Page 181 of Rock Bottom Girl
Me: I don’t feel like I’m in the position to make any life-altering decisions. I really let our girls down. I don’t know how to make it better.
Vicky: Swing by my house. We’ll get loaded and write apology notes.
Me: I’ll be there in four hours.
78
Marley
Thanksgiving was depressing.Iwas depressing. Every damn thing in this house was depressing. We were supposed to be celebrating with the Westons in Jake’s house with his nice roomy kitchen and big dining table. His sweet, doofy dog.
Instead, we were asses to elbows falling over each other in Mom and Dad’s cramped kitchen, scrambling to prepare a feast that we hadn’t planned for.
All because I was a chickenshit dumbass.
The turkey and broccoli casserole were smashed into the oven while Zinnia did her best to steam more healthy vegetable sides in the microwave and on the stovetop.
The kids were running through the house, screaming and shouting, waggling zombies and giant insects at each other. Mom and Dad were sneaking wine in the garage, pretending to look for Christmas decorations. It was Cicero family tradition for the Christmas decor to go missing for at least a week or two after Thanksgiving.
And here I was alone, scraping gelled cranberry sauce out of the can.
I’d gone to Vicky’s last night, and with the help of a bottle of bourbon, I’d written heartfelt cards to every girl on my team. Then, since we were wasted, we’d paid Vicky’s mother-in-law twenty dollars to drive us around to every girl’s house so we could stuff the note in the mailbox and then scream “Go, go, go!”
In the light of morning, I was hungover and still miserable. But I’d woken up to over a dozen heart emoji messages from the team.
Jake was probably having a great day. Hell, he’d probably found a new girlfriend since we’d broken up. She was probably helping him in the kitchen, wearing an apron, and letting him kiss her on the neck while she whisked corn starch into the gravy. I squeezed the cranberry sauce can so hard it dented on both sides.
The timer on the oven beeped shrilly, and I wrestled the door open, knocking over a kitchen chair in the process. Smoke billowed out.
“Fuck!” I waved a dish towel at the smoking mess. The turkey looked extra crispy and not in the delicious KFC way.
The smoke detector wailed to life, and all three kids came running, hands clamped over their ears. “MOMMY!”
“That’s it,” Zinnia said calmly. “I give up. I give up on everything.” She neatly folded her tea towel on the counter and stormed out the back door.
My mom rushed in and pulled a chair under the smoke detector. She climbed up and ripped it off the ceiling. “There! That’s better,” she said cheerfully. She had a red wine mustache.
“Mom, can you take care of this?” I asked, gesturing at the blackened bird and the rapidly blackening broccoli casserole.
“Sure, sweetie. Ned! I need wine STAT,” she called.
I headed out the front, stopping at the coat closet to grab my jacket and Zinnia’s cashmere wool trench. It was cool and crisp outside, not smoky and hot like our indoor inferno. I let myself into the backyard through the gate.
“Zin?” My sister, the health nut perfectionist, was sitting in the tree, smoking a cigarette and shivering. “What the hell is going on?” I demanded.
She ignored me, and I climbed up next to her, praying the branch could hold our combined adult weight. “Here.” I shoved her coat at her.
Zinnia eyed it and then handed me her cigarette.
“Since when do you smoke?”
“Since I can’t take a deep breath without one.”
She took the cigarette back and drew in a sharp breath. “My life is a fucking disaster, Marley. I’m such a failure.”
The confession shook me so hard I wobbled on the tree branch and nearly fell over backward. I grabbed onto the trunk and righted myself.
“A failure? You? Have you met me?” I squeaked. “Give me that.” I took the cigarette from her again and took a drag.
