“Are too. But, again, we don’t have to talk about that tonight.” She holds her glass up to the center of the table. “To my darling bestie. You’re the sister I never wanted and the partner I never knew I needed. Any man who can’t hold on to you is a complete fucking moron and we hate him.”
“That was beautiful.” I clink my glass to hers before taking a long swallow. “Now let’s get smashed.”
—
Two or threeor four—who has the ability to keep count at this point?—hours later, May and I stumble out of our Lyft and up the stone walkway to the front door of my house.
I love my house. Were I in a sober state of mind, I’d probably spend a minute appreciating its beauty and acknowledging the generational wealth and impeccable timing that afforded me the opportunity to buy this prime piece of Los Angeles real estate. Located in the super-trendy neighborhood of Atwater Village (though it was more up-and-coming and less hipster haven when I bought this place), the small Spanish-style abode has everything I need. Two bedrooms, one fully remodeled bathroom, air-conditioning, a parking space, a small backyard, and it’s walking distance to multiple coffee shops and bars. Yes, I know how lucky I am.
But tonight I don’t care about any of that. I care that I’m able to get my key in the front door and get it unlocked without either of us puking in my lovingly tended front garden.
Together we stumble down the hallway to my bedroom, and I think we manage to discard our shoes and purses before we collapse on my bed, which is a major win at this point.
“I want to watch a movie that’s going to make me cry.” I pull myself up for just long enough to turn on the TV that’s mounted over my dresser.
“Does that seem like the best idea right now?” May’s voice is muffled by the pillow she’s face-planted on.
“Yes. This is what you do after getting dumped. Step one, get drunk.”
“Check!”
“Step two, watch rom-coms. Step three, eat ice cream.” I scooch off the bed with the intent of heading to the kitchen to grab the emergency pint of Ben & Jerry’s I keep stashed in my freezer. However, the spinning room throws me off balance and I have to steady myself on the edge of the bed.
May turns her face to me. “What’s step four?”
“Step four of what?”
She tries to throw a pillow at me but can’t seem to launch it farther than a few inches. “Step four of the post-breakup plan?”
“Oh.” I flash her a grin. “Find a new man, of course.” Finally steady enough to walk comfortably, I leave May to groan into my pillows as I make my way to the kitchen.
Wisely, I decide I should chug a glass of water before I do anything else. And then I swig a second just to be safe. I grab the pint of Tonight Dough and two spoons and start back toward my bedroom. My purse is dropped about halfway down the hallway, and I reach in and pull out my phone, pretty impressed with my foresight.
May is passed out diagonally across my bed when I get back to my room, snoring in a loud and deep-throated way that tells me she’s clearly no longer conscious. I nudge myself in next to her, tucking myself under the covers and turning onWhile You Were Sleeping. After taking down the wholepint of ice cream, I reach for my phone to set my alarm so I don’t sleep away the entire next day. I have to squint to make the words and numbers on-screen come into focus, but I’m able to make out the fact that I have an Instagram DM. From a username I only see when I really lose my grip and deep-dive on an ex-stalking binge. Something I haven’t done in at least a year. Okay, six months.
I tap in my passcode and navigate over to the app, ignoring all other notifications in favor of plunging directly into my messages.
@SethCarson:Hey. I’ve been trying to call you but every time I get sent straight to voicemail, so you’re either ignoring me or you blocked me. We need to talk. Call me when you can, sooner rather than later.
Okay.
Wow.
First of all, the nerve of him to think that his number wouldn’t be blocked. Obviously, I have no desire to talk to him ever again. Theonlyreason he isn’t blocked on social media is because I like to check in occasionally and make sure he is still alone and miserable. As he should be.
Second, I am in no shape to consider any and all implications of this message. “We need to talk”? “Call me”? What the fuck could the two of us possibly have to talk about?
Because I’m heartbroken and still slightly, if not mostly, drunk, I click on his profile. Seth rarely posts photos of himself, his feed instead full of pictures of his travels. For thepast however many years, he’s been a roving reporter, traversing the country and sometimes the world for his stories, which are mostly investigative, serious-type pieces. He’s an in-demand freelancer, so he’s never in one place for very long. When we were still young and naïve, we thought we’d be journalists together at the same newspaper, him covering news and politics, me reviewing books and the arts.
I scoff into my empty pint of ice cream. Neither of us ended up where we thought we’d be.
I squeeze my eyes shut because suddenly all my brain wants to do is replay the first of my catastrophic breakups. The worst one. The one that started it all and has yet to be beat, even by tonight’s should’ve-been-a-proposal. But despite sobering up somewhat thanks to the ice cream and water and probably the jags of crying, I know I’m in no position—physically or emotionally—to be able to handle a DM from an ex, especially nottheex.
I need reinforcements. “May.” I poke her repeatedly until she finally murmurs something that sounds somewhat conscious. “I just got a DM from Seth.”
“Oh shit.”
At least I think that’s what she says since she hasn’t removed her face from the pillow.
