Foreman caught up to House at his car, glad at least that he didn't have to follow House home, or wherever he decided to drive off to. He didn't trust House to drive, either, if the wine he'd drunk was the grand total of what he'd eaten today, which wouldn't surprise him after seeing a few years of House's eating habits. "House--"

Before he could get more than that out, House snapped at him, and Foreman stared. "What the hell are you talking about?" he asked. Of course House had done it on purpose. If Foreman hadn't seen him do it himself, he still would have assumed House had dumped the wine on Marty with every bit of deliberateness he could muster. Foreman shook his head, wanting to grab the phone out of House's hand, snap it shut, and force House to talk to him. The words I'm sorry were lurking at the back of his throat but Foreman swallowed them down. He wasn't sorry for making plans or going out, no matter how disastrously it had turned out. He was sorry that House had to hear that shit from Marty. One word like that, though, and he doubted House would listen to him for the rest of the night. "Christ, I hope the shirt is ruined," he said instead. He glared back at the restaurant, taking a step back from House. Probably House was calling Wilson. Who the hell else could he call? Foreman knew better than to think House would drive if he was feeling the alcohol, and he didn't know if he should offer. He stood there, feeling useless. If Wilson was going to play the rescuer, then there wasn't any reason for Foreman to hang around. He could imagine that House wasn't interested in hearing from him, but he couldn't force himself to walk away.