Page 95 of Dance with Me on New Year's Eve

I’d actually made it to the couch today and just finished spooning the last bit of Nutella out of the jar when the doorbell rang.

Instinctively, I pulled the covers over my head. Whoever it was could go away.

What if…

No, he wouldn’t come here, would he?

I shook my head, knowing I wouldn’t answer the door anyway.

But the ringing turned into light knocking and then heavier knocking.

And because the walls were not thick in this building, I heard, “Roxy, we know you’re in there! Open up!”

Relief flooded my body, along with something I didn’t want to identify.

It wasn’t Jeff.

I threw off the blanket and tried to sit up, my limbs achy from lack of use lately. If I knew Hazel, she wouldn’t give up easily.

“Roxy, please!” another voice called out, accompanied by more knocking.

Neither would Mariana.

I groaned, rising to my feet as I pushed the hair out of my face. I headed a bit closer to the door. “Hold on,” I said, my voice slightly hoarse.

“We brought cheesecake! Just let us in,” Hazel pleaded. “Roxy, please.”

I closed my eyes, willing myself to be calm as I walked over to the door.

After unlocking it, I opened it just an inch, wincing when I saw their worried faces. “I need to freshen up. Can you wait a bit?”

Hazel scoffed. “Just open up.”

My lips rounded in horror. “No, I’m … not presentable.”

She shook her head in exasperation. “We don’t care.”

“Well, I do,” I said irritably.

Mari leaned closer to the door. “Roxy, maybe you could let us in, and we’ll wait while you freshen up?”

Everything in me wanted to say no and slam the door. I closed the door and leaned my forehead against it briefly before pulling it open fully and then dashing away before they could see what I mess I was.

“Roxy?” Hazel called out.

“I’ll be back in a minute,” I said right before closing the bathroom door.

I placed my hands on the counter, avoiding the mirror, and counted to ten.

I could do this.

I could.

I picked up my hairbrush and started combing through the tangles before my eyes finally met my own in the mirror. I nearly dropped the brush when I saw the ghastly reflection. It was even worse than I thought. My cheeks were pale except for the messy dark stains, likely the remnants of my eye makeup from the party that I’d never washed off and instead just half-rubbed off on my pillow. I put the brush down immediately and dipped my face down toward the sink to scrub it off as quickly as I could. My face had pink blotchy spots when I finished, but at least it was better than week-old makeup. My hair was still a knotted mess, and I briefly considered pulling it into a ponytail or bun. But my hair was a security blanket—a poor one, but one of the few I had. I sprayed in some dry shampoo before it ran out because, of course, I’d forgotten to buy more, and then I brushed as best I could. After spritzing myself with rose-scented body spray and brushing my teeth in record time, I took a deep breath, ready to face these women whose opinions I cared about far too much.

Well, as ready as I’d ever be.

I stepped out of the bathroom hesitantly, feeling a bit more alert. But the sinking feeling returned as I took in the messes very visible in the kitchen and living room.

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