I do know, however, what keeps me up—the constant reminder of the horror on Quinton’s face that plays on a loop every time I close my eyes. And the realization that not only did I kiss a guy who is not attracted to me, but I kissed a guy I work with. Like a fucking creep! If I was a man and drunk kissed a female employee I would be fired and publicly shamed . . . and rightfully so!
Ugh.
I’ve had moments where I wasn’t my biggest fan, but I think this might be my baseline for self-loathing.
I’m terrified to check my phone and see missed calls from work or worse . . . Quinton. I’d much rather hide under my comforter for the next one hundred years, but I also need to know if I’ve been fired and/or have a sexual harassment case being lodged against me.
But even though I don’t want to, I tap in my passcode. I’m not even going to attempt facial recognition with smeared makeup and a puffy hangover face. There are no missed calls. I’m taking that as a good sign that Quinton hasn’t filed a formal complaint . . . yet.
There are, however, four new text messages. All from Brynn, Liv, Marie, and even Vonnie. If I wasn’t mortified and in the midst of hating myself, I’d be flipping out that communication with Vonnie, aka My New Best Friend™, has progressed to text, but I do hate myself, so I only get a tiny bit excited.
The messages almost mirror each other.
Brynn: Don’t think the balloons distracted me enough to not see you leave with Q! You bring the details, I’ll provide the whiskey.
I almost respond that while I appreciate the offer, she’d have a better chance of catching me with a hangover remedy and greasy burger.
Marie: Heard through the grapevine that you hitched a ride with Quinton. Thought you hated him? What is that about? Meet at HERS. Need deets ASAP!
Liv: Brynn told me that she saw your ass getting mighty comfy in Quinton’s car. I knew there was something more going on there! I’ll be at HERS at three. Be there or expect me to lead the gossip brigade to your front door.
That, I know, is not a threat but a promise. It makes me wonder what my life would’ve been like if my dad had just homeschooled me like he threatened that time I got a D in sixth grade. Or at least if I hadn’t introduced Liv and Marie to each other.
Vonnie: Biiiitch! I knew if you put up with Donny’s ass that you liked Q! I want to hear everything! Be at HERS . . . or else.
I want to laugh at the “or else” part of Vonnie’s message, but I saw her in full mom mode at the game. And while I have made some questionable life choices in the last twelve hours, underestimating Vonnie will not be one of them.
I add them all to a group text; my head hurts too much to stare at the bright screen any longer than necessary.
Elliot: What happened to snitches get stitches? I’ll be there at three, but not because I’m listening to any of you. I have to go pick up my car, which is close to HERS, and I need bar food.
I don’t even get the chance to put my phone down and think of the ramifications that could come from these four women melding their powers together before my phone chimes with a new text message.
Vonnie: Oh shit. The last time we had denial this strong, it was Brynn swearing there was nothing between her and Maxwell. I’m not missing a second of this! And I think I’m bringing Poppy. I wanna hear more about the balloons TK was bitching about on Instagram.
Yup.
This was a mistake.
My phone chimes again and I almost don’t check it. I mean, a girl can only take so much. But this girl is also nosy AF and I do really want to meet Poppy.
But when I look at my phone, it’s not the long string of names anymore. It’s just one. The one that I don’t want to see ever again. Just seeing his name causes my face to burn and my stomach to churn. And because I’m an adult, I do the mature thing. I clear the message without looking at it and pretend that it never happened.
Avoidance. That’s my superpower.
—
SINCE I ALREADY planned to work from home today, the hours between me ignoring Quinton until I have to go get my car fly by. I send out press emails about last night, wrap up any lingering invoices, and check with Quinton’s website woman to make sure everything is set to handle the amount of visitors he might get as he continues to announce more charities.
Everything is going so well that I forget about what a clusterfuck I’ve turned my life into. When I’m in the zone, nothing else matters. Football players have helmets to protect them, I have an abundance of emails. Same thing.
Then my alarm goes off and I’m snapped back to reality that means my afternoon is about to take a turn for the wild.
Lucky for me, my Uber driver seems to read my mood when I climb into the back of his car and doesn’t say anything to me for the entire fortyish-minute drive downtown. I think about going to the Rue to see if Jen is there but then I remember the thing with her and Donny and decide not to press my—already bad—luck. Seeing Quinton would be bad. Seeing Donny would be worse.
When I get into my car, I contemplate ditching everyone at HERS and instead buying myself a dozen donuts and renting myself a hotel room until all of this blows over. But that seems extreme . . . even for me. So instead, I ignore the little voice in the back of my head telling me
