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“Shit,” I mumble, rolling out of bed. My foot gets tangled in my phone charger, and I trip, catching myself on my dresser right before I fall. I feel fuzzy and uncoordinated, but I ignore it, stumbling over to my desk and thumbing frantically through my agenda. My eyes run over the neatly colour-coded appointments, my heart pounding in my chest as I read each one. Finally, my shoulders slump with relief.
Thank God. I have the morning off. The rest of my day is packed, though. I have a call with a supplier at one; at two, I have a two-hour meeting with my manufacturers to check that everything is going to plan with my upcoming summer line. After that, I have three hours of paperwork scheduled, a quick dinner break, then a seven o’clock call with an online influencer to discuss her rates for a sponsored post.
But for now, I’m fine.
I check the time on my phone again — then frown. I have a ton of message notifications. I scroll through them with sweaty fingers. They’re all from the guys.
ZACK: Hey, L, are you up?
ZACK: are u ignoring us now
ZACK: *angry emoji*
ZACK: I know ur probably freaking out because of last night, but don’t make it weird, babe. You don’t have 2 b embarrassed
JOSH: I left some painkillers in your bathroom cabinet last time I was over. Come over if you want juice or anything
LUKE: I hope you feel better today, sweetheart. Drink a lot of water and try to take it easy. Our door is always open if you need to talk.
I stare at the messages in horror. What are they talking about? Why would I need to talk to them?
And then the memory of last night slams into me like a freight truck.
Suddenly, I remember it all. I remember the terrible date with Mike. I remember Zack finding me at the restaurant, comforting me, plying me with mojitos. I remember staggering into the guys’ apartment, eating a huge plate of cheesy pasta, and sobbing all over them.
Oh God. I told them about all the failed dates. I showed them my stupid ten-year-plan.
I think I offered them money to date me.
“Crap,” I groan, tossing my phone back onto my bed and stumbling to my little ensuite. I assess the damage in the bathroom mirror.
I’m a hot mess. My bleached-platinum hair is messy, falling down to my chin in jagged spikes, and I’m still wearing the silvery dress and fishnet tights I wore to my date last night. My pale green eyes are puffy and rimmed with smeared mascara, and there’s lipstick smudged on my cheek.
Swearing, I turn on the cold tap, scooping up two handfuls of water and splashing it onto my face, methodically scrubbing the dried tears and makeup off my skin.Embarrassment is burning through me. What the Hell is wrong with me? Why did I drink so much last night? Why didn’t I just come home, watch some TV, and go to bed, instead of wallowing in self-pity like a total loser?
And now I’m running late. Normally, by now, I’ve worked out, answered my emails, taken calls, scheduled my day, made and eaten breakfast, run a few errands —
Anxiety squeezes my insides and nausea rises in my throat. I grip the porcelain edges of the sink and force myself to take a few deep breaths.
It’s fine. I’m fine. I haven’t missed any appointments. I’m not going to be late for anything. The day isn’t going to plan, but that’s okay.
It is.
This is why I don’t like to drink. It messes with my routines too much. And without my routines, my life turns into a hot, steaming mess.
Pulling myself together, I brush my teeth, spit, and then stagger back to my bedroom and stare longingly at my rumpled bed. I just want to crawl back into the sheets, order some breakfast, and spend the rest of the day watching Project Runway reruns and nursing my hangover.
Or maybe call my landlord, cancel my lease, and find a new place to live far, far away from my neighbours.
But I do neither of these things. Instead, I strip off last night’s slept-in clothes, change into some workout gear, and grab a hair tie off my dresser, pulling my hair back into a ponytail. I need to get this morning back under control.
* * *
Twenty minutes later, I’m jogging through Hyde Park. It’s a beautiful day. The sun is hot and bright, but the big, leafy trees spreading over my head throw cool, dappled shadows over the grit-covered running paths.
I’m flagging. Usually I can run five miles no problem, but my body is slow and sluggish from dehydration and exhaustion. I hate working out when I’m tired, but I hate breaking my routine even more, so I push through, pulling my phone out of the pocket of my running shorts.I’m going to need a distraction to get through the next three miles. Not slowing my pace, I load up the newest episode of Three Single Guys and press Play.
The familiar theme tune plays, and then Josh’s low voice sounds through my headphones.
