Page 37 of The Debutantes
“That’s what we need to find out.” I walk over to the kitchenette, where I grab a glass from the cabinet and fill it with water.
Another moan from the bathroom.
Vivian quirks an eyebrow. “Pretty sure he’s not in any state to be interrogated right now.”
“So we speed up the sobriety.” I hold up the glass.
Vivian stares. “I hope you mean by hydrating him.”
“In a sense.”
“Wait, we have to be careful,” Vivian tries. “We can’t just—”
The door unlocks, and Milford swings it open.
“Feeling better?” I ask.
He nods. “Yeah, I think it passed.”
“Did you puke?”
“No.”
“Good.”
I throw the cup of water in his face.
“Jesus! What the—”
“Why do you have that lighter?” I demand.
“What the actual hell,” he grumbles, wiping his eyes and shaking the water off his fingers.
“Keep it in the bathroom. The rug out here is an antique,” I order, stepping inside with enough force that he has to move back. I turn to Vivian and April. “Y’all coming, or what?”
“Jesus H. Christ,” Vivian mutters, but she follows me inside. After a brief moment of inner conflict between staying out there alone and taking her chances with us, April comes, too.
I lock the door behind us and point Milford to the toilet. “Sit.”
“But—”
“Now.”
Milford plops down on the closed seat, scowling. “God, you’re like a miniature version of your mom.”
I catch April and Vivian staring at me in the mirror. They look both shocked and impressed, and I shrug. Sometimes, all it takes is an authoritative, vaguely parental tone for a guy to listen to you. Probably something Freudian in that, but now’s not the time for psychoanalysis.
“Why do you have Margot’s lighter?” I ask again.
He groans. “I don’t know why y’all keep saying it’s hers. I got it at a bar.”
“What bar?”
He clamps his jaw shut like a little kid.
Calmly, I refill the water glass. “What bar, Milford?”
He doesn’t answer. I hold up the glass.
