Page 105 of Oh, Flutz!

“I’m so sorry abouthim,” I tell her mid-laugh many hours later, the two of us stumbling in the sidewalk as we walk home from Moby’s.

We’ve been deep in debrief post- Oliver’s soliloquy on current US men’s pewter medalist Jordan Hesse, debating whether or not his trash personality made him any less fuckable, and also the Bad Bitch ranking of our entire friend group, with Katya and Ollie obviously tying for first place. I think Katya might be too foggy to recall that I was unanimously voted dead last, and I’m sure as hell not about to remind her.

Katya waves a hand aimlessly. “Noooo, is nothing. Bad bitches have to stick together.”

I can’t help but laugh, and she furrows her brow.

“What? Why are you laughing?”

“Nothing, just between the slurring and the accent, you saying those words is extremely funny.”

“I am one!” she protests, her feet dragging slightly, and I roll my eyes, lifting her back upright, catching her purse before it slips off her arm and hooking it on my shoulder, keeping my arms secure around her waist.

“Yeah, yeah…”

“What, you don’t think so?”

“I think you’re a total lightweight, is what I think.”

“I am Russian, how dare you. No such thing as lightweight.” She grabs my face, forcing me to look at her, squeezing my cheeks as she stares at me, eyes round like a puppy’s. “You think I’m not a bad bitch?”

This conversation is surreal, but I know I’m done for if she starts pouting, so I gently pry her hands off my face, draping her arm back over my shoulder. “Yes, I do.”

“You do?”

“You are the baddest bitch,” I tell her, fighting to keep the smile off my face as I see her face light up, then twist into an adorable yawn—woah,adorable? Jeez, I must be drunker than I thought.

She leans into my chest, and I yank her upright again as she starts to slide down. “Don’t fall asleep on me now, sunshine, I’m not carrying you up to your room.”

“You carry me every day,” she points out, voice muffled by my sweatshirt, and I roll my eyes.

“Exactly. I don’t want to do it in my free time, too.”

She tries to smack me, but it’s half-hearted. She must really be tired if she’s not putting all her effort into inflicting pain on me. I sigh heavily, unwrapping our arms from each other, and she moans.

“Stop complaining. I’ll do it.”

“Yayy,” she mumbles, sticking her arms out expectantly like a little kid, and I bend my knees to get down to her level, scooping her up in my arms and starting up the steps one by one so I don’t accidentally drop her. Both of us are tipsy, and I don’t want any accidents less than eight hours before we drive down to the city.

“The things I do for you…” I sit her on the porch rail so I have a free hand to feel through her bag for the keys, and she leans into me again, mumbling so incomprehensibly I can’t tell whether it’s Russian, English or both.

There’s so much in this tiny purse it’s ridiculous, but I finally dig out the keychain among all the random crap. What is it with girls and their bottomless bags? I stick the key in the lock and jiggle it until it clicks, then push against the door with my shoulder.

I pick Katya back up and carry her across the threshold, pushing the door open with my shoulder. Once we’re inside, I mean,technicallyI could put her down and make her walk, but she’s already half-asleep. It would be just mean to wake her back up now.

I walk us down the hall through the kitchen and living room past the bath to Lian’s guest room, my old room, where I’m right to assume is where Katya’s been staying. The whole place looks almost exactly the same as I’d left it—though she, unsurprisingly, is a lot neater than sixteen-year-old me was. I can’t even catch a whiff of gym bag. Not a single spare sock out of place, bedspread neatly folded. I lean down so my arm can reach to pull it back without letting her go, and put Katya down, pulling off her shoes.

She moans again when she leaves my arms, and I roll my eyes. “I’ll be right back, I’m just going to get you something so you’re not dead for our flight tomorrow.”

Lian has, thankfully, not done any major re-organizing in the last few years, so I know where to find it. When I return, glass of water and pill in either hand, she already looks knocked out, red hair splayed across the pillow and mouth half-open. I snort when I see the spot of drool on her chin.

The noise makes her eyes flutter, and I walk over, sitting down on the edge of the bed next to her. “Sit up.”

“Nyeet.”

“Yeees,” I mock, sliding an arm under her lower back and lifting her into a sitting position, handing her the pill, which she reluctantly pops, chasing it down with the water. “You really are absolutely impossible, you know that?”

“Mm, you like it,” she says, yawning bigger this time, sliding back down and pulling the bedsheets up to her chin.

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