Mom gets this wicked grin, like she’s an evil mastermind. “Which is why I wanted to talk to Wyatt.”

“What did I do?” Wyatt stares.

“I wanted to talk about the bachelor party with you.”

“We’re not going,” I cut in.

“Neil, don’t be silly. Of course you’re going.” There’s no hint of a question in her tone. We’re going to this party. “Do you have your license, Wyatt?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Are you permitted to drive with multiple people in the car?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he repeats. “I drive my moms all the time. They say I should get as much practice as possible.”

“Perfect!”

“What’s going on?” Wyatt asks.

“We were going to have a nice night in,” I tell her.

She stares at me. “Neil, you’re a groomsman—it’s your responsibility to attend events like this.”

“I don’t mind driving,” Wyatt says, like his opinion matters right now.

Mother claps her hands together. “There you go. Michael and his friends will meet you downstairs in thirty minutes. You two get ready.”

Before I can even get another word out, she vanishes as quickly as she arrived, slamming the door behind her.

I glare at Wyatt. “Why?”

“They needed a driver.”

“They could’ve just hired one!”

“Come on, it’ll be fun,” he says. “We were looking for something to do anyway.”

“We were going to order food.”

“Well, now we can go out.” Wyatt throws his towel at me. “Go get dressed.”

*  *  *

I could’ve stayed in the room. Had my own movie night, ordered room service or gotten dinner from the Chipotle down the street. But no, as much as I resent him right now, it’s probably not wise for Wyatt to go driving around in a city he’s never been in, being led around by four drunk dudes.

At least we can try to keep each other sane.

“Hey! Neil and Wyatt!” Michael cheers our names when he sees us walking out of the elevator. He’s surrounded by his friends: Josh’s brother, Zach, one of their roommates from their college days—I want to say his name is Ricky—and another guy I’ve never seen before in my life.

“We’re here to drive you around,” I tell him, ducking away from his hand when he tries to rustle my hair.

“Yeah, we super appreciate it, dudes. Not that we’re planning on getting schwasted, but better safe than sorry.”

“ ‘Schwasted’?” I hear Wyatt repeat, his voice quiet.

“Hope we didn’t fuck up your plans,” Michael says as we all walk toward the black SUV that one of the guys owns. It certainly isn’t Michael’s; I don’t know if he’d ever be caught driving an SUV.

“Well, you kind of did,” I tell him.