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Drink.
Never have I ever had my heart smashed.
Drink.
Never have I ever called my ex after having my heart smashed.
Drink.
Never have I ever wanted to sing and dance to Taylor Swift revenge songs after a breakup.
Drink.
Never have I ever wanted to angry fuck my ex, then have crazy emotional sex with her to try to heal my stupid, battered heart.
Drink.
Never have I ever tried to convince myself that being a crazy cat lady wouldn’t be so bad.
Drink.
Never have I ever gotten shitface wasted while pounding bourbon from a bottle because I’m a pathetic, broken-hearted twenty-something.
Drink. Drank. Drunk.
I sigh and almost set the bottle on the table. Or I try. That was a lot of drinks in I don’t know how much time, but based on Hyla’s raised eyebrows, I look as drunk as I feel.
I stare at her gorgeous face. Her big brown eyes. Her soft smile. The long blonde hair framing her face.
Wrapping my fingers tighter around the neck of the bottle, I pull it back toward me and lift it to my mouth again.
Never have I ever lied and told everyone I wasn’t still in love with my ex.
Drink. Chug. Might as well finish the bottle for the amount of times I’ve told that lie to everyone—including myself. Especially myself.
“Okay, I think that’s enough,” Hyla says, taking the bottle from me and shoving some water into my hand instead.
I bob my head up and down and chug the water. I’m not sure anything will prevent the hangover coming for me tomorrow, but hopefully, I can prevent the puking. The room swirls around me, and tiredness sweeps over me. Maybe I’ll be lucky enough to not remember it if I do throw up.
Leaning back against the couch, I close my eyes, praying for the relief of a dreamless sleep.
I’m not a lucky bitch. Outside of my killer friend group and solid parents, I’ve never been particularly lucky. Never won contests or giveaways or anything like that. And right now, my unlucky self is praying to the porcelain god because I thought I could drink half a bottle of bourbon and not throw up. Okay, maybe luck is irrelevant, and I’m dumb. Either way, here I am.
When I lean back against the wall of the bathroom, throat raw from the acid burning it, and cheeks hot and tear-stained, Hyla hands me a bottle of Vitamin Water.
“It’ll help.” Her voice is soft and gentle like the lapping of ocean waves against the shore on a calm day. Melodic and comforting.
I take a slow drink and while my immediate reaction is to gag, once it moves down my throat, it does help.
“Thanks,” I say. Really, it’s more of a whimper, but it’s on brand for tonight. “I think I’m done.”
Hy squats down and wraps an arm around my back. “Then let’s get you to bed. I have crackers waiting.”
She stands up and lifts me with her, but I’m barely moving my own body. The light hurts and everything is spinning. Too much drinking. Too much puking. I’m exhausted. My heart hurts. I wish I could sleep off a broken heart.
“Come on,” Hyla says gently, leading me—dragging me—to my bedroom. Once we’re there, she carefully sets me on the bed. I flop backward, then roll over and skitter under the covers. She smiles as she watches me, then shakes her head.
Her eyes go from me to the door and my heart clenches. “Hy, will you… stay with me?”
