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“Are you kidding me?” Emma exclaims. “No one is going out tonight?”
“I’m tired,” Anne says. “And full.” She pats her stomach.
“Unbelievable.” Emma huffs.
“Stay in with us,” Cressida tells her. “I’m making brownies.”
Emma groans, but leaves the kitchen. Probably to get changed. Sure enough, she returns in a silk sleep set, her hair up in a messy bun.
“So, are we talking about dinner or pretending it didn’t happen?” Anne asks, taking a seat on the stool next to mine.
I play with the string of the teabag. “Thanks for coming, guys. I know it was awkward.”
“It wasn’t awkward,” Cressida says.
At the same time, Emma asks, “Why was it so awkward?”
I laugh, then sober. “My mom left when I was five. My dad basically checked out after that. We’ve never had much of a relationship—definitely not a good one—and he’s trying now, I guess. It’s weird with him and it’s weird with Sandra. I barely know her. They only got married a couple of weeks ago.”
“That’s why you went home,” Emma realizes.
“Yeah,” I confirm.
“I’m sorry, S.”
I force a smile. “It’s fine. It’ll work out. Or it won’t. Whatever.”
There’s a pause as they all decide what to say in response.
“Brownies are in the oven,” Cressida announces, breaking the heavy moment and gaining my eternal devotion as a result. “I’m going to watch a rom com.”
“Can we watch Sweet Home Alabama?” Anne asks eagerly.
Emma measures out more tequila, then divides her cocktail into four glasses. The drink is mostly alcohol at this point, which helps with the flavor.
Thirty minutes later, we’re all sprawled across the living room, brownies in one hand and tequila in the other, watching Sweet Home Alabama.
I laugh so hard my sides hurt. Emma squeezes my hand when Melanie makes jam with her mother. Anne ruins all the best lines by saying them a few seconds too early.
And it’s probably my favorite night in college.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
I wake up on the living room floor. At least it’s an upgrade from the bathroom tile.
I sit up, rubbing sleep from my eyes. Emma is sprawled out on the couch. Anne’s in the recliner. And Cressida is lying on the opposite corner of the rug.
Emma snores loudly. I grin, grabbing my phone so I can record her.
“Shit!” I shout when I catch a glimpse at the screen.
“What?” Anne startles awake, glancing around the living room wildly. Her red hair is a snarled mess.
“It’s almost eight,” I reply.
“Oh, shit!” Anne says, standing.
“Cressida! Emma! Wake up!” I holler, running into the kitchen to start brewing coffee.
