“Michell?” Her voice is a question.
“Yeah?”
A pause. “Are you drunk?”
“Maybe a little. Bennett and Lucy have this baby—Emilia—and I held her for like two hours. She’s so tiny. Her whole hand can’t even wrap around my finger.”
“That’s... nice?”
“And Shepherd—that’s their son—he didn’t want to wear pants all night. Just ran around in Superman underwear arguing about whether superheroes need pants. Which they do, by the way. We tried to tell him.”
I can practically hear her blinking through the phone. “Mitchell, did you call me to discuss superhero fashion choices?”
“No, I called because Lucy made this incredible crab dip. Like, restaurant-quality crab dip. And I lost eighty bucks to Hayes because apparently I can’t bluff when I’m thinking about—” I stop, realizing what I was about to say.
“Thinking about what?”
“Nothing. Never mind.”
“This is why you called me? To tell me about crab dip and a pantsless toddler?”
The question hangs there, and suddenly the alcohol-fueled confidence starts to crack. Because I didn’t call her about crab dip or babies or losing at poker. I called her because I’ve been thinking about her nonstop for days, because holding that baby made me picture what it would be like to have that withher, because I’m drunk enough to be honest and stupid enough to think midnight phone calls are a good idea.
“I want to take you out,” I say, the words tumbling out before I can stop them.
Silence.
“Clare?”
“Take me out where?”
“On a date. A real date. Not fake, not pretend, not because my family’s asking questions. Just... because I want to.”
Another pause, longer this time. “Mitchell—”
“I know I messed up before. In Minnesota. I should have—”
“Maybe ask me when you’re sober,” she says quietly, and there’s something fragile in her voice that makes my chest ache.
The words hit like a bucket of cold water. Because she’s right. I’m drunk, it’s midnight, and I’m calling her with rambling stories about crab dip instead of having the balls to ask her out properly when I can think straight.
Shame settles in my stomach, heavy and uncomfortable.
“You’re right,” I say, suddenly feeling very tired. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
“It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not. You deserve better than drunk midnight phone calls.”
“Mitchell.” Her voice is softer now, almost fond. “Get some sleep.”
“Yeah. Okay.” I close my eyes, phone pressed to my ear. “Good night, Clare.”
“Good night.”
The line goes dead, leaving me alone in my dark bedroom with the taste of regret in my mouth. But underneath the shame, there’s something else.
Hope. Because she didn’t hang up on me. She didn’t sound angry or annoyed. She sounded... patient. Like maybe, when I’m sober enough to do this right, she might actually say yes.