WHEN: saturday afternoon. WHO: @elihinkley & bryce. WHERE: eli’s place.
There was something almost humbling about the hangover that lingered well into the afternoon. He felt every single one of his thirty-two years. The sun shone unforgiving above him and he shot it an accusatory glare as he lifted a hand to press against his temple. He was beginning to think his headache had less to do with the alcohol he’d had the night before and more to do with... well. Everything else.
He found himself standing before Eli’s door and tried the knob first, the bag of tacos in his hand thumping against the wood. When he found it locked, he knocked instead. His phone sat dead in his pocket and he considered, for the first time, that Eli might not be home. “It’s Bryce!” He called through the door. “Lucky for us, food trucks have been spared. Open up!”
