I shrug an apology.
Her shoulders drop melodramatically, she sighs heavily, and then she loops her arm through mine as we walk to the taxi line. When we’re sitting in the backseat and well into our journey home, she asks, “Is his voice as sexy as the rest of him?”
I look at her and tilt my head to one side like I’m thinking it over. “Sexier. He could recite the Declaration of Independence, and I’d probably come.”
She rolls the window down and momentarily hangs her head out like a joy-riding dog. “Fuck, why didn’t I have to piss? I’m the one who had a kid. Shouldn’t I be the one with the delicate bladder?”
“Absolutely.”
Pulling her head in and rolling up the window, she looks at me, her long, auburn hair whipped by the wind into a tangled mess. She looks crazed and somehow stunning at the same time, beauty illuminated by unrestrained emotion allowed out in the open. “Damn straight.”
At home,I lead a suddenly sleepy and still intoxicated Lola downstairs, help her out of her dress and heels, and into bed. She’s half asleep when I return with a glass of water and two aspirins.
“The room’s spinning,” she says as she props up on an elbow and takes them obediently.
“No doubt.” Propping her pillows up and easing her back into them so she’s not lying flat but can still sleep, I ask, “Better?”
She smiles with closed eyes. “Better.”
As I turn off the light, she whispers in her sleepiest voice, “Post the rest of the photos you took tonight. Miguel and her cats are waiting.”
I have very few followers on Instagram, but one, in particular, has liked and commented on every photo I’ve shared since I started my account six years ago. According to his profile his name is Miguel, and he lives in São Paulo. Lola jokes that Miguel is actually retired CIA and lives in Scranton with her twelve rescue cats.
“With bated breath. Especially Skittles the Persian,” I deadpan.
Lola has named all the imaginary cats.
A muffled laugh drifts through the dark. “Skittles is the calico.”
I laugh at the correction because, even drunk, her memory is top notch. “Sleep tight, Lo.”
“Nighty night, Soph.”
In my bedroom, behind closed doors, I open the windows to get some air circulating, strip out of my jeans and top, slip on my oversized Spiritbox tee, and climb into bed under the top sheet. In the dark, I risk a deep inhale. I smell him. It’s his pillow. Or the sheets. Or my memory being an asshole and sticking the knife in and twisting.
Chance, always predictable in his steady normalness, turned out to be not so predictable. Or steady. Or normal.
I know I shouldn’t, but with a knot in my throat, I openInstagram and type in C-H-A.Don’t do this!the protective side of my brain shouts.
I’ve never been a very good listener.
There’s one new post.
It’s an hour old.
And he’s not alone.
“That fucknut,” I whisper.
It’s a selfie, Chance and a woman at a restaurant. Since when does he take selfies? He’s always been anti-selfie, like me. She’s cute. She’s blonde. But more than anything else, she’s young.
He’s tagged her in the caption.
Italian with @ashkaye_2003
Again, I can’t stop myself from tapping on her name to open her profile.
Ashton Kaye
