I just need a little bit of help, perhaps, from a bottle of champagne.
My date for tonight.
Dom Pérignon.
Gabriella
I actually let my hair down.
It took me over an hour to tame my curls, not realizing how long they had grown. The longer they grow, the looser they become which isn’t necessarily a bad thing.
My mother always hated my hair. It’s not the dead straight blonde like hers or my sisters. I was born with reddish-brown hair—a shock to my parents—and it actually makes me look like the black sheep of the family. Over the years, the color shifted from darker to lighter, even blonde for my high school prom.
As a child, my mother would demand her expensive hairdressers to straighten the curls, to stop it looking like a mop as she often referred to it. Somehow, their style influenced my own over the past few years unbeknownst to me. I always wear it into a tight bun similar to my mother and sisters.
Having it out, drifting past my shoulders and against my back feels nice for a change. I also don’t mind the color—copper brown which complements my California tan.
I didn’t want to burden Aubrey with a complete wardrobe borrow, so I headed to the closest mall to purchase a black clutch and some strappy heels which tied around my calves. The shop assistant said they were very in, the latest trend, in fact.
What I do know is my mother would have a heart attack if she saw me dressed like this. And, to be honest, that means I’m on the right track.
There are a few bars at Hermosa Beach, local joints with a bustling nightlife. I settle for a bar not too far from home, that way, if the night is a bust, I won’t have to walk miles in these shoes, which I believe are spawns of the Devil. They began to pinch as soon as I left home, my poor baby toes in agony from the very few steps I’ve taken.
I settle for a Cuban bar and restaurant. The music blares across the speakers, something Latin but enjoyable and sets the mood. The noise of the patrons overpowers the Hispanic beats, and amongst the crowd, I began to feel nervous being here on my own.
Maybe this wasn’t the best idea.
I can hear Aubrey yelling, ‘Put your big girl panties on.’
Just breathe.
Three.
Two.
One.
At the bar, I squeeze my way between two gentlemen to order a glass of champagne. Then, it hits me like a ton of bricks—that’s my mother’s drink.
If I want to be wild, I need to think wild.
Tequila, it is.
The bartender is busy, leaning forward while serving each customer. I try to catch his attention, waiting for what feels like forever only to have him serve me when a group of ladies push me forward.
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry, babe!”
The woman is wearing a sash which says Bride to Be and a crown on her head. It’s quite comical and very cliché. Sebastian would turn his nose up at women who partied singlehood, though God forbid if men didn’t have a bachelor party.
“It’s okay.” I smile, keeping the conversation amicable. “You have to celebrate your final days of freedom, right?”
“Right?” she squeals, embracing me into a huge hug.
There’s something to be said about being embraced by a stranger. It’s awkward, uncomfortable, and you don’t know when it’s too soon to pull away.
“Girls,” she hollers to the group of women behind her. “Meet our new recruit… sorry, what’s your name?”
“Gabriella.”
“Gabriella is partying with us!”
“I don’t think that’s such a good—”
She pulls me into that awkward embrace again, grabbing a shot from the tray her friend ordered, then passing it to me. “You have to celebrate with me… married life is going to be sooo boring.”
I contemplated asking why she would even consider getting married if she thought it will be boring but decide to leave well enough alone. She is drunk, and nothing good can come from the conversation. At least I’m no longer alone, and that, in itself, is rather comforting.
She motions for me to drink, raising my hand toward my mouth until I’m forced to chug the thing down—a Redheaded Slut shot. Instantly I taste the sweet cranberry followed by something else potent.
Oh, dear God, it tastes like hell on fire.
“Yeah, girl, you did it!” She throws her arms around my body, squeezing me tight, barely allowing me to breathe.
Her friend orders another round.
I shake my head, willing to stop, but Tiffany, as her friend calls her, demands we do another round before hitting the dance floor.
Time begins to feel like a blur. The music changes as requested by Tiffany. We dance away to some Mambo, then she begs the DJ to throw in some classic Abba, and somewhere during Tiffany’s request for Brittany Spears ‘Womanizer,’ the room begins to spin, and I can’t control my laughter.
“You okay, Gabbie?”
I hate that nickname, but when drunk on Redheaded Sluts, she can call me a crack whore, and I will oblige.
“Yeah, is it just me, or is the room spinning?”
Tiffany giggles, hiccupping loudly as well. “Me, too! So, get this… there’s a guy at the bar, he kinda asked about you.”
I turn to face the bar. A cute guy dressed in chino slacks and a button-up white shirt grins. He resembles Chris Pratt. Definitely handsome, especially when he smiles from a distance.
“Oh, well, I’m kind of taken.”
“Really? Boyfriend?”
“Um… fiancé. But we’re kind of on a break.”
Tiffany stops dancing immediately. Without warning, she grabs my hand, weaving in and out of the crowd until we’re inside the bathroom. Thankfully, there is no line.
“Spill the beans. All of it.”
“What beans?” I ask, confused, trying my best to ignore the unsavory sensation swirling in the pit of my stomach.
“The engaged but on a break situation.”
“Not much to spill,” I tell her, leaning against the wall for support. The tiles on the wall are mosaics. They appear to be spinning around and around, making
