That night, I got a call from one of Dorian's friends—someone I used to know through him. He said Dorian had drunk too much and his stomach was acting up. He was lying in the hospital, muttering my name over and over. For old times' sake, they hoped I could come see him.
What kind of nonsense was this?
"He's in the hospital, not dead. If he kicks the bucket, then call me to scatter his ashes."
The mutual friend didn't approve. "You two grew up together. You used to be so close. Even if you've broken up now, you don't have to wish him dead, do you?"
"Get lost. If you care about him that much, why don't you date him yourself?"
The mutual friend was out of options. "Don't joke like that. He's throwing a drunken tantrum in the hospital, and he keeps throwing up because of his stomach cond
