Page 12 of Unmanageable

Brick is literally carrying Noah over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, while Noah mutters probability formulas under his breath. Leo keeps stopping to look for “the prophetic owl,” and Kovács is whispering apologies to Sir Nut-a-Lot for the hostile environment.

By the time the familiar silhouette of the house appears through the trees, the sky is just starting to turn a faint, bruising shade of purple.

We creep onto the front lawn like a band of medieval thieves. Every single one of us is dead silent, moving in a slow, agonizingly cautious line toward the side porch.

“Please,” Nico whispers, his hands clasped together in front of his pink headband as he stares up at the dark windows. “Please, God, let them be asleep. Let them be in a deep, buttercream-induced coma.”

“If Ivy is awake,” Callahan says, “she’s going to look at my face, see that I’ve been crying, and realize she’s marrying a degenerate. Please, Lord, let her be snoring.”

“Ivy doesn’t snore, she rests like an ice sculpture,” I whisper back.

I lean against a white pillar, my eyes burning.

I check my phone one last time. Still no service, but the lock screen photo of the orange van is staring back at me.

Scottie is going to find out about this. She has a radar for my stupidity—a sixth sense tuned specifically to my failures.

She’s going to see the mud on my jeans and the peanut shells in my hair and she’s going to look at me with that cold, perfect, disappointed disdain.

And I’ll smile when she does.

There’s something deeply wrong with me.

But, fuck, I miss her.

I need her to call me an idiot right now just to stop the room from tilting.

“They’re probably not even up,” Marcus whispers, trying to soothe the panic. “The girls probably went to some luxury spa resort for their bachelorette party. They’re doing normal, civilized human shit. Face masks. Drinking cucumber water. Watching a romantic comedy. They won’t be back until noon.”

“Dear heavenly Father,” Kovács mutters out loud, ignoring Marcus and clutching the taxidermied squirrel to his chest as we reach the top step of the porch. “Just give us ten minutes to get to the basement. Ten minutes to wash the goat smell off our clothes. I’ll go to church on Sunday. I swear to you. Just keep the girls in bed.”

“Amen,” Noah whimpers from Brick’s shoulder.

Cal looks at me, the front doorknob just inches from his hand. His lower lip begins to tremble again, the sheer emotional weight of the night—and the remaining four percent of the whiskey—crashing over him all at once.

“Cash,” he whispers. “I’m so lucky. She’s so good to me.”

“I know, man,” I choke out. “You’re gonna be such a good husband, Callie. I’m so proud of you.”

“Don’t cry, because then I’ll cry harder.”

“I can’t help it,” I sob. “Just turn the handle, Callie. Turn the handle before the women wake up and end our lives.”

Cal’s hand shakes so badly the keys clink violently against the brass lock, but with a heavy twist, the deadbolt clicks back.

We throw ourselves across the threshold, bracing for the inevitable blinding lights, the smell of expensive lavender candles, and the terrifying sight of Ivy standing at the top of the stairs with her arms crossed, waiting to execute us.

Instead, the house is dead quiet.

“They’re not here,” Cal whispers.

He slides down the inside of the front door until he’s sitting flat on the hardwood, his single shoe splayed out. “They really stayed at the resort. God is real, Cash. He’s real and He likes hockey.”

“Thank the Lord,” Nico groans, collapsing onto the plush rug in the foyer.

Nobody makes it past the living room.

Brick drops Noah onto the oversized sectional sofa like a sack of laundry, and Noah is asleep before his head even hits the throw pillows. Kovács collapses directly onto the floorboards next to the coffee table, carefully placing Sir Nut-a-Lot on top of his chest.