The phone rang beside me. It sounded like the loudest noise I’ve ever heard in my life and pierced into my ears, so the pain rocketed through me even harder. My hand flopped around on the bed, trying to find where my phone ended up the night before. I had a vague memory of Nick, Quentin, and Colby getting me into bed and putting my phone under the pillows so I’d have easy access to it. But it wasn’t there. It just kept ringing, seeming to get louder and sharper the more it rang. Finally, I had the sinking realization the phone had slipped down behind my bed, so it now rested on the floor up against the wall. Hanging upside down in the way I had to in order to retrieve the phone was one of the least pleasant experiences of my life. I looked at the screen and saw it was just Vince.
“What do you want?” I asked by way of greeting him.
“How are you doing?” he asked.
“Dying,” I told him. “But if that’s my goal, I’m doing really well.”
“Don’t come into work today,” he said.
It wasn’t a suggestion or giving me permission to take the day off. It was a direct order, and I could only imagine it’d come down straight from my parents. Even though Quentin technically owned Freeman Racing, it was only because our father had passed it along to him when he decided he wanted to slip slowly into retirement. That was many years ago, and my father was still working almost as much now as he did before he retired. The company belonged to Quentin, but we all knew he wouldn’t defy Dad If it wasn’t for a very pressing reason. Considering keeping me off the complex for now was probably in everybody’s best interest, this wasn’t one of those pressing situations.
“Fine,” I said.
I hung up and shoved my phone back under the pillow. Closing my eyes and pulling the blankets up over my head, I fell back to sleep quickly. I fully intended on that being the way I spent my Monday, but Mom was having none of it. She wouldn’t let me just wallow in misery and the negative effects of pickling myself over the weekend. Instead, she showed up around lunchtime with a massive basket overflowing with food. Just like she did when I had chicken pox as a child, she pulled me up by my elbow to help me sit and propped me up against a stack of pillows. She leaned down to kiss the top of my head, then gave me a look.
“Have you changed your clothes today?” she asked.
“No. But I took a shower last night. The guys forced me into it,” I told her.
“Get up,” she said. “You’ll feel better if you take another shower and put on fresh clothes. I’ll put clean sheets on the bed for you.”
“Mom, I’m a grown man. I don’t need you to put new sheets on my bed,” I argued.
“White or navy blue?” she asked.
“I’m not sick.”
“White or navy blue?”
“White.”
“Good choice. Get in there, get clean, and I’ll have it ready for you when you get out,” she said.
I stood under the hot water until my skin stung, then got out and got dressed in black cotton lounge pants and a T-shirt. It was essentially a different pair of pajamas, but if I called it loungewear, it made it sound like I was just relaxing instead of that I was trying to hide away from the world in my room. Just as she had promised, Mom had fully remade my bed, and the food she’d brought me was spread out on a tray. I got back in bed, and she settled the tray over my lap. I felt ridiculous, but at the same time it was nice being comforted. Part of me worried my family would judge me and somehow put the blame on me for the whole situation. It was a relief to see their sympathy and know they were really on my side.
The exertion of getting up and taking the shower added to the hot temperature of the water and pressing steam of the bathroom made me feel shaky and woozy. The effects of the alcohol were much more intense now, the pain stabbing through both my eyes and down through the middle of my skull. My stomach flipped and turned, sloshing around and never settling. But Mom insisted I eat. It would help me feel better faster. I knew she was right, but I was glad she sat beside me with a small trash can strategically placed within reach while I ate and tried not to throw up.
When I got down the first sandwich, the sick feeling started to dissipate. The second sandwich made me feel tremendously better and brought out my hunger. I finished the last of the sandwiches she brought me along with the heavily salted kettle chips and a container of pasta salad. The sharp vinegary base of the salad cut through more of the sick feeling and helped bring me back to normal. When I was done, I felt well enough to get up, and Mom and I walked out onto my back deck carrying cups of coffee.
“Have you thought about what you want to do?” Mom asked after
