Bzzz. Bzzz. Bzzz. Bzzz.
What the hell is that noise?
I sit up, looking around my living room. The bright afternoon sun filters through the big windows. I squint, searching for my phone. Damn, it’s almost 3 p.m. My head’s pounding, and my legs won’t move. Wait… is Ansel sleeping on my legs?
“Ansel, babe, get up. It’s three in the afternoon. We literally drunk-slept all day.” I whine, trying to yank my legs free from under her head.
“Ssshhh. Stella, don’t yell at me.” She slides off, closing her eyes, curling up on the arm of the couch.
After our heart-to-heart about Donovan last night, we downed several shots of tequila and had a no-pants dance party in the living room.
The last thing I remember is beltingJust a Girlby No Doubt around 4:30 a.m.
Who needs to go out when you can bring the party home, minus the extra people?
I grab my phone. The screen lights up. Four new messages from Sir O’s-a-Lot.
What the fuck is a Sir O’s-a-Lot? Ohhhhh, right. After Ansel's therapist talk, I gave her all the juicy play-by-plays.
That’s right. My best friend knows about me coming all over Donovan’s face while riding his fingers and tongue on his trunk.
Guess in our drunken fun, we thought it would be hilarious to change his contact name. I giggle and open up the text thread from him.
Sir O’s-a-Lot:Hey Stella, I’m so sorry it took me so long to respond.
Sir O’s-a-Lot:Turns out, a ball to the face and a phone don’t mix.
Sir O’s-a-Lot:I just got a new one. I tried emailing you; I hope you saw it.
Sir O’s-a-Lot:I miss you so much. I wish I was kissing you right now.
See, Stella, you were spiraling for absolutely nothing, just a broken phone.
Me:I hope your handsome face is okay ?? to make it feel better.
With a smile on my face, I force myself off the couch and into the shower. Maybe it will help get rid of the massive hangover headache I have.
He didn’t forget about me, he tried sending me a freaking email so I would know what happened.
Ansel was right. My gloom and doom feeling was simply a result of being overwhelmed by everything that had happened.
The rest of the weekend passed quickly. Donovan and I spent most of it texting or video chatting.
It felt nice talking to him again, remembering that he was my best friend before my boyfriend. We bantered back and forth. It was comforting to see how much we’d both grown in the two years since high school.
The school week hits, and I wake up at 5:45 a.m. for a quick but intense yoga session in my living room.
I make Ansel and myself our usual breakfast: a slice of avocado toast and a small serving of vanilla Greek yogurt topped with fresh berries, drizzled with a little of my favorite Arizona-sourced honey. After a quick shower, I stand in front of my closet, unsure what to wear. For someone with so many clothes, I always have a hard time finding something that feels right.
I finally decide on a pair of light denim flare-leg jeans, a light purple Henley shirt tucked in, and grab my favorite black cardigan. I throw on my favorite pair of Vans and head out to grab my bag and keys before leaving for the day.
My apartment isn’t far from school, so as long as the weather permits, I throw on my headphones and listen to my latest audiobook while enjoying the fresh Vignina air.
I make it to class with ten minutes to spare. Pulling out my sketchbook, I begin sketching. The memory of me sprawled across the trunk last week blooms back into detail.
I am lost in thought, concentrating on capturing the way Donovan’s hand rested between my legs. So deeply focused, I didn’t notice my professor approach my seat.
He cleared his throat. “Stella, how were your two weeks away in Arizona?”
