“Or we could eat ice cream and binge season two ofFleabagagain.” Phoebe Waller-Bridge makes everything better.
Lola shakes her head. “Tempting, season two is my favorite. You know I’m all about the hot priest, but we’re going out. We’regonna purge Ken from your system like a piece of undercooked chicken.”
I cringe. “Gross.”
She shrugs in agreement.
I look down at my clothes. I work from home and never made it out of the cut-off sweats and tank top I slept in last night. “I suppose I should change?”
“Quality rebound sex is a guaranteed impossibility in jammies. Go shower and put on something that makes you feel like the goddess you are. What about that slinky, black, backless halter top you never wear? Put that on. It’s time to party, bitch.” Casual sex isn’t really my thing, and she knows it, but there’s no one else who’s better at reminding me of my worth than my sister. This might be the only time our roles are reversed, and she mother-hens me when I need to be pushed outside of my comfort zone.
I walk to the front window and, hands on hips, survey my temper tantrum.
“You’re gonna bring it back in, aren’t you?” Lola asks like she knew this was coming. Because she did.
I pause, huff loudly, and then nod slowly.
“I’ll get some boxes from the garage and help you.”
All you need in life is someone who gets you.
And even when they don’t agree with you, they help you anyway.
two
The Uber driverstops in front of the bar. The exterior is outdated, like this corner of the world hasn’t aged past the seventies, with just the right amount of dinge to be interesting. I wish I had my Nikon with me. My cell already in hand, I thumb up the menu for the camera, adjust the settings, and click off a shot while I wait for Lola to climb out of the backseat. She’s already buzzed because her pre-game was strong, so chatting with the driver crossed the line into flirting several miles ago. They’re trading numbers now, good for them.
When Lola emerges, she tucks her cell into her bra and holds her hand out palm up, silently asking for my phone. I hand it over without thinking because she does this every time she notices me taking a photo.
She glances at the screen and smiles. “I don’t know how you make random shit look so cool.”
The photo is focused on the front door, the line of people trailing down the sidewalk toward it blurry in the periphery. “Because random shitis alreadycool.”
Handing the phone back, she bumps her hip against mine gently. “You need to post that one.”
While we tuck into the tail end of the line, and deciding it looks better edited black and white, I do.
Tickets scanned, IDs checked and resulting I’m-old-enough-to-get-shitfaced wristband in place, half-hearted wave of the metal detecting wand by the grumpy security dude, and we’re in. Lola takes the lead, as always, with my hand firmly in hers, and we make a beeline for the bar.
Here’s the thing about Lola: she’s magnetic. People are guilelessly attracted to her. Which is endlessly helpful when you’re one among dozens haphazardly lined up at a bustling bar. On cue, a harried bartender points at Lola and says, “What can I get ya?” So predictable, but like all rare magic, it never gets old.
“Two Fireball shots and two vodka cranberries. Tito’s if you have it.”
The bartender efficiently gets to work. Order granted, money exchanged, and I’m double-fisting drinks in under twenty seconds.
Magic, I’m telling you.
Looking at my opposing drinks, I say, “Ah, lovely. Because who doesn’t want to end the night puking in a filthy public toilet?”
Lola ignores my sarcasm, raises her shot glass, and declares, “To new beginnings. And men who aren’t assholes.”
Clinking, I agree, “Cheers to that. And thanks ahead of time for holding my hair back.”
Tipping back, the sweet burn of cinnamon-flavored gasoline on the back of my tongue transforms into internal combustion in my belly.
There’s a twinkle in Lola’s eyes that’s enchanting. It’s likely the alcohol, in her system and in mine, but when she says, “The universe doesn’t shit on you without having something gloriousin her back pocket with your name on it,” even the pessimist in me wants to believe her.
The opening band is background noise. They’re not my thing, not something I would seek out on Spotify, but their thirty-minute set eases me into the evening, hips swaying, chin bobbing, vodka cranberry sipped so slowly it’s watery from melted ice by the time I reach its end. Worries, not forgotten, but not at the forefront, prompt muscles to relax. Even my shoulders drop into a natural posture they haven’t seen in months. The alcohol and atmosphere are better than my bi-monthly, overly aggressive massage. My liver and eardrums may beg to differ, but my tightly wound constitution is doing cartwheels.
