Nothing Good Happens After Drunk

She was still drunk when she saw the picture.

It was 11pm by the time Darren finally walked her home and gave her a kiss at the door. She had grabbed his collar and pulled him closer and he had to brace their off-balance bodies against the building so they didn’t tip over.

Come upstairs. Wait no don’t that’s not ladylike of me. She giggled tipsily and pressed her face into his chest and breathed deep. He smelled like whiskey and her perfume and the woods.

Oh, Bee. Not tonight, not like this.

But you do want to, right?

Of course I want to. But put that eyebrow down or else —

He gently pulled away, kissed her forehead, and grabbed her phone from her hand.

What’s your passcode? He moved his fingers across the screen and she wanted them inside her body. Instead she kept her eyes trained on the way the blue glow shaded his cheekbones. He entered his phone number, texted himself hers, and handed her back her phone.

You’re going to be OK? That was a lot of whiskey.

I’m just fine on my own. Goodnight, Tattoo Man.

That laugh. Oh, that laugh.

Goodnight, Writer Girl. Sweet dreams.

She twisted her key in the lock, walked down the hall and opened her apartment door. Hailey was asleep on the couch with Mad Men playing, Season Three, and a half empty wine bottle open on the coffee table. Bee walked over to drape a blanket over her snoring roommate, corked the bottle, turned off the TV, and went into her room.

She took off her clothes and climbed into bed, relishing the softness of flannel sheets against her naked body. She used to sleep naked with J. Embrace your body even if no one else is there too, girl, her friend Elle had said over the phone two nights ago. So she did.

She tapped the screen of her iPhone, thumbing through her Facebook news feed. Birthdays she had missed, ugly babies and more engagements. Ads for Dollar Shave Club and Blue Apron, pages she should like, swimsuits she would never wear.

Then she saw them.

Her leg pressed casually into his, his arm draped around her shoulder. The gentle overlapping of shoulders, the nearly imperceptible leaning in as if to close the empty space. The way she sat forward, blocking out the guy seated to her left. It was a group photo but the others served merely as a backdrop to those two smiling faces she knew so well.

Her blood flowed hot, pulsing through her shoulders and a white fog built near her peripherals. She knew it was a bad idea but her mind was hindered by anger and alcohol. She dialed the number she knew by heart since middle school.

You’re up late. What’s up?

What the fuck, Julie?

There was silence on the other end of the line. She pictured Julie standing in her tiny kitchen, staring at the inside of her empty refrigerator or sitting in bed chewing the ends of her hair. Then she pictured her at his house instead, taking up space on the side of the bed she used to make every morning. Her breath caught. She wanted to throw up.

Bee what are you talking about. Are you drunk?

You know, Julie, you know. She was too angry to cry. Hot tears burned at the back of her eyelids but they remained dry. Are you kidding me right now.

What are you talking about?

Julie I am not dumb. You know.

Is this about the party? Look, Bee, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about it, I assumed you wouldn’t want to go —

This isn’t about the party and you know it. We had plans and you were with him instead. You knew that I — we — just like why I don’t get why — how you could —

Bee I’m sorry I didn’t know, I mean it was before — I mean we didn’t really have plans I just thought —

Bee pulled her fleece blanket tighter across her shoulders. She was suddenly freezing cold. She didn’t want to hear another excuse, another lie. She didn’t know what she wanted to hear at this point. There was nothing that would make her un-see what she saw, un-imagine everything she was imagining and the fabricated reasons why.

She knew she was torturing herself with the what-ifs. But she couldn’t stop. She knew Julie knew she couldn’t shut off her mind over things like that. She tried to tell herself it could be nothing. But the fact she couldn’t tell if it was or if it wasn’t was the worst part.

All she knew was that last Friday she was cooking dinner for a party that never showed, making pasta for four and eating pasta for four by herself, a party of one.

She hung up, flicked her phone to silent and popped a sleeping pill. She wanted to call Nick, the way she used to when she first moved here and needed a warm body to use late at night. He would come over, he would go down on her without her having to ask first, they would share a pillow and for an hour she would be OK. But she knew in the morning when the sun came up and her hangover set in she would feel empty once more, just with a fuzzy dry mouth and pounding headache and probably a UTI.

She wanted to scream. Instead she walked to the bathroom — naked, wrapped in her fleece blanket — and stared at the toilet bowl.

The cold porcelain was the perfect backdrop for the image of J’s blonde head leaned against Julie’s brunette one, his hand caressing her lower back, hers toying with the top of his jeans. She leaned over and threw up.

—

We were the kind of couple that learned about each other through our conversations with other people. We were the ultimate double daters — smiling casually-cool at their couple-jokes and confident banter — the intimate mannerisms that only come after weekend trips away and unselfish sex.

I would tell her boyfriend about my trip home last weekend and you would tell her about why you loved your job enough to move for it. I might skim my fingertips across your back when I stood up, you might press your knee into mine under the table. We would tentatively share a side of fries with our burgers and dance our credit cards around each other to see who would pay the bill: you? Me? Or split.

—

Day 4: As part of my office’s #100DayChallenge Creative Project, I am committing to writing at least one page of fiction per day for 100 days. Watch the story unfold here, day-by-day.