3. Abbie
3
ABBIE
"O h god, yes! Right there! Don't stop!"
My eyes snap open at Tessa's voice piercing through our shared wall, way too loud and enthusiastic for this hour. The headboard thumps against it in a steady rhythm, each impact making my own bed frame shudder slightly.
"You've got to be fucking kidding me." I reach for my phone from my nightstand, squinting at the harsh blue light. 7:04 AM glares back at me, mocking my desperate need for sleep after last night's late shift.
A deep male grunt joins the symphony of squeaking springs and Tessa's theatrical moans. I don't even want to know who her latest conquest is - probably someone she met last night while I was at the library studying.
"Seven in the morning." I slam my pillow over my head, pressing it against my ears. "On a Saturday." I raise my voice and repeat the thought making me more pissed by the minute, knowing full well she can't hear me over her own performance.
The wall vibrates with another thump, and I can feel my blood pressure rising. This is definitely not how I planned to start my precious weekend.
"Fuck, that’s it!"
"No sex is that good, Tess." I mutter into my mattress. "Not at seven freaking AM."
The rhythm speeds up, and Tessa's voice rises an octave. I swear she's doing this on purpose - her bedroom's big enough to use the other wall.
"Yes! Yes! YES!"
I fire off a text: I hate you so much right now
The thumping reaches its crescendo. My phone chimes almost immediately:
Sorry babe! Making up for your dry spell
At 7 AM???
The early bird gets the worm
I'm investing in noise-canceling headphones
Love youuuu
How the hell is she texting while sexing? I'll have to ask her about her technique later when I'm not so annoyed.
The kitchen floor chills my bare feet as I shuffle to the cabinet. My phone's already in hand - a bad habit I can't seem to break. The cereal box rattles as I pour, half my attention on my Instagram feed.
Scroll. Double tap. Scroll. Double-
My spoon clatters against the counter.
There he is. Chandler, at what looks like The Mill, his arm draped around a blonde in a crop top that could pass for a bra. The timestamp shows 3 AM.
"Seriously?" My voice echoes in the empty kitchen. "It's been twelve fucking hours."
The blonde's got that Instagram model look - all angles and filters, the kind of girl who probably has "wanderlust" in her bio and a feed full of acai bowls. Her perfectly manicured hand rests on his chest, head thrown back in laughter at whatever profound wisdom Chandler's surely spouting about his premium golf membership or his latest shopping spree at Brooks Brothers.
My thumb hovers over the comment box, heart pounding against my ribs. I could say something cutting. Something that would show I'm above this, maybe a casual "cute pic!" with just enough bite to let him know I've seen it. But dating him has taught me better than to feed into his games. Instead, I take a screenshot and text it to Tessa, knowing she'll have choice words about his apparent "networking" skills. At least someone will say what I'm really thinking.
Well that didn't take long.
Her response is immediate: What a basic bitch. You dodged a bullet hon.
She's right. The anger bubbling within me starts to fade as I look at my laptop, still open to the bartending application from last night. That's my future - not some frat party with watered-down drinks and daddy's credit card picking up the tab.
I close Instagram and pull up my email instead. There's already a response about the bartending position.
I read the email three times over.
"Holy fucking shit."
I run down the hall and burst through Tessa's door without knocking, waving my phone. "They want to interview me tonight!"
A yelp and rustling of sheets follows. A muscular guy I vaguely recognize from Tessa's Tinder show and tells pulls the comforter up to his chest.
"Abs, what the hell? Boundaries!" Tessa sits up, keeping herself covered but grinning. "What's got you barging in like the fucking Kool-Aid man?"
"The speakeasy! They emailed back already. Interview tonight!" My words tumble out rapid-fire. "What do I wear? Do I dress sexy? Professional? Sexy-professional?"
"Hold up." The guy - Brad? Chad? - props himself up on his elbows. "We were kind of in the middle of something."
"Shush." Tessa waves him off. "This is important. Give me two minutes to throw something on."
"Seriously?"
"Hoes before bros, baby." Tessa blows him a kiss. "You know where the door is."
He flops back on the pillow with a groan. "Unbelievable."
"Time's ticking." Tessa points to her bedside clock. "Chop chop."
I bounce on my toes by the doorway as Chad-or-Brad gathers his clothes, muttering under his breath. Tessa just beams at him, completely unbothered.
"Call me?" He asks from the doorway.
"Maybe!" Tessa's already pulling on her silk robe, waving me into the room. "Now, let's raid my closet. We're getting you that job."
"What about this?" She holds up a black mesh top that would show more skin than it covers.
"I'm interviewing at a speakeasy, not auditioning for Coyote Ugly." I push hangers aside, the metal scraping against the rod. "Besides, my boobs would fall right out of that."
"That's the point!" She tosses the top onto her growing 'maybe' pile on the bed. "You're serving drinks, not filing taxes."
"I want them to take me seriously." Another reject joins the floor pile. "Not mistake me for one of your conquests."
"Excuse you, my conquests are very successful people." Tessa digs deeper into her closet. "That investment banker last month? Total zaddy."
"Did you just say 'zaddy' unironically?"
"Focus!" She emerges with a burgundy silk blouse. "This. With your high-waisted black pants."
I hold it up against me. The neckline's lower than I usually go for, but not scandalous. "This could work."
"Trust me." Tessa smooths the fabric. "It says 'I can make you a perfect Manhattan while discussing Freud's theories on the id.'"
"Nobody wants to discuss Freud while drinking."
"Exactly why you'll be perfect." She pushes me toward her vanity mirror. "Now sit. Let me work my magic on those curls."
"Nothing too crazy."
"Please." She sections my hair with practiced movements. "When have I ever steered you wrong?"
I look at her wryly. I need to look professional, not like I’m going to be using the pole in the back room. "It's a job interview."
"It's the beginning of Abbie 2.0." She meets my eyes in the mirror. "The one who doesn't need a man to validate her existence."
"When you put it that way..." I smile despite myself. "Maybe a little crazy wouldn't hurt."