“You missed drunk Emma?” I ask, blinking suspiciously, not jumping into the merry reunion vibe.

“I did.”

“Why? Do you like her more than me?” I pout with sad eyes, not even smiling when he laughs at me and shakes his head. A childish, surly mood instantly brews in my depths.

“You are drunk Emma.”

“No, I’m not. I’m just Emma. Drunk Emma is …” I’m confused, and I’ve no idea what I’m saying. He’s laughing at me again, infuriating my ...