The smells of burning eggs—yes, definitely burnt eggs—and something else assaults my nose, causing me to lurch. Jumping up, I rush to the bathroom, making it to the toilet just in time for my stomach to revolt and empty itself.
When I finish and am left dry heaving, I look over to the doorway to see Tabby, a disheveled mess herself, smiling down at me. Tears have filled my eyes from puking, and she is standing there smiling at me like the cat who caught the canary.
“Good morning, sunshine.”
“Ugh,” is my simple reply as I fight to keep from heaving again.
“You look like hell, buttercup.” She smiles even bigger at me, causing the mascara streaks under her eyes to mock me further.
“You are far too perky this morning for looking just as bad as I do,” I groan at her.
“You should be perky after your midnight rendezvous in the closet.”
Involuntarily, my hand comes up to cover my mouth in embarrassment. Tabby was the one who opened the door. I bolted past her to the bathroom to clean up and make my escape.
“Don’t tell me you don’t remember. That guy was smokin’, not someone I would expect to be easily forgotten.” She moves over to the sink, wetting a washcloth before handing it to me.
“I didn’t forget him. I just … I don’t do that sort of thing. One night stands, that’s not me, Tabby.”
“Don’t beat yourself up, Livi. I know what you went through. I know how far you’ve come. This is a win for you. This is your year of empowerment and letting go.”
“This isn’t me. I don’t go off with strangers.” The more I think on it, the more my mind swirls. I hunch over the toilet again, releasing the last of my meager contents.
“Come on, I’ll get you some coffee. I tried to make breakfast, but I’m too hungover myself. I burned the hash-browns and the eggs. For a minute, I thought I was going to set off the smoke alarm.”
The thought of food makes my stomach churn. Seeing the change in my face, Tabby looks at me sympathetically before she walks away. I get up, slowly making my way back to her living room.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t think about how bad you might be feeling this morning. You were tossin’ them back last night, girlie.” She laughs lightly at herself.
The room spins around me as dread fills me. I really let loose last night. Just call me loosey-goosey.
What the hell was his name?
While Tabby continues chatting, her words bounce around my head like a ping pong ball with me only catching every few words.
“Totally can dance, girl.” I manage to comprehend that small fragment of whatever she is going on and on about. Why must she talk so much right now?
Dancing? No, I wasn’t dancing. I was grinding. Heck, I was practically dry humping the mystery man’s leg. I acted like such a slut. No wonder he just took me freely in a closet.
In a closet. A janitor’s closet.
And what the heck was his name?
“Hello, where are you at, Liv?”
“Huh? What?” I reply, realizing I have no idea what she has been rambling about.
“His name, what was his name?” She gasps, looking at my face. “You don’t know.”
“Holdwell, no. Coldwell, Coldwall, Caldwell. He said, ‘Call me Caldwell.’ I think,” I stammer out as my friend bursts into a fit of giggles.
I toss a throw pillow at her. “Not funny, Tabby.”
“Oh, it’s funny. It’s hilarious. Always so reserved, Livi. It’s okay to let loose and have fun, and he was most certainly fun. The way you blushed coming out, you were thoroughly satisfied.”
I shake my head, trying to shake off the thoughts of how my body reacted to him. I am such a slut.
Mortification washes over me. Last night wasn’t the first night my body reacted to physical touch. Only in my inebriated state, last night, I wanted it for myself. Consent was fucking given.
Tabby says this is empowering. Why can’t I accept that and let this help me let go of my past? Will the hold of my youth forever keep me on the outside in my future?
Damaged goods. No man wants damaged goods.
“Stop it, Liv. Don’t you be part of the double standard! Why is it okay for men to have sex for the sheer purpose of getting off, but a woman does it, and she’s a whore? No, ma’am, you are not allowed to feel guilty for last night. So what if you don’t exactly remember his name? You had a good time, had an orgasm, now move on. Call it a bucket list item; check it off, and on to the next.”
“It’s more than that and you know it, Tabby,” I say on a whisper. She knows my past. She knows not only what happened, but the mixed emotions I go through. Every time I allow myself to think back on it, I don’t know if I’m up or I am down. I need to let go and I can’t.