Page 29 of Love is a Game

As I sit up, I press a hand to my forehead, bracing my throbbing brain.

Ouch. The light, the movement, hell, even the act of thinking, feels like dull instruments thudding behind my eyes.

Flashbacks of last night flicker through my mind, hazy and disjointed like an old film reel.

Dinner. We stayed back, had more drinks, and hung out at the bar. Tuck, Brady, and Vivian—we finally got to catch up after dinner.

God. What did we even talk about? No clue. Just that I remember gushing about how great their food was, how cool the restaurant space looked—the mural on the back wall—wait, did we take photos in front of that giant rabbit artwork?

I scroll through my camera roll.Big mistake.

I cringe at the evidence: my shiny face, limp bangs, a wild-eyed grin that screamsoverly enthusiastic drunk girl.Fantastic. Vivian must think I’m a riot. In one shot, I’ve locked arms with her like we’re lifelong best friends.

And then there’s Tuck, standing beside me, assessing everything.

My temples thump, my tongue is furry. Yuck. I reach for the pills and glimpse the second part of Tuck’s note: “P.S. Don’t forget you lined up something with Misha for today. 11 a.m. Her number’s in your phone. P.P.S. Drop by next door if you need bacon.”

A fresh wave of nausea twists through my stomach, adding a new layer to my hangover. Forget the bacon. Misha? What’s up with that?

Sure enough, she’s saved in my contacts. Well…whatever we planned, I need to cancel ASAP. Because not only am I hungover to shit, I also have a string of messages from my studio team, one from the funeral home, and a ton of unread emails waiting.

Except Misha turns out to be way more persuasive than I expected.

A back-and-forth of messages, where my flimsy excuses crumble under pressure, leads to something horrifying.

An actual phone call.

What the hell?Who calls?

I stare at my buzzing phone for several long seconds before answering.

“Um…hi?” I force a cheerful tone, then remember my hangover is a solid one-third of my excuse for not meeting up. I throw in a dramatic groan. “Ugh. So hungover.”

“Me too!” she chirps with the energy of a head cheerleader. “But don’t worry, I have the best day planned. I’ll pick you up in twenty, okay?”

“Sorry, what?”

“Twenty minutes. I’m already in the car. We stayed out at Steven’s brother’s lake house last night—love his mom, butgosh, she can be abit muchsometimes. I think she wants to marry us off, and we’ve only been dating a few weeks. Anyway, I’m on my way!”

Wait—what?

She’s gone. She hung up.

Shit.

I should call her back.

I hit redial. Busy.

Fuck!

What are we supposed to even be doing today? I can’t face a frigging girls’ day out with a virtual stranger. Or non-stranger. Anyone.

I trudge next door, feeling like a grumpy cartoon character shrouded in a storm cloud.

“Knew you’d want bacon.” Tuck smoothly pulls a pan from the stove and dumps it on the benchtop.

“She hung up on me!”

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