I wracked my brain for the right expression, “the bossa me,” I slurred. Then I giggled again at the stern expression on the bartender’s face. “Such a sourpuss,” I whispered, and then proclaimed, “You’re no fun.”

“Maybe not, party girl, but you’re drunk and I’m not about to let you drive. Tell me who to call and you can be on your way.”

“I’m not finished,” I declared. “I can still see.” I held up two fingers, looking intently at them to prove my point. “Two, right?” I said squinting. “AND … I can still remember what a lousy, fucked up day I had.” And then I burst into tears.

“Miss, please? Gimme a phone number.” The sourpuss bartender was standing with his arms folded, waiting impatiently and glancing at the extremely large bouncer that was making his way over to my bar stool.

“Fine,” I pouted, sniffling loudly and handing over my cell phone. “Memory-1. That’s my fian- umm, fiansss- boyfriend.”

I sat in a drunken haze as he dialed and waited. And waited. “No luck, lady.”

“Okay, so Memory-2.”

That didn’t work, and neither did any combination of Memory’s 3 through 9.

“Lady, it’s closing time. Come ON.”

“Ten. Try ten,” I sighed. I knew I had one more speed dial number left, but for the life of me I couldn’t seem to recall who it was. I listened halfway as the bartender carried on a conversation, but wasn’t jolted back to reality until he spoke directly to me again.

“Bingo, lady, your ride’s on the way. Do me a favor? Go home, sleep it off and take up knitting or something. Bar hopping is not for you.”

“You’re so cute when you’re mad. I’ll come see you again.”

He rolled his eyes. “Don’t do me any favors.”

His large friend walked me to a chair by the front door where I proceeded to flirt outrageously with him. Some fifteen minutes later I heard a familiar voice at the door and looked up, and up into a pair of very sleepy, and very annoyed, blue eyes.

I giggled again and waved my fingers at him. “Hi Nicky, whatcha doin’ here?”

“Taking you home, apparently,” he frowned. “Where’s Howie?”

“I dunno,” I shrugged. “Not home?”

He sighed, and it came across a little louder than he meant it to. “Come on, princess, let’s get you out of here.”

“Nicky?” I asked, my voice shaking. “Don’t be mad at me. Please?” I looked up into his scowling face and the tears began to fall; huge, wet tears that were followed by gut-wrenching sobs. “I’m sorry,” I managed weakly as he sighed once more.

“Can you walk?” he asked, taking my hand to help me up.

“So far,” I wept. “They say I can still do that for a few years yet.”

“What?” he asked. “Lori, you’re drunk.” He picked me up in his arms and the motion, combined with his height made me woozy. I lay my head on his shoulder as he made his way to the parking lot and giggled again at his next question. “Where’s your car?”

“Silly Nicky! I can’t drive, I’m drunk.” I smacked his shoulder with my free hand and laughed. “’Sides, I left my car … somewhere … I dunno. Anyway, I took a cab here.”

“You took a cab to a bar? Lori, what the fuck is going on?”

“I … I …” I could no longer see through my tears. “I went to the doctor today.”

“You’re sick? Oh god Lori, you’re not pregnant?” He had me in the front seat of his truck, and as he stood outside looking in, he was almost eye level.

My world began to spin, and just milliseconds before throwing up all over Nick’s brand new Nike’s I blurted out the horrible truth. “I’m dying.”