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As I sit down, something feels off. Their smiles, welcomes, and…well, everything seems weird.
Granted, I ghosted them for months, and honestly, they’re the blow friends. They’re get-drunk-until-passing-out friends. They’re not as genuine or caring as Cecy and my childhood friends. Which is why I prefer this bunch now.
They don’t really know me and don’t stop me from being as reckless as a rock star in the nineties.
They also don’t make me feel guilty for seeking out escapism. Gemma is probably the sanest of the bunch and never goes overboard, probably because her papa is an important member of the government’s think tanks and she can’t afford any scandals.
In reality, I can’t either, but I’m desperate to feel something.
Anything.
As long as I keep believing I’m alive, I’m open to unorthodox options.
“So how’s life?” I ask in my cheery tone as I reach for the bottle of alcohol. Gemma grabs it at the last second and fills everyone’s glass but mine.
“Hey, rude.” I laugh it off and snatch Zee’s glass and she startles as if I murdered her baby. “Relax, I’ll order us another one. The bill’s on me.”
Zee’s dark-skinned fingers wrap around the glass and snatch it with more force than needed. Alcohol spills on my hand and the table.
“Jeez.” I laugh, wiping my hand. “Since when did you become stingy?”
“You can’t drink with us, Ava,” she says with a note of…fear? No. Panic?
“Why the hell not? Of course I can. Anyone got a line?”
They all shake their heads.
“Okay, this is weird. Your noses are testifying against you, by the way.”
“It’s just…” Gemma starts, clinking her nails together.
We’re all public/boarding school nepo babies. And while we have different ethnicities, we share the same posh white-collared, trust fund upbringings.
Shallow on the outside, broken on the inside. Or, in the case of some, absolutely hollow.
I’m some. Some is me.
“It’s just that we heard you had an accident recently,” Gemma starts. Forever the mediator, the people pleaser with a big capitalP.
“I’m fine.” I go for her glass, but she smoothly keeps it out of reach.
“Gemma said you lost your memories,” Raj, a politician in the making, points out.
“Just two years. Changes nothing.”
“We don’t run in the same circles anymore,” Ahmed, a tall man with olive skin and dark facial hair, who’s been leaning back and smoking a hookah, says bluntly.
“Med!” Gemma scolds him.
“What?” He blows the hookah smoke through his nose. “None of us want to deal with her psycho husband.”
“Eli threatened you?” My voice shakes with every word.
“Not exactly,” Gemma starts.
“He threatened our families, investment funds, and futures if we let you drink or use with us,” Raj says.
“And he made sure to hold incriminating evidence against all of us, except for good-girl Gemma over there.” Zee snaps her fingers in our friend’s direction.
