"Just admit you like him," Sandra said in between hiccups as tears streamed down her red cheeks. "Or more!"
"I will do nothing of the sort!" I shouted back at her, holding onto her shoulder for support before I fell onto my ass. "Because I don't."
"Liar!"
Neither of us could say anything at that point as we fell back into a fit of unstoppable laughter that left us gasping for breath. When I'd managed to suck in just enough air to speak, I said, "I can't like him."
Sandra sagged against the bar top and pressed her hand against her heaving chest. But just as she opened her mouth to reply Journey's “Don't Stop Believin’” began to blare through the speakers. With squeals of delight, we both ran to the dance floor. The night blurred into flashing neon lights, as Sandra's hands and mine lifted toward the ceiling, our voices shouting, completely out of tune, the power ballad.
I wanted to forget. One thing was certain: there was no way I was remembering this night.
Michael
It appeared that I'd fallen quite a bit in the world.
Picking up crushed pieces of popcorn by hand off the carpet on my hands and knees was far from the life of luxury and privilege and wealth I'd come to expect for myself. A mess on the floor hadn’t been a blip on my radar. It was something for the cleaning staff. I had more important things to focus on. Like subtly comparing my Rolex with my colleague’s to judge whether he was making more money than me or debating whether I wanted cream- or eggshell-coloured leather seats in my new black Maserati or watching two girls kiss in my loft while judging, with a bored sigh, which had the nicer tits over a glass of whiskey more expensive than Abbi's monthly rent.
Grease stained the knees of my designer pants, my fingers were smudged with melted chocolate, and I was sure there were still a few kernels in my hair, but I was more content than I could ever remember being as I collected the fallen popcorn. There was a vacuum in the closet, of course. But Zara was sleeping sweetly in her bedroom and I didn't want to wake her.
This effort proved to be entirely frivolous, however, because when I'd cleaned half the living room, the soft silence of the apartment exploded as the front door slammed opened. I looked up from my place on the floor to see Abbi leaning heavily against the door frame as she waved wildly to someone outside.
Abbi cupped her hands over her mouth and shouted, "I love you, bitch!"
As I remained frozen on my hands and knees, a woman in the parking lot replied, "I love you more, bitch!"
Abbi laughed as she struggled to close the door. I chuckled because it was happy laughter: carefree, unencumbered, drunken, sure, but happy laughter, nonetheless. Abbi fumbled at the lock before giving up with a sigh, tossing away her purse haphazardly, and turning toward the living room. She giggled and pointed a finger at me when she finally noticed me.
"I didn't think about you at all tonight," she said, her words slightly slurred. "Like not even at all."
I stood and dusted off my pants as she doubled over in laughter.
"Brad Pitt was there," she giggled. "I got Brad Pitt's number, you know?"
I held back my own laughter as she kicked off one shoe, slinging it across the living room, and then struggled with the second.
"Sounds like you had a fun night," I said, slipping my hands into my pockets and smiling at the dishevelled sight of her.
Her hair was a wild mess, strands stuck to her glistening forehead just the way they'd been after we danced for hours in the mountains. Pink, just like the sunset that night painted her cheeks as naturally as the sky. Her blouse was unbuttoned like she'd gotten hot and yanked at it hastily, impatiently. She reminded me so much of the girl I got swept away by. She wasn't the steady, constant stream she'd wanted me to believe since arriving in Denver. She was still a swirl of deadly rapids, a rush of deep water, a current impossible to fight against.
And that made me happy to see.
"I did have fun," Abbi said, despite her focus still clearly being directed at tugging off her second shoe. "Because I met Brad Pitt and I did not think about you at—"
Abbi lost her balance and toppled over to the floor. She rolled onto her back and laughed as I hurried to her side.
"Alright," I said, trying not to laugh, which was hard because her own was so infectious. "Let's get you to bed."
I extended a hand for her, but Abbi, with her hair spread around her and her hands clutching her heaving stomach as she laughed harder and harder, did not seem to acknowledge my offer of help.
"Sandra says I love you, but she's full of shit," Abbi said, tears streaming from her eyes. "Sandra doesn't know shit!"
"Come on," I said before leaning down and pulling Abbi over my shoulder.
I lifted her and carried her toward her bedroom.
"Wait," she said, elbows digging into my back as she propped herself up. "Is that popcorn? I want popcorn."
"You want water," I told her. "And sleep."
"I want popcorn," Abbi grumbled as I nudged open her bedroom door with my toe.
I eased it closed behind me so only a sliver of yellow light from the hallway cut into the darkness. I let Abbi slip from my shoulder and guided her gently toward the edge of the bed. She plopped down with a huff as I kneeled to undo the tangled knot she'd created in her shoelaces.
"Just because you help
