“Here she is, Miss America!” Stacy sings as she walks a scowling Morgan back to the kitchen table.
Wrapped in a crisp white bathrobe with her hair in a towel, Morgan plops down heavily onto a chair, mascara streaked down her cheeks from the shower. “I did not need gallons of ice cold water dumped over my head,” she sulks, though her voice is much less slurred now.
Maybe cold showers do help sober people up.
I’m going to have to start forcing Morgan and Stacy to shower after wine Wednesdays.
“Here, this will warm you up,” I grin, passing her a steaming cup of coffee with just a splash of skim milk in it.
“Stacy didn't make it, did she?” Morgan asks, carefully inspecting the coffee.
When I laugh and shake my head, she takes a sip, savoring the roasted beverage. Sighing, she sets the mug down. “Am I drinking alone tonight?” Morgan teases.
I get up to refill her mug. “I have to get up early for my first day on the job, remember?”
“And I’ve got classes,” Stacy chimes in. “I’m heading off to bed.”
“You both can go, I’m fine now,” Morgan promises, taking another sip of her brew. “I’m going to stay up a little while and catch up on my Netflix.”
We all say goodnight, parting ways. Morgan heads to curl up on the couch while Stacy and I wander to our separate bedrooms.
Like the rest of the apartment, my room is small, barely more than a closet really. Pictures of Stacy, Morgan, and me cover the walls, my bed tucked into the corner. I strip my clothes off slowly and flop onto the mattress. The springs creak, groaning under the weight of my body. The mattress is worn down but fitted precisely to my body so that when I curl up onto my side, it’s like curling up into someone’s gentle and comfortable embrace.
Who needs a man when you have a cozy bed?
My roommates bring home guys occasionally, though rarely the same one twice. Even though I like being independent, sometimes I find myself envying them. I wish I could be that cavalier about dating.
It’s not like I’m a prude.
I wouldn’t mind being with a man every now and then, it’s just that I don’t know how I would even begin to balance my time. I’ve focused on working for so long that I don’t think I’d be good at dating if I even bothered to try.
Maybe I’m so quick to reject men’s advances because I’m worried that I’d be bad at it.
Or maybe my margarita was just stronger than I thought.
I close my eyes, inhaling the familiar scent of my pillows. Outside, the storm finally arrives and the rain begins to patter against the windows. The rhythm of the raindrops striking glass is delicate at first but grows in intensity, like tiny pebbles battering against the apartment. I peer over toward the window, watching rain streak over the glass panes until my eyelids begin to grow heavier and heavier, black unconsciousness fuzzing the edges of my vision.
In the living room, the muted sound of some drama on the television drifts under my door, along with the sound of Morgan’s laughter. Tugging my blanket higher over my head and smiling into my pillow, I drift asleep.
Though I’d been hoping for a night of restful slumber, my dreams are sporadic and strange. I dreamt that I was flying, soaring through the rain with the water streaking over my face.
At first it was delightful, but then the rain became ice cold and hard as hail and thick yellow bolts of lightning grew closer and closer until I was screaming in panic.
In an instant, I stopped flying and my body hurtled down toward the ground.
It was over New York City that I’d been flying, the buildings familiar even as I plummeted farther and farther, my stomach in my throat.
Before I could crash into the street, strong arms caught me and set me carefully down. When I looked up, it was Donovan Dunn who’d saved me. He grinned at me, his handsome smile making my heart race like a horse out of the gates. He held out his hand toward me, waiting for me to take it, but I hesitated.
“Come on, Chloe,” he whispered in that deep tenor of his that makes my knees weak. “I know you want to. Why resist?”
Unable to deny him anymore, I slowly began to reach my palm toward his when he abruptly vanished, only the sound of his cold laughter remaining. People swarmed by me as I looked desperately up and down the street for the missing man. Anxiety mounted in me, my hands cupping my mouth as I shouted his name.
I woke tangled in blankets on the floor beside my bed, gasping for breath and my hair plastered to my forehead. Hurriedly, I rub my hands against blurry eyes and make sure that I’m safely on solid ground again. I don’t usually recall my dreams so vividly but I have a feeling this one is going to stay with me for some time.
Behind me, there’s a light knocking on the door. “You okay in there, Clo?” Stacy calls, voice muffled by the thin wood of the door. She jiggles the lock, trying to get in. “You’ve been making all sorts of crazy noises in there.”
“I’m fine,” I pant, climbing to my feet.
To my surprise, I’m shaking. The room spins slightly, my feet stumbling over the carpet. I settle back down onto the corner of my bed, resting my head in my hands and trying to wake myself up. Even though I feel like I’ve been asleep for years, at the same time I feel like I haven’t slept in years either. I’m both groggy and exhausted—the worst combination for my first day at work.
“Okay,” Stacy continues, jiggling the doorknob again as if I would have miraculously unlocked it in the last three seconds. “I was starting to get worried about you. Did you fall off the bed?”
“What? Of course not!”
“That’s a yes if I ever heard one. Let me in, I want to make sure you don’t have a concussion.”
I grab a robe and pull it over my shoulders, unlocking my bedroom door for her.
Stacy flounces in, dressed in a perfectly collegiate cardigan and denim combo. It’s almost surprising that she’s up and ready so early. She usually likes to sleep in as late as possible.
“You excited for your classes today or something?” I ask, turning to my closet and beginning to rifle through my clothes.
Even though I’d wanted to lay out the perfect first day outfit last night, I hadn't had time after returning from Club Thorn to prep anything.
Should I wear a pencil skirt or some professional looking slacks?
Which one would make me look more permanently employable?
The first impression is the most important, after all.
My interview had just been with the HR department, but if I had any chance to be around the actual advertisers, I wanted them to remember me. I’d be pitching my work to them at some point if I had any luck.
“No,” Stacy answers, her tone curious. “Why?”
I shrug, stepping in front of my mirror and holding a dark blue skirt to my hips, then black slacks. I’d only just started making up my mind on which I liked better when I realized I was going to have figure out a pair of shoes that would match as well. I turn to find some when I notice Stacy still standing there. It almost startles me.
What is wrong with me this morning?
Maybe I did hit my head.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Stacy asks.
“Yeah, I’m fine. I’m just startled to see you up and at ‘em so early. You usually sleep in. I feel like I never see you in the mornings.”