Just shy of the front door, it dawns on me—I never even got her name.
I’ll name her curly, not that I will encounter her again.
Some things are never meant to be.
Gabriella
According to the internet, the best way to avoid a hangover is by consuming a large amount of water, coffee, and painkillers before heading to bed. One website even went as far as downing a whole burrito with extra jalapenos.
My stomach flips into a nauseating circle at the thought of eating a burrito.
The last time I drank myself into a stupor would have been college. Even then, I don’t recall the aftermath anywhere near as bad as this.
Lying in bed, the aching in my skull ebbs and flows like a cold tide. No matter how I position myself, it doesn’t go away. Ripping the sheets off, I stumble out of bed and into the bathroom. The pit of my stomach swirls, and without any further warning, I drop to the ground clutching onto the side of the toilet bowl as last night projectiles out.
I reach for the flush, leaning back onto the cold tiled wall. I feel only slightly better, enough so I can rinse my mouth out with mouthwash then climb back into bed. Once there, this stupid hangover consumes me, again. It’s as if the blackest of clouds are hovering over my head with no intention of clearing anytime soon. I’m living in regret, swearing never to touch a morsel of alcohol ever again. What was I even thinking? I’m too old for this. Last night was college behavior. There is nothing wild about lying in bed with a throbbing headache and upset stomach.
It’s around mid-morning when I actually drag myself out of bed. Despite another hour’s sleep, my head still feels like an ax was planted in it. Even my normally soft pillow feels like I am sleeping on a pile of bricks.
My eyesight struggles to cope with the daylight, and I fumble tying the belt on my robe.
Nothing seems to compute.
I am dying.
Stupid Redheaded Sluts.
The balls of my feet ache with every step to the kitchen.
Never, ever, wearing those heels again.
Blisters forming from the new leather and my desire to dance the night away removed all my senses and obviously my pain threshold.
Inside the small kitchen, I turn the Keurig on and wait to drink the strongest coffee known to man. The choice of décor inside the kitchen is rather dated—yellow cupboards and one of those refrigerators which date back to the 70s. The dishtowels hanging from the oven handle have images of boats. I hadn’t realized until now that the fabric matches the tablecloth sitting on the round dining table in the middle of the room.
My coffee’s ready, and knowing I should also stomach some food, I settle for a piece of toast with a thin layer of butter plus two Advil tablets.
“Hey there, neighbor.” Aubrey’s voice travels through the back door.
I move slowly, opening the screen door, letting her in. For a Sunday morning, she looks nicely dressed in an ivory halter top and cargo skirt. Her hair is placed into a side braid away from her face. She lays her eyes on me and breaks out in laughter, the noise causing my head to throb once again, so I wince.
“Big night?”
I nod, it’s all I can muster.
“Okay, really big if vocal cords are tapped out.”
I hadn’t noticed the silver canister she’s carrying she places on the table in front of me. “Here, drink this. According to Chance, it’s the best hangover cure.”
I’m afraid to ask. “What is it?”
“Smoothie...”
“Just a smoothie?”
“With ah… raw egg.” She coughs, trying to disguise the ‘raw egg’ part.
My stomach does that thing again—a vicious swirl of sensations causing an internal struggle to keep things down. I swallow the giant lump inside my throat. I’ve done enough vomiting in the last twenty-four hours to last a lifetime.
“I thought the same thing.” Aubrey screws up her face sliding it directly underneath my mouth. “But he insisted.”
“Um… the gesture is great. Thank you but—”
“No buts, I’ll never hear the end of it.”
I wish this headache away.
Nope, didn’t work.
So, for the sake of Chance and Aubrey’s relationship, I give it a try. Either it’ll cure the raging hangover, or I will vomit trying.
Opening the canister, I block my senses not to smell the contents and drink as much as I can in one go. Surprisingly, my immediate reaction doesn’t involve me bending over the kitchen sink.
“So, tell me. Last night was—”
“I don’t remember,” I lie, avoiding the humiliation of my actions.
Aubrey scans the room in a frenzy. “Oh shit, is he here?”
“Is who here?”
“The guy you brought back home?”
“I did no such thing,” I’m quick to respond defensively. “Besides, no one would want me the way I was acting last night. Have you ever made that big of a fool out of yourself that you wish you could climb into a hole and die?”
“Ah… yes. Hasn’t everyone?”
“Not until last night…” I trail off.
“Well, you wanted to experience life outside the control of your family, and it looks to me like you’ve done a fantastic job.” Aubrey pats my shoulder as if I should be rejoicing in my foolish behavior. “You think you’re up for a late lunch? Chance is firing up the grill… or the barbie as he calls it. You can’t take the Aussie out of that boy.”
My memory comes crashing back like a tidal wave.
Oh God, shrimp on the barbie.
Aussie accent.
I bury my face in my hands, grateful my pathetic drunk self was only experienced by strangers I will never have to see again.
“Sure, I was planning a night of wallowing in self-pity, but Chance is a great cook. I’ll be there.”
The aroma curling up from the grill makes me practically drool. As it happens, Chance is smoking up some beef ribs. I am somewhat excited to try
