September 4th, 1990

September 4th, 1990

At home, England

The light knock on my bedroom door woke me up.

“McGarr. You awake?”

“Ugh. What time is it?”

“Too early for you to get up.”

“Give me a minute and I’ll come downstairs.”

“You sure?” Jon asked.

“Nooo,” I groaned. “But I’ll make you some coffee.”

“Hostess with the mostess,” I heard him chuckle as he made his way downstairs.

Twenty minutes later, I crawled back into bed and the phone rang.

“Hey McGarr.”

“Didn’t I just say bye to you?”

“Yeah but aren’t you impressed I’m ringing from the car?”
“Not really.”

He laughed. “Thanks for the coffee, I know how much you hate it.”

“I don’t hate it, I’m just allergic to it.”

“Either way, that was nice of you. Thanks.”

“Welcome,” I yawned.

“You going back to sleep?”

“I will if my poser friend stops hounding me! Kidding aside, I hope the traffic isn’t too bad.”

“I just got on the M1 and it’s already crawling.”

“Really? Even at this hour?”


“Ugh, I don’t envy you that.”

“It’s worth it, I had a great night.”

“Me too. My feet are sore from dancing.”

He laughed. “My head is sore from drinking.”

Great night.


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