“Mostly, I just feel like a total dumbass.” I don’t bother to lie to her; she’d be able to hear it in my voice. “It’s not the sadness, not really. I just can’t believe I let myself waste four years on him.”
She picks up my hand in hers, lacing our fingers together and squeezing.
I wait for her to argue with me, to tell me all relationships teach us something or happen for a reason or some other Hallmark-level bullshit platitude. But instead we just sit in the silence, my head resting on her shoulder, until I gently nudge her. “Go shower. I need caffeine.”
She basically falls off the bed but still manages to do it gracefully. A minute later the shower in my en suite bathroom turns on and I hear her groan of relief even over the rush of the water.
I let my head fall back against the headboard as I attempt to process everything that went down last night. Not just the breakup, but Evan’s accusation, that I’m incapable of being alone. And May’s assertion that I’ll find myself in a new relationship before the dust of this one even settles. My brain isn’t functioning well enough to puzzle it all out, but I know it’s something I shouldn’t ignore this time, as much as I want to.
May emerges from my bathroom looking almost like a human being. She steps into my closet, no doubt helping herself to whatever items she wants from my wardrobe. Not that any of them are up to her standards. “Are you feeling sorry for yourself yet?”
“Yes.” Again, there’s no point in lying. Even from the closet she’d be able to hear the deception in my voice. Perhaps I should think about brushing up on my fibbing skills now that I no longer have a serious boyfriend to occupy my time.
“Cut it out.”
“It’s been less than twenty-four hours, May. I think I’m allowed to wallow a little.”
She emerges from the closet outfitted in one of my simple coral sundresses. Of course, since she’s a good four inches taller and four cups bustier than I am, it hits a little differently on her than it does on me. She points to my Spider-Man alarm clock. “You may wallow for five more minutes. And then you’re cut off.”
“You’re so bossy.”
“Duh.” May is one of that rare breed of Californians who not only were born and raised in LA but are third generation. Her great-grandparents immigrated from Mexico decades ago and her entire family has stayed local, meaning holidays at her grandparents’ house are the best, and you can count on her to throw “duh” or “dude” into most any conversation.
She and I were roommates our freshman year at USC, and luckily she took my Connecticut-born ass under her wing, schooling me on the unwritten rules of the freeways and ridiculous traffic, and helping me pop all my LA cherries, everything from my first In-N-Out burger to my first Dodgers game. I honestly don’t know how I would have survived freshman year, let alone college, without her—both her Los Angeles tutelage and her quick wit at the times when I needed laughter the most.
If only my supreme luck in friends could extend even the slightest bit into some kind of romantic good fortune.
Ha.
R2-D2’s telltale chirp beeps at me from across the room, alerting me to a text message and pulling me out of my haze of self-pity. And of course I left my phone an insurmountable six feet away from where I am currently plastered to my bed.
Beep boop beep bop.
“Oh my god, shut that thing up,” May calls from the kitchen, where hopefully she’s pouring me water or making me coffee. She has very little patience for my intense love of all things nerdy.
“I can’t. He’s too far away.” I try scooting down to the foot of the bed in some sort of backward army crawl, but I don’t make it more than a few inches.
When the blasted droid keeps chirping, I attempt a busted barrel roll to get myself out of bed without having to engage my core muscles. I manage to make it over to my dresser, where drunk me casually tossed my phone on top of my jewelry tray. I squint to force the alerts on the screen to come into something resembling focus.
“Shit. Shit shit shit.”
“Please tell me you did not just actually take a shit.” May returns to my bedroom and hands me a glass of water and some aspirin, along with a grimace.
I groan, stumbling over to my nightstand to plug my almost-dead phone into its charger. “No, I did not. Gross.”
“Then what’s the problem?” She seems to have fully returned to functioning human, which is really just not fair.
“I forgot that Natasha scheduled a meeting for today. Apparently she has some big announcement and we’re allexpected in the office even though most of us work from home on Fridays. Shit.” I head directly for the bathroom, wishing I had time for an actual shower. Instead, I splash cold water on my face before sticking my mouth under the tap and drinking like we aren’t in a permanent drought.
May follows me into the bathroom, leaning against the counter, removing a nonexistent smudge from under her eye. “Are you going to be late?”
“Not if I leave in five minutes.” I wipe the final trail of mascara from my cheeks and don’t bother putting on any fresh makeup. I head for my closet, throwing on leggings and an old USC T-shirt—not my best look, but it will have to do. I pull my long auburn hair into the messiest of buns and unplug my phone. Thank god for car chargers. “Can you lock up?”
May emerges from the bathroom just in time to give my outfit a sneering look. “I would be fired if I stepped into my office looking like that.”
“I’m a writer, this is me in my natural state. Thanks, love you, bye!” I don’t bother waiting for her response, striding as fast as my queasy stomach will allow out the door and to my car. When I hook up my phone to my charger, two things happen: Britney blares from my speakers at an unholy level, causing me to recoil backward. And I notice the DM notification still on my screen from last night.
And the second half of my fucktacular evening comes rushing back to me.
