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Chapter Ten
Alana
The unmistakable sound of dry heaving yanks me from my sleep. Well, that and the bright summer sun burning a hole in my forehead through the open curtains beside my bed.
Holy BALLS. My head is throbbing. How the hell did we get home? Did we all even make it home?
I pat the bed next to me to find a leg and promptly glance over to see Ricole sleeping with her mouth wide open. A trail of drool is leaking from her bottom lip onto the pillow, and I briefly wish I knew where my phone was so I could snap a picture.
That must mean it’s Ashley praying to the porcelain gods in the next room.
I call out, “Ash, are you okay in there?”
In response, I hear the toilet flush. The door creaks open, and Ashley steps out, her face a sickly shade of green.
“I’m never fucking drinking again. I don’t even remember leaving the bar. My thighs burn, which means I dropped it entirely too low, and I have five blisters on my feet. We are getting way too fucking old for this.” Ashley punctuates the end of her tirade by flopping down on my full-size bed. She jostles Ricole from her alcohol-induced slumber.
“Ughhhhhhhhh, why the hell don’t I have any panties on?” Ricole questions us.
I cackle at the question. Knowing her, she pissed her pants through the night. I can’t bring it up, though. She’ll most definitely bring up the trampoline debacle, and it’s too early in the morning to argue with her absurd ass.
Speaking of early, I glance at the clock on the nightstand to check the time: barely past eight. I swing my legs over the edge of my bed and slowly trudge into the living room. The only thing that could fix the way my stomach is rolling is greasy fast food breakfast.
I throw on a hoodie, leggings, and sunglasses and yell at Ricole and Ashley, “Hey bitches, I’m running to the McDonald’s down the street. Do you want the usual? I’m ninety percent sure this location has the steak, egg, and cheese bagel.”
Ashley and Ricole groan together, “Yes!”
The Golden Arches fucked up when they got rid of the bagel and the snack wrap. Thankfully, they’re coming to their senses and a few locations are bringing the bagel back for a limited time.
I drag my hungover ass to my front door and swing it open. I’m shocked to see a cheap bouquet lying on my welcome mat. They look like the colorful flowers you can grab for $6.99 at the checkout line at Kroger. I lean over to see if there’s a card addressing them to someone. When I don’t find one, I assume someone unknowingly dropped them at the wrong apartment. I haven’t even downloaded Tinder yet, and none of my coworkers know where I live, so there’s no way anyone would have left them for me. Weird.
I’m gone for less than twenty minutes, praise Jesus. The drive-thru line was only two cars deep. The food is hot and steamy in my lap.
Holy shit, I don’t think I’ve ever needed to eat this badly in my life.The thought brings the loudest growl I’ve ever heard from my stomach.
When I get back to my apartment, I grab the flowers and carry them in, tossing them into the kitchen sink so I can grab napkins and paper plates. Then, I quickly pass the food out to my girls, and we dig in like we’re on death row and were just served our last meal. The only sounds to be heard in my tiny living room are the moans and content sighs we can’t stop ourselves from making because of the scrumptiousness of the steak, egg, and cheese bagels.
I take a second to wipe my mouth and clear my throat.
“Somebody left flowers on my doorstep. There’s no way they were for me. I don’t know anyone up here,” I say.
“Well, maybe you have a secret admirer. Are there any hot, single men living here? Maybe you’ve bumped into someone and left an impression?” Ricole asks around a mouthful of food.
The only neighbors I’ve had any type of interaction with are Skye and the sweet Hispanic family who live below me. Hopefully, it’s not Mrs. Sanchez’s husband hitting on me. I don’t want to tell her he’s a womanizing pig.
I shake my head at the thought. There’s no way it’s him. He looks at his wife like she hung the moon, completely infatuated.
“No, nobody. It must have been an accident. Maybe whoever lived here before me has an ex he’s trying to win them back or something,” I contemplate.
I grab the trash off my stained coffee table and take it to the can in the kitchen. My apartment looks like Forever 21 and Sephora threw up in it. There are clothes and makeup strewn throughout each room. This is how we’ve always been. Our parents hated when we’d have sleepovers growing up because we had to drag out everything we owned for imaginary fashion shows. It makes me smile to see that some things never change.
In the small Indiana town we grew up in, there wasn’t much to do but drink and gossip. We spent most weekends in our youth together sneaking beer and cigarettes from our parents and hanging out with older boys. Inwardly, I cringe thinking about the shit we used to get up to. But that’s what happens when your only options on a Friday night are Walmart or getting blackout drunk in a cornfield.
Having them here with me boosts my mood and reminds me that things are going to get better. I won’t live in a shitty apartment with no money and a broken heart forever. They simply wouldn’t allow it.
As I walk back into the living room, I hear Ricole complaining about Matthew’s latest antics. “He SHOWED UP to my house. He was sobbing on his knees and wouldn’t get up. It was the most mortifying and immature thing I have ever seen. I threatened to call the cops, and he left after that. That didn’t stop him from texting me thirty times before midnight, though.”
She shudders while recounting how childishly Matthew behaved. Color me NOT surprised coming from the twenty-five-year-old man baby who still nurses before his bedtime story every night.
