Chapter Eleven #2
I bite my lip, type out, Still helping Dad with chores, y’all have fun, then mute my phone and shove it into my pocket. I don’t like lying to them, but I can’t admit the truth now. I have more pressing matters at hand.
I push open the door to what seems like a study, and as I nearly fall into the room, the smell of Lucy’s flowery perfume hits me right in my nostrils.
Bookshelves line every inch of the walls, a poufy lounge chair sits beside the cozy electric fireplace, and Lucy stands in the center of it all, her back to me.
She’s looking through the titles on the shelves, one open book already in her hand.
Her red hair is swept to one side of her neck, and she’s wearing a short black dress and bright pink heels.
It’s jarring to see her looking so good in black. She hates that color.
“Lucy?” I call out. It comes out as “Lusssy,” like I’m slurring or something. Weird. I thought you had to drink a lot more for that.
She jumps a foot in the air, slams her book shut, and spins around. Her eyes narrow. “Meera? What are you doing here?”
I put my hands inside the pockets of my baggy blue jeans and walk over to her. “I was invited, remember? After the book club meeting?”
She frowns, returning the book to the shelf. “I mean here in Seth’s parents’ library.”
The words slip out before I can decide if they’re sensible or not. “Oh, I was looking for you.”
Lucy blinks and steps back, her hip colliding against a bookshelf. She clears her throat, her head lifting an inch like it does when she’s calling on her inner cheerleader bitch. Even after all this time, I can read her like a book. “You’ve been bothering me a lot more than usual lately,” she says.
I bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself from retorting. Something swirls in my belly—is it anger? Resentment? Whatever it is, I have to hold it back.
“I should get back to the party,” Lucy says, when I continue my silence. She gulps and takes a step forward, then adds, “Sushant is probably wondering where I am.”
Look at her, mentioning the boy I love in front of me. The nerve. I walk closer to her, my nostrils flaring, but when I open my mouth to tell her how much I despise her, words don’t come out.
Vomit does. Right where Lucy’s standing.
Lucy
Having anxiety means you’re jumpy at the smallest of things and your body reacts to keep you safe before you can even think about what’s happening.
Which is helpful in times like right now, because I instinctively push back against the bookshelf, and the puke narrowly misses the front of the designer heels I found at the thrift store. Not that I’ve told anyone that.
Meera finishes retching and stands up straight, teetering slightly as she wipes her mouth with the back of her shaking hand. Eyes wide, she steps backward and lets out a nervous chuckle. “I’m so sorry. How expensive are those shoes?”
In all the years of our friendship, and now nonfriendship, I’ve only lied to Meera a few times. “I got them from Goodwill,” I blurt out, carefully hopping to the side of the puke. “But they are real designer shoes. Just…secondhand.”
Pink dusts Meera’s cheeks. I bet she can tell I’m embarrassed, and she actually feels bad about it. “Oh. Well, at least I didn’t puke right on them.”
I nod slowly. “Yeah. Thanks a lot.”
She stares at me like she’s trying to figure out if I’m being sarcastic, then looks around the room. “I should—I should clean this up.” As she turns, a guttural sound escapes her lips. She clamps a hand over her mouth and runs out of the library.
I pause, deliberating, then stomp over to the nearest bathroom. I can’t in good conscience desert her, and I doubt her friends got invited to the party. She must be all alone.
My phone buzzes as I look around the hallway. Dad, the caller ID says. I roll my eyes and hit the reject button. I don’t need anything else fueling my anxiety today, thanks.
When I swing the unlocked bathroom door open, there she is, heaving over the toilet.
I gently pull her black hair away from her face, careful not to let my touch linger over the soft skin on the back of her neck.
God, she smells incredible, the puke notwithstanding.
Guess she never switched her coconut shampoo.
I help her up after she flushes and give her the bottle of mouthwash from the medicine cabinet. “I didn’t know you started drinking,” I say, leaning my weight against the wall and crossing my arms over my chest.
Meera spits out the mouthwash. She stares at my reflection in the mirror and grips both edges of the sink with her hands.
Her black nail polish is chipping. She never did like any other color.
“There’s a first time for everything,” she answers, scowling.
Then she turns to me, and a radiant smile lights up her face. “You know what this reminds me of?”
I know the exact memory she’s thinking about, but I feign confusion. “What?”
“Your first time drinking.” Meera puts a hand to her mouth.
I wonder if she needs to puke again, but it’s only to contain her laughter.
“Freshman year. We crashed Brittney’s party, and you were in the bathroom for twenty minutes, throwing up.
I held back your hair, made you coffee, and helped you sneak into your house without your mom figuring out you were drunk. ”
That had been a fun night. The next morning, not so much, although I did wake up to an Advil and a glass of water on my bedside table.
I remember every minute of that night, right down to Meera’s fingers brushing mine when she handed me the coffee mug.
I didn’t know back then why I felt shivers at her touch. I know now.
Meera was so good to me. I never deserved her friendship, especially not after how I broke it—and broke her heart too. My throat closes, and I exhale out a lie. “I can’t seem to remember that.”
Her lips part, and she frowns. Then she shakes her head, smiles, and reaches for the doorknob. As she walks out, she says, “It’s nice to see you wearing my favorite color for a change.”
The door slams shut. I stay back for a few minutes, holding in my tears and running my hands over my black dress. She noticed what I’m wearing. She said I look nice. She—she’s being kind.
Don’t, Lucy. Don’t you dare. I splash water on my face, careful not to wash off my makeup, and walk back into the loud, aggravating party to distract myself, so I can go back to thinking straight. Literally.