Waking up felt like I'd been hit by a truck—every muscle screamed in protest. The private room was empty except for Tiffany Evans and me.
I helped her get dressed and called a cab, but in my foggy state, I made a huge mistake. Without thinking, I gave the driver Tiffany's home address and sent her off, then grabbed another cab for myself.
I'd completely forgotten her husband was home—unlike mine, who was away on business.
The second I got home, I collapsed into bed and passed out cold.
The next morning, my phone was flooded with over a dozen missed calls from Tiffany. I called back right away, and she immediately screamed into the phone.
"You ruined me! Don't tell me you forgot I have a husband? You sent me home covered in marks—were you trying to get me kicked out so I'd have to crash at your place?"
I frowned and fired back, "Okay, fine—I was drunk and my memory was shot. But I only gave the driver the general address. Wasn't it on you to tell him exactly where to go?"
Sure, I'd helped Tiffany into the cab, but she could still walk. She'd even answered basic questions clearly. From the gate to her townhouse was barely two hundred feet—hardly worth the drama.
"I—I just panicked, okay?"
Tiffany knew we were both too wasted to put all the blame on me. The real issue was damage control.
Turns out, she never actually made it home. On the way, she'd stopped to play with a stray cat, then passed out on a bench and slept there until morning, waking up freezing. Even cold medicine couldn't hide the congestion in her voice.
"So what's the situation now?" I asked.
Tiffany said the marks had faded by morning, but the bruises were still there. Filthy and disheveled, she'd rushed to a nearby hotel to clean up.
Her husband had been up all night working on company files and didn't notice she was gone until morning. When he called, demanding answers, she lied and said she'd been out partying with me, that we crashed at a hotel—just the two of us—and that I could back her up.
That alone wouldn't have been a problem. I could've covered for her, said it was just a girls' night.
But then, after she got home and cleaned up, her husband hit her with: "Did you sleep on a bench in our neighborhood last night?"
"Someone saw me?"
"Yeah. A neighbor who lives near that bench spotted you. They came down to check on you, but you were already gone."
Of course, the witness was one of her husband's gossipy acquaintances. One phone call was all it took to plant doubt.
"Just tell him you passed out on the way home. It's not that big a deal."
"Damn it, he tricked me! He let me tell my whole story first, then dropped the neighbor bomb. How am I supposed to fix this now?"
Exactly. Turning a simple truth into a web of lies—either you're an idiot, or you're hiding something worse.
"What now? He already saw the bruises on my knees. If he notices the ones on my waist and ass, he'll know I was with a man."
I sighed, reassured her as best I could, then headed over to Tiffany's place to help clean up the mess.