five
The next morning, I find myself in a chair with an IV in my arm and two unfamiliar faces in Marlena’s living room. At least I’m now reclining properly in the chair, but the rest of this shit is not normal.
“Fucking Los Angeles,” I mumble with a laugh.
But this will probably help me get through my day.
Mornings after egregious alcohol and pot consumption in LA are not about slugging water and Tylenol. They’re often about weird smoothies and powdered water supplements, so this IV moment is a lot for me.
I squirm in my chair and try to shake my haze. “Yeah, this is super normal.” I glare at Marlena.
“It’s super normal for California. Enjoy it.”
“Enjoy what?”
“Healing! Hydrating!”
“What in the hell is happening?” My attempt to sit up does not go well because it seems that my brain has been scrambled into bits of shrapnel that are being flung against my skull.
“Lie back. We’re getting glorious IVs. Loaded with vitamins, antioxidants, and shit.”
“Is there something in here that’s gonna stop me from puking?” It’s likely mere minutes before I’m going to hurl.
“Actually, yes.” A muscular guy in a tight navy shirt leans over me to hang a second IV bag. “I’m Dave.”
I close my eyes. “Then, I might love you, Dave. Are you single? Do you want to go to Vegas tonight?”
But my phone starts dinging repeatedly before I can get an answer to my romantic proposal, and I reluctantly dig into the lounge chair cushion to see what asshole is bothering me.
Oh. The “asshole” is my mother.
Who is apparently responding to a bunch of texts I sent her last night.
Oh shit.I sit upright and grip my phone. So, so many texts…
Texts about how I will go to Vermont and oversee whatever needs to be done. How going back to the Vermont house is “my thing.”
Texts about how maple syrup works “super fab” on vanilla ice cream and could probably even work on some kind of pasta dish. And popcorn!
I’m gonna need a thousand more IVs because it seems that I also sent my mom a buncha stuff about fascinators needing to be featured in firefighter calendars.
The IV is not helping my rising nausea. “Can you crank that shit up?” I beg navy-shirt IV-guy Dave as I crash back into the chair.
Marlena has in earbuds and is happily tapping her foot, but I fling a sock and then a remote in her direction.
When I accidentally hit her forehead, she flails about and nearly rips out her IV.
“What the hell?”
“Sorry. My bad aim and I both need your attention. I did something seriously dumb.”
“Something that warrants hitting me with a remote?”
“I think so.”
She rubs her face and frowns.
“IV Dave?” I ask. “Do you make coffee too? I’ll pay you whatever you want to brew a ginormous, sickly strong pot of Sumatra.”
