Page 51 of Mayhem

TESS

Ispend most of Sunday laying on the couch, trying not to move too suddenly, and praying that the medicine I took for my headache doesn’t upset my stomach too much. Ivy is on the loveseat across from me, hugging a throw pillow, looking a little green in the gills herself.

“Why do we do this to ourselves?” she moans, staring at the TV that’s on with the sound off and subtitles on.

“I don’t know,” I groan back. “It used to be fun.”

“Why do our bodies hate us?”

“That’s a great question. I’m starting to hate mine right back.”

“Remember when we used to be able to go to the club, drink until we were puking in the ladies’ room, holding each other’s hair, fixing stranger’s boy problems, clean ourselves up, and then go right back for more?” She takes a slow sip of her bottled water. “We used to be able to wake up the next day, and the worst thing would be we went to bed with makeup on, and we’d have raccoon eyes from all the fucking mascara. Not this entire body betrayal bullshit.”

“That was like ten years ago. And to be fair, we did drink a lot yesterday,” I murmur, trying not to move my head too much. My eyes are still closed because even the dim sunlight peeking around the drawn curtains is way too much for me to handle. “How much did we drink?”

“I didn’t think it was enough for me to feel this bad.”

“Me neither.”

Our afternoon lunch turned into full blown day-drinking, which I am decidedly not used to. I’m a glass of wine, or maybe a few beers with dinner kind of girl. Not a full-day and into the night drinker. But, I guess, once in a while letting loose with your best friend is called for. And to be honest, it was fun.

Obviously, we’re paying the price for it now, though. I guess I’ve hit the age where I’m not going to bounce back like I used to. I’m only thirty-one for God’s sake. It doesn’t feel like an age where this kind of deterioration should be happening yet. Isn’t this supposed to be my prime? Or at least close to it?

I start replaying the highlights of yesterday's binge, including my call with Brad. He seemed so amused to hear me tipsy on the phone. Ivy didn’t help the situation with her cracking me up while we talked. I wonder how his evening out with the band went.

Slowly reaching over blindly to the coffee table, I pat around for my phone. Secretly, I’m hoping to find messages from him, telling me how much he missed me last night, or was thinking of me. Instead, when I carefully ease my eyes open and start scrolling through my phone, I see a bunch of messages from me to him – unanswered.

My stomach lurches.

Oh no.

I did the drunk girl thing.

Fuck.

9:37PM ME: Hey there. Thinking about you. Hope you’re having fun.

10:02PM ME: Ivy said to say hi. So, hi. ??

10:33PM ME: I guess you’re busy having fun! Thinking about you.

11:11PM ME: It’s 11:11. I think that means something. Anyway, hope you’re good.

11:12PM ME: Sorry, I’m a little drunk. I’ll shut up now.

12:15AM ME: Are you mad at me? Or just not looking at your phone. It’s okay. I understand.

12:50AM ME: <3

1:36AM ME: ? I miss you.

“Oh. My. God.” I feel like I’m going to be sick. I did not turn into some pitiful, needy, bitch of a girlfriend last night, did I? I did. I totally fucking did.

“What?” Ivy asks, lifting her head slightly in my direction.

I toss my phone back onto the coffee table, the clattering sound hurting my brain. What the fuck is wrong with me lately?

“I did the thing,” I say, wiping my hands down my face in despair.

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