by Minka Kent
Tossing back the rest of my drink, I glance at Thayer, hoping he’ll pick up what I’m putting down. Only he’s completely fixated on Lauren, his stare intense and greedy, like she’s the prettiest thing in the room and she can only be his. He hasn’t stopped touching her all night, every chance he gets. His hands are constantly around her shoulder or cupping her face or he’s interlacing his fingers through hers.
Possessive or not, she’s lucky to have someone who adores her the way he does. Someone who would do anything for her. Who values her, who never wants to let her go.
“Eli’s here,” Lauren yells above the music.
Tessa follows Lauren’s gaze then reaches for her drink. She slams the rest of it back before excusing herself from the table for a trip to the ladies’ room. The other girls follow, yet another typical girl behavior thing I’ve yet to understand. Who the hell wants an audience when they’re doing something so private? I couldn’t piss in front of another person if I tried.
A guy in a gray polo with wavy blond hair slides into Tessa’s spot, his arm practically pressed against mine as his spicy cologne invades the tight space.
“Eli. What’s up?” Thayer gives him some kind of hand-shake-high-five thing from across the table. I don’t know what the hell it is.
“Thayer.” Eli turns toward me next, eyes lingering on mine as a half-smirk forms. “And you are?”
“This is Meadow,” Lauren says. “My new roomie.”
I hate that word. Roomie. But she’s trying to be cute and it must work because everyone chuckles. These people are so damn happy, all of the time.
My hands begin to shake as Eli drinks me in, and I’m not sure whether I’m supposed to be formal and say, “Pleased to meet you” or if I’m supposed to play it off like I don’t care about social graces, so I reach for my drink and bring it to my lips.
Only it’s empty.
And now I look like a moron with zero social finesse.
“Whoops.” Eli laughs at me. My ears heat. I fucking hate this. “I’m going to grab a beer. What were you drinking, Meadow?”
There is a God.
“Blue raspberry sunrise,” I say, reaching for my purse.
Eli shakes his head. “I’ve got it.”
Lauren and Thayer exchange looks the second he leaves.
“He’s the cheapest son of a bitch I know,” Thayer says. “And he’s buying you a drink.”
I shrug, like it doesn’t mean anything to me. And it doesn’t.
“He likes you,” Lauren says.
“He just met me.” I shake my head, hoping the dark lighting disguises the massive flush of my cheeks. “He doesn’t like me.”
“Fine, then he’s interested,” Thayer adds.
No guy has ever been interested in me. He’s probably just being nice since I’m new to their little group. Or maybe he sees me as fresh meat, sniffing out my insecurities like a trained bloodhound.
He’s a hungry shark and I’m chum.
Only unfortunately for him, I won’t be had like that.
Tessa and her posse return and she slides into the seat Eli occupied just a second ago. A fresh coat of gloss makes her lips shine, and her hair seems to have been tamed back into place after that three-minute dance party a little bit ago.
She must like Eli.
And if that’s the case—even if he is interested in me—I’m not touching that with a ten-foot pole. I like Tessa. And she likes me, I think. I want to keep it that way.
Just say no to girl drama.
My suspicions are confirmed the moment Eli returns and slides my drink across the table.
Tessa reaches for it, “Aw, Eli, you didn’t have to—”
“That’s for Meadow,” he says, cutting her off. His eyes find mine, gauging my reaction. I bet he’s the kind who likes to pit friend against friend. Sick bastard.
Her expression drops. She’s confused. Or maybe embarrassed.
Shit.
“He was going to the bar, so I had him grab me a drink,” I say. That explanation seems to satisfy her for the time being, but I can’t help noticing the look she’s shooting Lauren from across the table.
Is she … mad at me? Like it’s my fault?
Lauren pouts, eyes sympathetic, then she glares at Eli.
I’m so confused.
A second ago, Lauren was pointing out Eli’s purported interest in me … apparently knowing how her best friend felt about him. Now she’s wordlessly communicating with Tessa about how much of a prick he is. Or that’s what I’m gathering. I’m not yet skilled in the art of telepathic communication.
I’ve never understood the intricacies of female friendships, but this confirms everything I’ve ever assumed.
We’re either allies or traitors.
Sometimes both at the same time.
And I can say this, since I’m a woman, but we are not to be trusted.
Seven
I’m stirred awake by the smell of bacon and eggs and a relentless throbbing in my head. Images of last night play in my mind, though most of it feels like a blur, like it all happened in a vacuum. The scariest part? I have no recollection of leaving Wellman’s. I have no idea if we walked home, took the Tiger Jitney, or if Thayer dropped us off.
Everything after Wellman’s is just … gone.
I don’t like this feeling. I don’t like that my memories were robbed, that they’re erased forever. But I have no one to blame but myself.
Jerking the covers off my body, I place my aching feet on the floor and realize I’m in last night’s jeans and top. Passing the dresser mirror, I catch a glimpse of a girl suffering her first hangover: mascara-rimmed eyes, smudged lips, crazy hair.
The fact that people do this again and again blows my mind.
There’s nothing fun about the way I feel right now, nothing that makes me want to count down the days until we can do this again.
A burp forces its way up my throat, leaving the taste of stale, sweet alcohol on my tongue, which sends a churn to my stomach. I dash to the bathroom and brush my teeth twice before gargling with mouthwash until the inside of my cheeks burn.
When I’m finished, I head to the kitchen because I’ve never been this hungry in my life.
“Morning, sunshine,” Lauren says, showered and dressed for the day, hair done and smelling like a rose—literally. Her back is toward me as she plates her breakfast and a carton of organic, free-range eggs rest on the counter, along with turkey bacon and fresh-squeezed orange juice. Her phone, which is docked on a speaker in the corner, plays some NPR podcast about climate change in the northern hemisphere.
It’s a far cry from all those Saturdays waking up to the smell of Mom’s greasy, post-sex breakfasts. I can’t count how many times I’d stumbled into the kitchen to find her prancing around to Van Morrison in a tattered, see-through robe as her boyfriend-of-the-month waited for his meal at the head of the table.
I head to the cupboards Lauren designated as mine and retrieve a box of store-brand imitation Cheerios and a plastic bowl with a crack on the rim.
“How are you feeling?” she asks, taking a seat at the table. Her plate rests on a woven rattan placemat, her silverware on a cloth napkin. I wonder if being this formal all the time ever gets exhausting or if it’s simply second nature at this point. And then I wonder if she’s ever known what it’s like to shovel cold cereal into her mouth while sitting in a living room watching Green Acres and I Love Lucy reruns on public television because she doesn’t have cable or satellite.
Doubtful.
“Just a little headache,” I lie. More like a massive fucking freight train plowing through the center of my brain. I overdid it last night and I don’t feel like looking like the novice that I am.
“There’s aspirin in the cupboard by the sink,” she tells me. “Help yourself. Help yourself to anything you need, always.”
“Thank you.” I pour my store-brand milk and grab a thin metal spoon from my drawer and take a seat across from her. “How di
d we get home last night?”
Lauren glances up from her plate. “You don’t remember?”
I blink. Twice. Obviously I don’t remember or I wouldn’t be asking. “Everything’s a little fuzzy still.”
“You were talking to this guy,” she says. “And then you left with him. Heard you stumble in around three AM.”
Jesus. Who just lets their friend go home with a stranger? What if I’d been sexually assaulted or killed last night?
“I did?” I drop my spoon into my tasteless cereal.
“You two were all over each other, making out, getting handsy.” Lauren laughs, stabbing her eggs with her fork. “We told you to get a room. Guess you took it literally.”
I don’t believe her.
I haven’t made out with anyone since high school, and it was the geeky foreign exchange student from Holland who couldn’t kiss worth shit and whose breath tasted like fish and Wrigley’s gum—the kind in the white package.
But what reason would she have to lie?
I try not to act like it bothered me that my safety wasn’t a concern of hers or that I’m questioning her interpretation of events. I’ll know now for next time to contain myself a little more. Scary how easy it was for me to get caught up in the moment last night.
A couple of strong drinks and I’d left my insecurities and awkwardness at the door, embracing the attention guys were giving me, the free drinks that kept coming my way, the ridiculous selfies Tessa kept wanting us to take together. In fact, my face still hurts from laughing so much.
On some ordinary Friday night in February, I was one of them.
But for the life of me, I can’t remember kissing or leaving with anyone. It’s going to bother me all day, I can tell already. But this isn’t the craziest part. The most insane thing about last night was that I enjoyed myself.
“Eli tried to get your number from me,” she says. “You kept refusing to give it to him, so I told him no.”
Thank God.
“Tessa likes him, doesn’t she?” I ask. Pretty sure it’s safe to say we’re all friends now. I can inquire about these things.
She exhales through her nose, chewing her bacon and gazing out the window toward the snow-covered back yard. “It’s complicated.”
“I just … I noticed the way she kept looking at him,” I say. “And she ran off to freshen up as soon as she saw him, like she wanted to look her best.”
“It’s a long story, Meadow.” Lauren exhales, resting her chin on her hand as she holds my curious stare. I don’t like the way she says my name, but I try not to take it personally. “Maybe she’ll tell you sometime?”
We linger in silence for a minute too long before she rises and strides to the sink to wash her dishes. I’ve lived here six full days now, and I’ve yet to witness so much as a single dirty dish resting in the sink.
She’s good at cleaning up after herself, making messes disappear.
“Anyway, I’m heading out.” She yawns, stretching her arms over her head. “I’ll be at Thayer’s today. Probably stay there tonight too.”
“Have fun.” I give a wave, a cutesy one with wiggly fingers like I’ve seen Lauren do with Tessa.
I could use a little alone time, a day to let my hair down and not feel like I have to be in full makeup and dressed to impress. This new me has been an exciting change of pace this past week, but I’m exhausted and I need a break. I need a second to just be … me.
As soon as I finish breakfast, I head back to my room and strip out of last night’s wrinkled clothes, grab my robe and my phone, and head to the shower. While waiting for the water to heat, I decide to flip through my photos from last night in hopes they might jog my memory.
But they’re all pictures of me with Tessa and Lauren, arms around each other, drinks sloshing in our hands, lipsticks matching.
No mystery man.
Tapping on my locator app, the one that tracks the whereabouts of my phone at all times should I lose it, I pull in a deep breath and prepare myself for a moment of truth. If I left Wellman’s and went anywhere else last night, this will tell me.
Only everything is blank until three AM this morning when it says I arrived here at 47 Magpie Drive.
Someone cleared out my phone last night before taking me home.
Eight
It hits me as I’m knocking on Elisabeth’s front door Monday morning that I completely spaced off her manuscript.
Shit, shit, shit.
“Meadow, good morning.” Elisabeth answers the door, eyes lit and steaming cup of coffee in her hand. She’s always so happy to see me. “Your Earl Grey is on the counter.”
I need to tell her.
My mind races, searching for the right words to say, but everything circles back to the truth: I got caught up with some new friends and completely abandoned all responsibilities and prior obligations this weekend because I was too busy having fun.
Lugging my cleaning caddy and Oreck vacuum down the hall, my heart ricochets. I don’t want to disappoint her, not when she’s always so sweet to me. Not when I’m her number one fan. I’d hate for her to stop asking me to read for her. In fact, I’d be heartbroken.
“Okay, before you start cleaning. I’m dying to know … what’d you think of The Mourning Glories?” Elisabeth takes a seat at the head of the kitchen table, hands wrapped around her mug and all attention directed at me.
Drawing in a long breath, I gather my composure. “I’m so sorry. I meant to read it this weekend … I just—”
Her pleasant expression melts as she removes her gaze from mine. Pure disappointment. Exactly what I was afraid of.
“Oh. Um. Okay,” she says.
I’ve never let her down before. Ever. I prided myself in being the one who would drop everything to read her book, who could fly through the pages and give her valuable feedback even when pushing the tightest of deadlines.
I’ve skipped studying for tests, I’ve half-assed homework assignments, all so that I could prioritize her manuscripts.
“Elisabeth, I’m so sorry,” I say, hands cupped against my trouncing heart. “I feel awful about it. I promise I can finish by tonight though. Just give me until tomorrow to type up my notes?”
“No. It’s okay.” She waves her hand, essentially waving me off. “It’s due to my editor tonight. I shouldn’t have pushed it so close. It’s my fault.”
“No,” I say. I hate that she blames herself. “I promised you I’d read it and I didn’t. It’s not your fault.”
She rises, one hand steadied on the back of her chair and the other on her belly, and heads to the kitchen sink, peering out the window toward their extra deep back yard filled with naked trees. Everything is so ugly this morning. The sky. The trees. The tension in the room.
“I’m so sorry,” I apologize again, in case she didn’t catch it the first time. I could apologize a hundred times and it still wouldn’t be enough.
I should’ve read Saturday night, when I had the house to myself. Instead I played dress up, like some superficial collegiate Barbie. I played with makeup looks and practiced top-knotting my hair. When I was finished, I lit one of Lauren’s pricey boutique candles and put on one of her favorite downtempo music stations and paged through her newest issue of Vogue.
It was bizarre, I’ll admit. Nothing I’ve ever done before.
But I was caught up.
Caught up in not being Meadow Cupples for a change.
“What’s different about you?” Elisabeth asks a moment later. I didn’t realize she’d been staring at me, and I’m suddenly wondering how long I’d been standing here, lost in space.
Reaching for my hair, I tuck a strand behind one ear before chewing the inside of my lower lip.
“Oh! You got your hair done. I like it,” she says. It almost feels like things are shifting back, but there’s still a melancholy tone in her voice. She’s hurt. And I hurt her. “It’s a good look on you.”
“Thank you.”
“What’d you do thi
s weekend?” she asks, sipping her drink. It’s funny, she cares more about the goings-on in my life than my own mother does. But at ten years my senior, Elisabeth is more like a surrogate big sister. “Anything fun?”
“I have this new roommate,” I say. “She invited me out with her friends.”
Her eyes squint, like she’s piecing some kind of puzzle together. And I get it. New hair. New friends. New priorities. It all adds up. Elisabeth with her attention to detail figured me out in all of zero point eight seconds.
“It’s good,” she says. “To go out, I mean. To be social. When I was in school, all I cared about were books … and Reed. Kind of wish things had been different.”
My brows meet. “What do you mean?”
“I never had any real friends. Never made any lasting friendships,” she says. “Just wish that I had, is all.”
There’s a desolate tone in her voice, one that’s probably been there all along. And it makes sense now. She works from home all day, has no friends besides her husband. She must be incredibly lonely now that I think about it. No wonder she chats my ear off any chance she gets.
The creak of the wooden staircase signals that for the second week in a row, we’re not alone. Reaching for a bottle of countertop cleaner and a clean rag, I make myself busy. I don’t want to gawk at the two of them again, and I have no business filling my mind with imaginings of their intimate moments.
Only there’s no sweet goodbyes. No double talk. Just the jangle of keys and the stomping of Oxford shoes and the slamming of doors.
I glance up, only for a moment, and catch a look on Elisabeth’s face—one I’ve never seen before.
And then I see the glassy sheen of tears forming in her hazel eyes.
She’s pregnant.
Pregnant women are hormonal. They cry. And he’s busy, the weight of the world on his shoulders.
There may be trouble in paradise, but like all storms, it’ll pass.
I refuse to believe that it won’t.
