“Birthday shots, birthday shots!”
With four shot glasses crammed haphazardly between his fingers, Caleb approaches our pool table with a goofy smile on his face. Judging by the color of the liquor, or lack thereof, it’s either tequila or vodka. No limes, though, so either Caleb half-assed the order or he’s entirely forgotten how much I hate vodka. Either could be true.
Despite his egging on, Hayes and Wolfie kindly don’t join in on the ridiculous chant. Caleb distributes each glass before holding his aloft, the rest of us following suit.
“Here’s to another dirty thirty, my man. Cheers!”
If I sighed any deeper, I might deflate entirely.
Yes, it’s my birthday, and yes, I know I should be living it up, celebrating with my friends, and I am—I’m here. But my brain is still back at home, a
