Her laugh bursts through the phone, making me pull it away from my ear. “I figured. You shouldn’t drink so much. Wild ideas come to your head when you do.”
My stomach churns again, and I don’t think it’s not from the nausea this time. “What wild ideas? What did I do?”
“You don’t remember?” Wendy sounds far too amused. “You tried to prove some point about men by offering yourself up as a booty call to some random guy at the bar.”
“I what?” The spike in my own voice makes the headache pound harder.
“Don’t worry,” Wendy says. “Jake stepped in before you could fully lose your dignity. He even took you home.”
I feel like I’m going to throw up again.
“So, he...saw me like that?” My voice comes out small, mortified.
“Girl, everyone saw you like that,” Wendy says, not unkindly. “But it was Jake who made sure you got home safe.”
I glance at the bucket—now my most cherished possession—and groan. He must’ve foreseen this and left it here. Just thinking about how pathetic I must’ve looked worsens the pounding in my head.
“This headache will be the death of me,” I say.
“Don’t worry. I’ve got a foolproof hangover cure. Mix coconut water with honey and fresh lemon juice. It’s magic. I swear on my grandmother’s secret peach cobbler recipe.”
Desperate enough to try anything, I grab a pen and scribble the remedy on the notepad by my bed. “You’re a lifesaver. Are we still carpooling to the party this Friday?”
“Absolutely! I’ll pick you up at seven.”
“Just don’t let me drink again,” I beg.
After we hang up, I drag myself from the floor like a sewer creature emerging from the depths. Water becomes my singular focus—my body craves it with desperate urgency. With each unsteady step toward the kitchen, the thought of Friday’s anniversary party looms larger in my mind. It’s a big deal—a chance to mingle with the bigwigs, impress the right people, and prove I belong at Lanter Bridge despite my mishaps.
Professional suicide isn’t on my agenda, no matter how wretched I feel.
Fumbling with my phone, I order the ingredients for Wendy’s miracle cure for delivery, while fragments of last night knit themselves back together in my throbbing head. Jake carrying me up the stairs. Jake tucking me into bed. Jake… seeing me at my absolute worst.
I’ve never wanted to crawl into a deep hole and never come out more than I do right now.
When the delivery arrives, I mix Wendy’s concoction with shaky hands and take a cautious sip, chasing it with two Tylenol. The tart sweetness slips down my throat, surprisingly pleasant, and I crawl back into bed.
Curling beneath the covers, I grab my phone and pull up the office number. There is no way in hell I’m facing Jake—or anyone else—not in this state. I’d rather jump naked into a snowbank.
After calling off work, I make the most sacred vow of my entire existence: I’m never drinking again.
***
Something smells musty and stale, like a high school gym bag left to ferment in summer heat, and horror dawns as I realize that funk is coming from me.
I lift both arms and take a cautious whiff.Eww. Last night’s decisions cling to my skin and tongue, practically begging to be scrubbed away. I smell like a distillery dumpster.
My gaze drifts to the alarm clock. 5:30 p.m.
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, heart pounding from the effort, and shuffle toward the bathroom, moving carefully while my senses wobble out of alignment.
“A shower will fix everything,” I whisper to myself, the words rasping against my scorched throat. “Or at least fix the smell.”
In the bathroom, I peel off yesterday’s clothes and step into the shower stall, twisting the knob with a silent prayer for hot, cleansing water. The pipes groan and shudder, metal singing against metal in a way that sends warning bells clanging through my already sensitive head.
Definitely not a good sign.
From somewhere inside the wall comes a deep, guttural sound, like a lion clearing its throat. My fingers freeze on the knob. Before I can retreat, the pipes explode in rebellion, unleashing a frigid blast that slams into my face with the force of a garden hose.
