Page 194 of I’m The Worst

“Stand up straight and wipe your face. You’ve had enough to drink for the night. Sober up. Now.” He steps closer, lowering his voice. “Whatever scene you were about to make with Maddox ends now. You’re coming back inside with me, you’re going to fix your face, and you’re going to remember how to behave for the next hour.”

He turns and walks away, leaving me pressed against the wall with tears streaming down my face and my heart in pieces at my feet.

The TV flickers in the corner of the room, the volume low enough that I can barely hear it over Jackal’s soft snoring on the couch. Some reality show is playing—women screaming over champagne and cheating husbands—and I’ve been half-watching the same episode for at least an hour without actually processing a single thing.

My phone buzzes again on the coffee table.

I stare at it until the screen goes dark, then reach over, turn it off completely, and toss it onto the floor beside the couch.

I don’t know how many days it’s been since the ballroom.

Three, maybe four.

I haven’t left the house once.

The curtains are still drawn from yesterday. Or maybe the day before that. Empty takeout containers are stacked on the kitchen counter. My makeup from the party is still smeared faintly under my eyes, no matter how many times I’ve scrubbed at it. I smell like vodka, stale perfume, and the same oversized sweatshirt I’ve been living in.

Every time I close my eyes, I hear his voice again.

Convenient. Warm. Wet.

Pathetic.

Embarrassing.

The words keep replaying on a loop until they don’t even sound like his anymore. They just sound true.

What kind of girl has to be told twice by the same man that she means nothing to him and still keeps going back for more?

Apparently, this one.

I drag the blanket off the back of the couch and wrap it around myself, tucking my legs underneath me. Jackal stirs at the movement, lifting his head long enough to glance at me before huffing and dropping it back onto the cushion.

My eyes burn again. I rub at them and reach for the vodka bottle on the coffee table, taking another swallow even though it barely tastes like anything anymore.

The doorbell rings.

I ignore it.

Whoever it is can fuck off.

It rings again, longer this time, then again, insistent, over and over until the sound drills straight through my skull.

“Oh my god,” I groan, shoving the blanket off and pushing myself off the couch with the bottle still clutched in one hand. “Go away!”

The ringing cuts off.

Two seconds later, it starts again.

“Asshole,” I mumble, stumbling toward the front door as Jackal launches off the couch and takes off barking ahead of me. As I yank the door open, I’m already halfway to telling Sienna to get a life.

But no one’s there.

The porch is empty.

I blink out into the dark, swaying a little as I look left, then right. Nothing but the porch light, the wet shine of the driveway, and the quiet stillness of the gated neighborhood.

“Very funny, Sienna!” I yell, leaning against the doorframe. “Door’s unlocked. Come in when you’re ready to stop being a bitch!”