Sundays are for Hangovers

by J. D. Hollyfield

  I’m not sure how my father finally agreed to me having one year of freedom. I know my mother had a huge hand in it. But there’s no mistaking the stipulations that were set in place. I’m sure there were ones my mother failed to mention. Deals she made with the devil in hopes that after one year I would come to my senses. See how the real world functioned and come crawling back begging for the life they wanted for me. I’m also sure my mother didn’t expect me to last the full year.

  When I moved to Morristown, it was like a breath of fresh air. People didn’t know who I was or try to be nice to me because of my last name. Some were rude to me. And I loved it! There was no ass kissing or fakeness to people. I got rid of my fancy dresses and scarves and traded them in for red heels and bright outfits. I laughed the whole way home after buying a ton of pinup dresses, holey jeans, and tank tops from the thrift store in town. If my parents could have seen, I’m sure their eyes would have bled in disgust.

  I didn’t plan on getting a job at first. But when I saw the radio jockey ad posted on a job board while walking through the town square, I ripped the small piece of paper holding the contact number to the station off. I didn’t have any background in radio, but I had a personality that would bypass any list of experiences. I was hired on the spot and the rest was history.

  In the months to come, I transformed into someone I felt was always hiding on the inside. I became me. I was finally living a life that made me happy. I was finally free. Well, as free as I could be without thinking about what was to come once my year was up.

  And it is.

  The problem is, I can’t see myself going back.

  But I don’t know if that decision is something I can make. At least not without tons of consequence as my father has made clear on many occasions.

  I pull myself off the door and head straight to my liquor stash. I don’t bother with a glass, just pop off the cap and throw a heavy gulp back. Recapping how horrible the dinner just went, I continue to swig to help my mind settle. But it never does. How could he just go off on my father like that? All those challenging questions about his work and staff? He had no idea how much worse he was making it for me. If there was any chance my father would accept Will for the person he is, it was dead and buried now. I knew that look. The look my father held when he wanted to destroy someone. And I knew he had the power to do so.

  My immediate anger at Will for sabotaging any ground we had to stand on is clouding any other reason I can think of for why he did what he did. After the shit he pulled, there’s no way my father is going to allow me to stay. He’ll do just as he threatened and drag me home. The life I’m living will soon be a faint memory and I’ll end up doing exactly as I’m told. Just when I’m falling for something real, he had to go and ruin it for both of us.

  Warning labels.

  They should be on everything.

  Most importantly, liquor bottles.

  WARNING: Alcohol is not meant to overindulge when you get into a fight with your neighbor boyfriend, which you said wasn’t your neighbor boyfriend, and say things you don’t mean, and do things you may regret in the morning.

  My alcohol-infused anger kicks up a notch. I pick up my phone to start sending off a text rampage, when I realize I don’t even have Will’s number. I guess being neighbors, it was something we never needed before. But thank goodness for the Internet. I pull up Google and search for the one and only. The only problem is there are three William Grants listed. The only option is process of elimination. Starting with the first listed cell number, I fire off a text.

  Me: Why did you have to open your fat mouth? You’ve ruined everything!

  555-435-9586: Who is this?

  I’m going to assume Will would know it’s me. Wrong number. I take a swig and move down the list.

  Me: You have a fat mouth! You ruined everything! Thanks a lot!

  555-987-0967: Bitch who is this? Is this the girl my man’s been texting? I’ll fuck you up bitch.

  Okay then. Strike two. Another swig and another text.

  Me: I hate your fat mouth! Thanks for nothing!

  This one doesn’t reply as fast. So, I fill the time by enjoying my whiskey. The problem is, the more I drink, the more the whiskey is telling me to keep typing.

  Me: What? You have nothing to say? No apology for sucking?!

  Me: Don’t act too good for me now! You weren’t too good for me when you were fucking me all over your neat freak house!

  Me: Why did you say I was everything? You don’t even know me.

  Me: Maybe you do. You may be the only one who truly does. It’s the person I’m hiding from you that you won’t like.

  Me: You know what? Fuck you. Have fun sucking your own dick, asshole!

  555-334-0923: Don’t know what your man did to you, baby, but I’m more than willing to let you suck my dick for some attention.

  So, William Grant, my neighbor, is unlisted.

  Tears of aggravation pour down my cheeks as I try to rein in my emotions. I feel so hurt by everything and everyone. My parents for not wanting happiness for their only child. With Will for not understanding. I’m disappointed in myself for not standing up to my parents like I should’ve. The anger, sadness, confusion has me drinking more whiskey than I should. It’s also clouding my thoughts. I’m struggling to separate my anger toward my parents and toward Will. I’m just so damn angry and I feel cheated. And the way this whiskey is going down, I have a feeling I’m going to be the maddest at myself in the morning.

  Warning Label: Buddying up with booze will not make your situation better.

  I’m lying in my bed feeling like death and mad at myself for not closing the blinds before I passed out last night. A foul stench has me rolling to the other side of my bed. Another missing warning: Drinking while mad is not the answer because if you drink too much you may end up barfing in your nightstand drawer.

  I throw my comforter over my head, refusing to accept the hangover that’s kicking in. I’m also hoping the tidbits of last night were just a bad dream. Or I should say the stuff I remember. I wish I could say that after the failed text messaging I took myself to bed. But that’s far from where my night took me. I’m not proud of what I did. At least of the stuff I remember. Trying to get Will’s attention, I ran outside in the pouring rain with the intentions of letting all the air out of his tires. I laughed the entire night at my brilliant idea. What I didn’t factor in was how heavy the rain was coming down and my inebriation. I ended up slipping in his lawn mid dash and landing in a pile of muddying water. This had me aborting my bright idea and taking my bruised butt back inside.

  Being unsuccessful with my plan to get Will’s attention, I focused my anger toward my parents and proceeded to order a dozen Pizza Hut pizzas to their residence. The look on their faces at the fear of what the neighbors would think when they saw a low-grade food chain service delivering to the Bart and Tonya Hamilton had to have made me feel better.

  But it didn’t.

  I thought about kidnapping Will’s evil cat. The thought made me feel better, but then I remembered I hated that furry devil thing and changed tactics.

  The later the night got, the more I craved for Will. I wasn’t mad at him. I was mad at myself. He was just defending me. Something no one has ever done before. I knew we were more than just fucking. We were two hurricanes colliding into a beautiful storm. He was starting to mean so much to me, and I just wanted the chance to explain myself and tell him just that.

  I thought about calling the fire department to get his attention. Clearly, my drunk self was getting desperate. But the 1 percent of sober thinking that still worked told me that was a bad idea. I just wanted Will to barge through my door and force me to talk to him. Tell me he wouldn’t care I was secretly a debutante drop-out. Understand I wasn’t in control of my own life and he’d still love me and have amazing sex with me even after I was forced to marry a comb-over loser. A strange drunk thought had me considering it. Win-win for me and my parents. Booze will
have you considering crazy things.

  But he never did.

  And I was running out of legal ideas to get his attention as well as the ability to see and walk straight. I was at a loss. So, I let whiskey take the wheel.

  Once the rain finally let up, I went back outside and took a sharp pair of scissors and cut a heart into his lawn, but nothing.

  I walked back and forth outside singing, “I’m singing in the rain” in my bra and underwear, waiting for him to spot me and furiously carry me back inside, doing me all night long until we both screamed orgasms and forgiveness, but still, nothing.

  The last thing I remember was turning on the hose to water the heart because I knew he was going to shit bricks when he saw the damage to his precious lawn and I didn’t entrust the downpour of rain to do the job, so my drunk self thought watering it would make it grow faster. The problem is I don’t remember ever turning off the hose.

  I feel buzzing under me and realize I’m lying on my phone. I reach under and grab it. Please be Will. I know it won’t be since he probably doesn’t have my number either. With one eye open, I look at my screen to see a few missed texts from D, my mom, and some randoms. It seems after my blackout, I spent a solid amount of time texting. Shit.

  Me: D! Sup motherfucker! You awake? Bring me tacos.

  Big D: I’m with my girl, Majick. Have your man get you tacos.

  Me: NO! He’s not my man. I think he hates me. He doesn’t understand me. But you do. Tacos understand me.

  Mommy Dearest: Dear Lord, Lilith. What did you send to our house? Your father is very upset with you.

  Me: No idea what you’re talking about.

  Big D: Trouble in paradise? Save it for the show. I could use another raise.

  Mommy Dearest: Don’t play coy with me, Lilith, you used our credit card. We know it’s from you. What will the neighbors think?

  Me: That you love cheap sausage. Lolololol get it? Sausage? lololol

  Me: No! Come and get me. Let’s go get tattoos. Matching tacos.

  555-334-0923: Does your silence mean you’re not sucking my dick?

  Thankfully I seemed to have passed out before replying to the last one. The text that just came through is from D.

  Big D: How you feeling? Figured you were drinkin’ since you tried to Facetime me over a dozen times. What’s up?

  Drinking seems to be an understatement of what I did last night. I can feel it in my head, my eyes, and the horrid stench in my room that today is going to be dedicated to my killer hangover. I have a weak stomach, so I’m not sure who’s gonna clean up the barf in my drawer. I send a quick text back to Daryl.

  Me: I need a referral to someone who cleans up disasters.

  Big D: Dang girl whatchu do? Like a crime scene cleanup?

  Me: I can’t say. If I did, you’d be my accomplice.

  I get up and shower. I may have puke in my hair that needs washing out. After spending almost thirty minutes trying to sober up and feeling no better, I get out, throw on a robe, and head toward the kitchen in need of some aspirin.

  “Holy fuck,” I gasp, looking at the disaster of my kitchen. Pretty sure every single condiment I own is sitting on my island counter. Food is everywhere. Pots, pans… “What in the hell?” Apparently, my inner Julia Child tried coming out last night. I walk in farther, investigating the mess. And apparently Julia wanted to make her own tacos.

  The smell hits me and my stomach clenches. I throw my hand over my mouth and turn around, heading far away from the wreckage once resembling my kitchen.

  I know the pit in my stomach isn’t just from the bottle of whiskey still swishing in my belly. It’s because of how I treated Will. None of my tactics worked last night, so it looks like I’m going to have to do it the old-fashioned way, by knocking on his door and saying those two grown-up words, I’m sorry. Because I am. I was a jerk. It’s not his fault I’m living behind all these lies.

  The thought that Will won’t accept my apology sits heavy on my heart as I change in a pair of red shorts and a bright white tank top. I make sure to wear one of my best push-up bras in hopes it helps with his decision when I go groveling for forgiveness. I shoot a text over to Daryl, telling him I’m serious about that disaster cleanup contact, because I have to add my kitchen onto the list, covering my mouth so I make it outside my house without barfing from the stench.

  The bright sun stabs me in the eyes the moment I stop outside. A part of me tells me to go back inside and sleep off this hangover. My pores are probably still seeping booze and my appearance alone is gonna have Will throwing me off his porch. Speaking of, my eyes catch movement from next door. I turn to see a small, dainty woman, beautiful no less, walking up Will’s porch stairs and knock on his door.

  “Who the hell is that?” I mumble, hoping Will doesn’t answer. The last thing I need is for him to look at how perfect and put together that bombshell is, then follow up with the hot mess I am right now.

  Don’t answer. Don’t answer. Don’t answer.

  That hope dies when I hear his door open and Will steps outside. I press my back against my front door in hopes they can’t see me. My ears are perked trying to hear what they’re saying, but they’re not talking loud enough. Dammit! Who is that? My mind is suddenly all over the place. My thoughts are from a Tinder swipe to praying it’s his cousin. He wouldn’t already be moving on, would he? It was just a fight. Right?

  The woman takes a step closer. No, no, no… She goes in, lifting her arms, and they hug. Okay, so cousins can still hug like that. I lower myself to my knees and crawl across my porch to the stairs. If I can just get a little closer maybe I can hear what they’re talking about.

  Like a snake, I slither down the three porch steps and press myself against the bushes in front of my house. Mr. Daniels is sitting in his rocking chair across the street staring at me and I put my finger over my lips for him to be quiet. From all the peep shows he’s received lately, he owes me.

  I make it to the corner of my bushes when their bodies are back in sight. They’re no longer hugging, which I’m relieved about. He has yet to invite her in, which also makes me feel better, but they’re still standing too close for my liking.

  I stretch my neck out in hopes to attempt lip reading, but the sun is making it hard to focus, on top of my clouded brain.

  If I can just get a little bit closer.

  Maybe just a few more feet.

  I hold my breath and as sneakily as I can, I crawl past my driveway and make it into the grass. My hands and knees immediately sink into the flooded grass. Geez, how much rain did we get last night? “Shit.” So, there’s a reason I don’t remember turning off the hose. Because I never did. Will’s lawn is flooded. I turn to go turn the water off when I hear her.

  “How’ve you been?”

  My ears perk once again, completely forgetting about turning off the water. I don’t hear Will’s response, which bums me out. I could really use that information right now.

  “I wanted to talk,” the woman says.

  His voice is low as he replies, but I can’t make it out.

  I need to get closer. Hear him call her his cousin and then I can go back home and maybe wait for the sun to dry out his lawn a little bit before making another attempt to apologize. I start to move, crawling through the lawn and crossing over to Will’s yard. The ground is sloshy underneath me, making it hard on my incognito skills. Once I’m hidden in front of Will’s front bushes, I finally hear him.

  “You didn’t need to come all the way over just to tell me that.” Dammit! Tell what? “I’m not in the mood to deal with this today.” Okay, they need to start being more specific here.

  “I know, but you didn’t return my call.”

  I’m going to say that’s a good thing? But then again, that would be a rude thing for a cousin not to do.

  I need to get closer. I need to see how he’s looking at her. I crawl along his bushes when I hear the faint sound of evil.

  “Oh, come here, Björk sweeti
e,” the woman says, followed by meowing. She knows his cat. Not a good thing. And it doesn’t sound like that cat is trying to claw her eyes out. Also, not a good thing. “Have you been a good little kitty?” she purrs to the damn feline.

  “Good my ass, psycho puss,” I whisper under my breath.

  That damn thing must have heard me, because I hear the woman struggle to keep hold of the cat and before I know it, psycho puss is down the steps and staring at me.

  “Get out of here,” I whisper, swiping my hand at her, but she doesn’t move. Matter of fact, she hisses at me.

  “You need to leave,” Will says, his voice sounding stern.

  “Can we maybe do lunch sometime? Maybe we can visit your grandma. I miss Skippy too.”

  I must admit, I’m not feeling too good about this chick. She seems to be in with all the right folks. Even the damn cat likes her. Björk hisses again.

  “Now’s not a good time, okay?” Will grumbles before whistling. “Björk, come here, girl.”

  Thank God. I give Björk a wave, telling her to beat it, but she doesn’t move. She takes a menacing step toward me.

  “Beat it. Listen to your daddy,” I whisper, trying to shoo her off. With no luck, she takes another step closer.

  “Björk, where are you going? Get up here,” Will says, his voice sounding closer. Shit. If he grabs that damn cat, he’s gonna see me. I’m not sure how I’d really explain this one.

  “Get, go to your owner,” I hiss back at her, trying to pluck grass from the lawn and throwing it at her. Maybe this was a bad idea. Yes. Bad idea. Knowing it’s time to abort, I give Björk the middle finger and turn to crawl back home.

  That’s when that four-legged fucker attacks me. They say never turn your back to your enemies, which is exactly what I do. Just as I turn to book it back to my house, Björk pounces. She gets a good grip on me, her nails digging into my back. I forget my spy mission and make myself noticed when I scream.

  “Lilith?” I hear Will’s voice as I throw his cat off me. She takes off back up the steps. Trying to quickly stand, I slip and slide and fall onto my butt. “What are you doing down there?”