I think about it for a second. “That feels wrong. Could it be Patty?”
“Yes!” Shannon hollers. “It’s definitely Patty!”
“…So Patricia, then,” Dan concludes. “I’m getting out of here before the cops show up. I’ll be in the basement. You two enjoy your rager.”
We do. We really, reallydo.
By midnight we’ve emptied the house of its alcohol and are almost falling-down drunk, cackling at ourselves and each other over every little thing one of us says. We attempt to duel each other three more times. I don’t think I’ve ever had so much fun with Shannon,ever.I haven’t felt this light in days.
She shows me to the guest bedroom, making special note of theguest towels,which she assures me I am eligible to use, and I thank her, then ask what time she needs to get up for work in the morning.
“I should get up by seven,” she concludes. “Or at the latest, seven.”
“Ironclad logic,” I tellher.
—
Sleep mostly eludes me. As soon as I’m tucked up in bed my mind wanders back to its true interest, replaying my last conversation with Connor on a loop as if my brain is a DVD menu.
Over and over again I see his look of hurt and disappointment in my mind’s eye, and with it comes a visceral full-body cringe. I feel like I’m being electrocuted by my own shame.
I squeeze my eyes shut tightly, trying to block out the images, forcing myself to think about something else, anything else. My brain helpfully offers up an image of Connor in bed, his head propped up on his elbow as he traces a path across thefreckles on my stomach.Perfect,he’d said, dropping a kiss on the mole beside my belly button. It’s a memory so sharp I can practically feel the ghost of his warmth.
—
It’s the sound of the coffee grinder that gets me out of bed. I can hear Shannon and Dan in the kitchen, though their voices are muffled from this far away. The room tilts when I sit up, and it takes me a minute to get my jeans on again and shuffle down the hall.
“Morning,” I croak, my voice gravelly. I pull out a chair at the breakfast bar, the legs scraping against the floor.
“She lives,” Dan says, turning around to face me. “Glad to see you survived the night.”
I give a halfhearted laugh. “Barely.”
He retrieves the milk from the fridge, pours it, leaves it on the counter. A quick glance toward my sister confirms this is still a major pet peeve of hers—she’s always been weird about milk, living in constant expectation of it going sour. I’ve never met someone who pours more of it down the drain.
She eyes the milk. Crosses her arms.
Oblivious, Dan packs up hisbag.
Another thirty seconds. The milk is still on the counter. She can stand it no longer. She breaks.
“The milk?”
Annoyance crosses Dan’s features; I can tell the wordswho the fuck caresare on the tip of his tongue, but he doesn’t say it, just puts the milk back. Slams the fridge shut.
“Well, I’m off,” he says, heading toward the garage. “Good to see you, Annie. Bring Connor with you next time.”
“I will,” I promise, though it’s more wishful thinking than a guarantee.
“Coffee?” Shannon asks, reaching for a mug as soon as we hear the sound of the garage closing.
“Sure.”
I have no idea what to make of these two. Was last night the anomaly, or is this? I fear I may never know. She pours the coffee, adds the milk. The carton is in and out of the fridge in seconds.
“How much did we drink last night?” Iask.
“Let’s put it this way, the recycling box is now full,” she says. “Have you texted your boyfriend yet?”
