21. Indie
INDIE
AUGUST
There are moments when you truly regret going out. When you feel your social battery drain in real time while you’re at a bar or club, and this enormous wave of sadness and exhaustion rolls over you hard enough to kill your mood.
Back in college, I would order another cheap drink to combat the anxiety. Alcohol softened the edges of that feeling, which isn’t healthy, but that’s another one of those lessons you learn before your brain fully develops.
Petra and her friends were like an IV drip of direct warmth and confidence to my system.
There was never a single moment where I felt like an outlier the way I’d feared. Petra told me they had all known each other for at least five years, so I kept waiting for the moment when they’d slip into some inside joke, all laugh, and I’d laugh too just to keep from feeling left out.
It never came.
Lupita, Genevieve, Zuri, and Petra were incredible—warm, sharp, funny, and so deeply kind.
Lupita was from Spain but lived in Portugal with her family and worked as the CFO of some tech company I absolutely could not keep up with when she explained what they actually did, except that it clearly made her a lot of money.
Genevieve was a Fashion Buyer from France, but she traveled to New York all the time and told me, since I’d be living so close, “We must have lunch together when I’m in town, ma poupée.
” She smoked like a chimney and reminded me so much of Phoebe in the way she could shut down any hungry man who approached our table with a single look.
Zuri was born in Ethiopia, immigrated to Canada as a child, and now works as a Private Equity lawyer for a big-name firm in Toronto. Despite her high-stress corporate job, she was like a Disney Princess—unbelievably kind, musical voice, and ethereal beauty.
And Petra, who seemed to be the sun they all revolved around. She had deliberately chosen a restaurant with gluten-free options for me, and the care touched me in ways I couldn’t fully name.
I felt included. I felt wanted. I felt folded into their embrace, especially after one martini, when I spilled everything about my relationship and the women listened in collective horror.
Lupita burst into rapid Spanish, picking up her knife and gesticulating so wildly with it that I winced when she carved into her steak with the precision of a surgeon.
Zuri asked, completely seriously, whether I had considered suing for the financial losses from the vacation.
Meanwhile, Genevieve and Petra debated ways to make Teddy and his family pay, which ranged from a glitter-bomb package to maybe an actual bomb package.
I couldn’t help it; I burst out laughing.
Loud, carefree, true belly laughs that made them burst into laughter, too.
It was so nice to just vent, to have someone listen to me without judgment, to advocate for me in ridiculous ways like bombing Dawn’s house with glitter—the actual bomb would be a step too far, no matter how much I hate Dawn.
After dinner, we walked through London together, Zuri’s arm linked through mine, Petra bouncing ahead and singing along to music spilling out of different pubs, while Genevieve and Lupita danced in the street like they owned it.
Half-buzzed, we stumbled into a drag show, did shots, and after that, the night blurs.
Now, I wake up with a killer pounding in my head from the liquor and cheeks sore from smiling and laughing so hard.
When I reach for my phone to check the time, I see that it’s almost three in the afternoon. Then I see that I’ve been added to the girls’ group chat.
When I open the photo dump Genevieve sent, I don’t even feel embarrassed.
There I am, very drunk, grinning so wide my face looks split in half, eyes glassy, cheek smushed against my equally drunk new friends at the pub. There are even pictures of us with the drag queens, their names bubbling up through my hangover and making me laugh—Lexa Preaux and Amanda Tory Meating.
I scroll through the rest of the pictures when a text from Petra pops up.
Are you alive, darling?
Barely, I type back, as I drag myself out of bed and stumble straight into the shower, cranking the water as hot as it will go.
By the time I’m drying off, another message comes in.
Lunch? Greasy food cures hangovers.
Smiling, I give her a thumbs up, and she sends the address and a time to meet. As I’m brushing my teeth in the mirror, I smile around my toothbrush, feeling excited despite being severely hungover.
I feel alive.
“Hair of the dog?” Petra giggles at me as I find her at a table.
She already has an espresso martini waiting for me, along with some greasy fries—or chips.
“Yes, please,” I say, taking a sip of the drink. I don’t really like coffee, but I do enjoy an espresso martini.
Petra pouts at me. “It’s unfair you look like that, hungover,” she grumbles.
I frown and glance down at myself. I pulled on a pair of jeans, my softest cardigan, and tossed my hair up in a claw clip. I looked like death warmed up, and Petra sits in front of me, cute dress, perfectly done hair and makeup, looking like a damn Greek goddess.
I give her a solemn look.
“I’m sorry, Petra, but as a doctor, I’m going to have to recommend you get your eyes checked. Have you seen yourself?”
“Charmer,” she giggles with a wink.
I smirk at her and take another sip of my drink.
“I’ll have to let my husband know he’s got competition if he doesn’t treat me right,” she glances over my shoulder before leaning in to whisper. “Though that bloke over there hasn’t taken his eyes off you since he walked through the door.”
“Who?” I ask, confused.
She gestures with her head over my right shoulder. Not even trying to be subtle, I twist around to follow her line of sight. There are a couple of men at the bar, but they’re completely wrapped up in the football game on television.
No, there’s only one person she could be talking about.
The green-eyed man staring right at me.
My whole body goes still.
“Indie?” Petra’s voice sounds far away now. “Are you alright?”
I blink a few times, trying to see if my eyes are betraying me.
My ex-boyfriend is sitting across the pub, four thousand miles away from where I left him, giving me an awkward wave and an even more awkward smile.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”