Page 10 of Buried in the Woods Below

I wake up the next morning with my head ringing, the familiar sensation of the practiced drinker that tells me I did something I’m going to regret. I crack one eye open and check my watch—it’s 10 a.m. Sunlight spears through the picture window, scolding me for forgetting to close the blinds last night. Not a strong start.

I squint and survey the room. Everything is minimalistic and organized, just how I like it. A friend once called my bedroom a hotel room; I considered that high praise. It consists of a king-size bed, two sleek bedside tables, a dove-gray dresser standing sentinel against white walls, and two stark black-and-white ocean prints I snagged on Etsy. No clutter, no mess. Just like my personal life.

Speaking of…

I roll over. The other side of the bed is empty; the sheets are cold.

Thank God. At least I didn’t wake up next to a stranger.

I glance down. I slept in my clothes—not ideal. But no mascara streaks, no mystery stains, no injuries, no unfamiliar jackets on the floor. So far, so good.

I roll my tongue around my mouth and taste cotton with a hint of tequila. But no bile, no aftertaste of regret. Didn’t throw up. Two for two.

I force myself upright and stumble toward the kitchen, tripping over the heels I’d kicked off in the doorway. I pour a glass of cold water, sprinkle in orange electrolyte powder, and lean against the counter as I chug it down, blinded by the bright-blue sky and willing the pounding in my head to subside.

Then I see it—the blinking message light on my phone, like a bomb about to detonate.

I brace myself and open my messages, expecting to see a 2:21 a.m. “u up?” text to a past mistake. But to my surprise, there’s nothing. I exhale. Another bullet dodged.

Then I spot the message to my mother.

Oh no.

Fragments from last night rush back: my conversation with Carlos, talk of going to Minnesota, adventure.

I open the thread.

Hey Mama! I’m coming to Minnesota! 🏞🍸🚤🤍 Woohoo! Dinner tomorrow in Wayzata?

Her response is immediate, enthusiastic.

Fantastic! I made a reservation at 6 PM at Cov.

Not only am I suspended from my job, but now I’ve apparently volunteered to haul my hungover self to a place I swore I’d never go back to…to stay with a family I haven’t seen in years. Perfect.

My phone rings, setting off an explosion in my head. I clear the sleep from my throat. “Hello,” I say with the enthusiasm of someone being waterboarded.

“Hi, sweetheart! Did I wake you?” asks my mother, perpetually cheerful.

“No, I’m up. Just finishing packing,” I lie.

“You haven’t left yet?”

I run to my closet, grab my travel bag, and pull the zipper back and forth, letting the sound carry through the receiver. “Not yet, but I’m just zipping up my bag. I had a morning Pilates class that ran a little long. Walking out the door now.” Another lie.

“Okay. You’d better hurry if you’re going to make dinner. You know how Chicago traffic gets.”

“It’s Saturday, so I think I’ll be all right. But yes, I’ll hustle.”

“I can’t wait! I’m so happy I get to see my baby.”

I roll my eyes but smile despite myself. Thirty years old and I’m still her baby. “I’m excited too. Okay, I’ve gotta get going, but I’ll see you at six.”

“See you then.”

I hang up and collapse onto the bed. Nothing like driving six hours with a vicious hangover. Nice work, Charlotte.

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