Page 6 of Dearly Unbeloved
We’re less than ten minutes from liquor. In a half hour, I’ll be buzzed enough to forget about Sierra and how socially awkward I am, so I can find someone equally tipsy on the—inevitably sticky—dance floor. With how busy work’s been keeping me lately, I’ve been in a bit of a dry spell.
Seattle has a lot of amazing queer and lesbian bars and clubs, but I’m better online than in person, and trying to findwomen who are interested in hooking up on apps is harder than it sounds.
I looked up the club we’re going to tonight, and it seems to be pretty queer-friendly. And sure, a girls’ trip with my sister isn’t an ideal place to meet women, but Jazz won’t care if I disappear for a while. We don’t all have obsessed spouses to go home to every night. Some of us are forced to go home to the worst fucking roommates.
Not tonight, though. Thank god.
4
SIERRA
What part of one bouquet at a time don’t you get? If I wanted to live in a garden, I would. - R
She’s pissing me off, and she’s nowhere near me. I recognize that it’s not rational, but every single thing she does gets under my skin. It’s impossible to relax and enjoy myself when she’s around.
She laughs at something Jazz says, and I think about the passive-aggressive neon pink sticky note she stuck on the fridge last week, reminding me to finish the open carton of oat milk before opening another one. She takes a sip of her espresso martini, and I think about her complaining that my shoes by the door are ever so slightly out of the perfect line she demands. She leans on the bar with a flirty smile and puts her hand on the arm of a gorgeous redhead, and I… I just don’t like it.
I throw back the dregs of my tequila sour and tap the tablet fixed to the table to order another. This is arguably themost dangerous club I’ve ever been in, since it’s so easy to order repeat drinks, but our flight home tomorrow isn’t until the evening, so what the hell.
A trip to Vegas isn’t exactly my dream getaway. I like the odd party, but I’m not a shots and flashing lights kind of girl. A night at home with a gummy and a bottle of wine is more my thing.
But I love hanging out with Jazz and Maggie. Most people aren’t close enough to their boss—and their boss’s boss, I suppose—that they get invited on girls’ trips and to family dinners, and, as someone who isn’t used to having friends, it’s taken a little getting used to.
I usually skip things when I know Rose is going, and I know Jazz has noticed. Which is definitely why she didn’t tell me Rose was coming on this trip. There’s not a snowball’s chance in hell I’d have come.
I might loathe Rose, but I know how much Jazz has been trying to build a relationship with her over the past couple of years, since their parents kicked Rose out. I’m not trying to come between that.
The past couple of days haven’t been so bad, though—loathing aside. Rose and I have avoided each other as much as possible, something we’re both pretty good at after living together for a year. I’ve taken it easy on the alcohol, all too aware that we’re going back to work the day after tomorrow—but watching Rose flirt across the club has chipped away at my willpower.
A server arrives with my tequila sour, and I drain it instantly. They raise an eyebrow, and I can’t tell if they’reimpressed or concerned.
“Thirsty?”
“Something like that.” I look out at the dance floor, spying a flash of Jazz’s fiery hair as she spins around with Maggie. “I’m going to dance,” I say, my blood already feeling a little fizzy from the shock of the tequila.
The server just chuckles and plucks the empty glass from my hand. “Enjoy.”
Jazz squeals when she spots me wading onto the dance floor. She grabs me, twirling me, and then pulling me into a bone-crushing hug.
“SiSi! You’re here!” she shouts with a wide grin. Oh, she’s so wasted.
“I’m here,” I reply, laughing and letting the pounding beat guide my body. Maggie wraps her arms around me from behind and tugs me away from Jazz, the three of us dancing and singing along to the music. We might dance for hours, for all I know.
At some point, Maggie disappears and returns to press plastic cups into our hands, and I don’t even ask what’s in it before I drink—straight whiskey.
I swallow it down, spluttering. “Holy shit, Maggie.”
“I remember when you used to drink fruity little cocktails. Cal changed you,” Jazz groans, swiping her hand over her mouth and smudging her lipstick.
“Cal.” Maggie sighs in a way that can only be described as dreamy.
I try not to laugh, but there’s too much liquor in my system to hold it back. I’m punished immediately—my throat is still burning from the whiskey, and I choke on the laugh. Jazz whacks me on the back, but Maggie checkedout the second she mentioned Cal’s name and doesn’t notice.
“I think I’m going to call him. You want to come with and call Liam?” she asks Jazz, who throws her hands up, sloshing the last dribble of whiskey in her cup all over herself.
“It’s girls’ night!” I protest. “No boys allowed.”
The song transitions into a throwback I remember from high school, one I know Jazz loves, but she doesn’t notice. “I hate to be that person when I’m here having fun with my girls, but I miss Liam.” She doesn’t say it so much as whine it, gripping my forearm like a vise.
