As I stumble out of John's room, my bleary eyes catch a glimpse of Jessica in a sheer black baby doll that could stop traffic. Not that I was gawking or anything. Nope. I quickly avert my gaze, feeling my face turn as red as a ripe tomato. Smooth move, Damien. Apologizing profusely, I try to make my exit, praying for a convenient trapdoor to swallow me whole.

But no, fate has a wicked sense of humor. "Wait!" Jessica calls out, her voice cutting through the air like a siren. Reluctantly, I find myself frozen in place, as if her command had some supernatural hold over me. Or, more likely, my hungover brain cannot risk the possibility of another scream.

She wraps herself in a blanket, her eyes resembling those of a wounded puppy. Tears glisten in her big hazel orbs, and my heart does an Olympic-sized somersault. Why do girls always have to cry? It's like my kryptonite.

She walks up to me, her blanket-wrapped figure a mix of vulnerability and mystery. It's like a dramatic movie scene, except I'm the clueless sidekick who stumbled into it. Her trembling form seeks solace in my embrace, and her tears dampen my shirt. Great, now I need a dry cleaner.

"What's wrong, Jess?" I manage to ask, my voice an awkward blend of concern and cluelessness. "Where is John?"

"I don't know!" Her crying intensifies, turning into a full-on waterworks show. I pat her back like a malfunctioning robot, wondering if I'm actually helping or just making things worse.

Oh, fantastic. She controls her whimpers enough to share that they had a fight, and she had been waiting for John in his room since last night to make up, but he never showed. Typical John, the master of disappearing acts.

"Don't worry, Jess," I promise with all the positive energies I can muster. "I'll find John right away. He can't hide from me!"

With a nod and a sniffle, she finally releases me from her emotional grip. I manage to escape the sticky web of awkwardness, feeling like I just survived a level in a video game with zero extra lives left. Time to move on and save the day.

As I skip downstairs stairs, each step feels like a bass drum pounding in my throbbing head. I curse myself for thinking that entering John's room could lead to anything other than a full-blown episode of "Awkward Encounters 101." I mean, seriously, what was I thinking?

Reaching the ground floor, a wave of relief washes over me. My cup of coffee is still moderately warm, offering solace in liquid form. Thank the caffeine gods for this small mercy. I take a sip, savoring the rich, dark elixir that has the power to turn me from a grumpy zombie to a semi-functional human.

The maids have done their disappearing act as well, leaving the house eerily quiet. I glance through the glass door, half-expecting to see John sprawled out on the sunbed, catching up on his beauty sleep. But no such luck. It's just me, my lukewarm coffee, and a growing sense of impending chaos.

Downing the rest of my coffee in record time, I rush to the key-rack by the door. My eyes scan the hooks, and disappointment hits me like a slap in the face. Only one of the three sets is where it should be—my trusty Mercedes key. Both John's envy-inducing newer Mercedes model (seriously, how does he always manage to one-up me?) and Cassie's Harley are nowhere in sight. Looks like someone decided to go on an impromptu joyride.

Refilling my cup of coffee for an extra dose of caffeine-fueled courage, I fish out my iPhone from my pocket jeans. Ah, the one reliable thing in my life. Unlike a box of Parliaments near a drunken Cassie, this baby always stays by my side. As I scroll through my contacts, my eyes dart around, hoping to spot a forgotten pack of cigarettes. But alas, the universe is conspiring against me today.

I try to call John, fully aware that his cellphone is as reliable as a chocolate teapot. Unsurprisingly, it's shut off. I guess charging a phone is too much to ask for when you're the king of nonchalance.

I try calling Cassie next, hoping she'll have some insight into this swirling vortex of confusion. Maybe she knows where John is, what to do with a heartbroken Jessica, or, if all else fails, where I can find a damn cigarette in this godforsaken mansion.

But the universe seems determined to laugh at my expense. A digital voice informs me that the number I've dialed is either out of reception or someone had the audacity to turn off their phone. Fantastic. Just what I needed—another technological middle finger.

Through a string of inward cusses at my siblings for ditching me for this mess, I summon the last remnants of my patience and make another call. It's time to bring in the big guns.

"Morning, son. You're up early," Roger greets me on the other line, his voice laced with amusement.

I take a deep breath, silently cursing the universe for its twisted sense of humor. "Morning, Dad. We've got a bit of a situation here..."