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2:15 a.m.
“I will never call a guy. Never ever.” Samantha.
“What if you can’t help it?” Me.
“You have to help it.”
“It’s all about low self-esteem.” Miranda.
“You really should tell Charlie. About the procedure,” I say, feeling wobbly.
“Why should I?” Samantha asks.
“Because it’s what real people do.”
“I didn’t come to New York to be real.”
“Didja come here to be fake?” I slur.
“I came here to be new,” she says.
“I came here to be myself,” Miranda adds. “I c
ouldn’t be, back home.”
“Me neither.” The room is spinning. “My mother died,” I murmur, just before I pass out.
When I come to, light is streaming into the apartment.
I’m lying on the floor under the coffee table. Miranda is curled up on the couch, snoring, which immediately makes me wonder if this was secretly the reason Marty broke up with her. I try to sit up, but my head feels like it weighs a million pounds. “Ow,” I say, putting it back down again.
Eventually I’m able to roll onto my stomach and crawl to the bathroom, where I take two aspirin and wash them down with the last of the bottled water. I stumble into Samantha’s bedroom and crumple up on the floor.
“Carrie?” she says, awoken by my banging.
“Yer?”
“What happened last night?”
“Blackout.”
“Damn.”
“And endometriosis.”
“Double damn.”
“And Charlie.”
“I didn’t call him last night, did I?”
“Couldn’t. Phones don’t work.”
“Are the lights still off?”
“Mmmm.”
Pause.
