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It was supposed to make me feel better.
It didn’t.
The next morning was a rehash of the one I had when Baby LeBlanc came to my apartment dressed to impress (by her standards.) Meaning, I woke up next to a stranger, braved a hangover from hell, which I decided to tame by smoking a big, fat blunt on my terrace while sipping a Bloody Mary. Not the virgin kind. These days I never took a virgin anything. After all, the last one I had fucked me over, ran away, and was now marrying one of my best friends.
But I digress.
Maybe it wasn’t the best idea I had in mind to stop at a convenience store in the armpit of New York on my way to JFK at six a.m. and grab a bottle of who-the-fuck-knows-what and finish it before the poor taxi driver even dropped me off.
I knew it was a shitty move on my end, but couldn’t stop myself from smoking and drinking before I boarded the plane.
Fuck you, Nina, I muttered the entire drive to JFK, like it was some kind of bullshit yoga mantra. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you.
Zigzagging my way to the terminal, I hoped to hell Baby LeBlanc was already inside the plane and made good use of the ticket and taxi I sent for her. The odds were in my favor. I threatened her, and she had no clue I couldn’t, in good conscience, raise her rent, even by a penny. I always had a soft spot for this girl, and it seemed like the more she hated me, the more I wanted to prove to her that it was always us. That if I believed in that bullshit of two people who were meant to be with each other—it was because we actually were.
I was late, and the flight was delayed as a result. Little Miss CrankyPants didn’t take any of my calls, and I felt an invisible rope tightening around my neck. I wanted to get to Todos Santos, dump Rosie at her sister’s, and collapse into my childhood bed. Somewhere in the back of my head, I wanted more out of life. To stop drinking and smoking like a fucking chimney. To let go of the bad shit that kept ricocheting into my life. To ask her on a date instead of asking her to reverse-cowgirl me, because all the sexual crap I was dishing at her was a defense mechanism in case she said no.
Because no one ever said no.
No one other than her, and if she was going to turn me down, might as well offer her my dick and not my heart.
My last recollection was of the flight attendant showing me the way and the soft thud of my head hitting the headrest, followed by a sharp pain that suggested my brain had just detonated. I winced, scrubbing my forehead before I heard her strained, out-of-breath voice. At first, I thought she was going to yell at me for being late, for delaying the flight, and for fucking breathing. So, it didn’t register when my half-dead mind actually decoded her words into their meaning.
“Here. Two Advils and water.” She dropped something in my palm. “I’ll ask the flight attendant for some milk after we take off. You pull this shit on our way back home, and I will make sure every woman you bring into the building knows your dick is more contaminated than the public restroom in the subway.”
I opened my eyes, turning my head on the cushioned seat to face her, my gaze gliding over her face.
“You seem to take a lot of interest in my dick, Baby LeBlanc. First, you wanted to pour wax on it; now, you want to cockblock it. Maybe you should meet him and see if you two could be friends. I think you will get along great.”
“No, thank you, I’d literally rather eat someone else’s puke.”
“Literally? Somehow I doubt it. Unless you have a very peculiar taste for puke.”
Rosie had always been a bitch to me. I didn’t blame her, but didn’t trust her either. But now, her face looked blank and genuine and, fine, fucking gorgeous. Her cheeks the color of ripe peaches, freckles decorating her little nose, and those huge bluest-blues staring back at me. Two hundred different shades of brown and blonde on her head, all courtesy of Mother Nature. She was the very definition of a nymph. Everything about her was so incredibly smooth and velvet, there was no way you could tell she was sick.
I groaned, tossing the Advil and bottle of water into my dry mouth. I wiped my lips as the plane started sliding forward, gaining speed.
“Do you need help?” she asked, her voice neutral. She meant the drinking. The pot. The general mess that was my life. I was a high-functioning, borderline alcoholic who smoked like being stoned was an Olympic sport. Nobody complained when I sealed those deals and wired that money and fucked like a champion.
