She wrinkles up her nose and tries to bat the glass away. “I don’t wanna.”
“Drink,” I tell her firmly. “You need something to wash out all that alcohol in your system.”
She gives me a dirty look but takes the water. “Water tastes funny here.” She glugs it, missing her mouth more often than not, and then hands it back to me. “I… I feel weird.”
“Have you thrown up yet?” I ask.
“Umm… maybe. Can’t remember.”
“Well, you might have a little bit more left inside you.”
“Oh God,” she huffs. “I hate throwing up.”
“I gotta say, you look pretty good for someone who drank the whole bar,” I laugh, taking in her immaculate makeup.
She gives me a lopsided smile and grabs my hand. Her nails dig into the skin of my wrist. “You’re really pretty,” she says, coming within two inches of my face. “Like, really pretty.”
“Thanks, that’s sweet of you to say. Although I think you’re a little too drunk to be a good judge of that sort of thing.”
“I’m drunk, not blind,” she says defensively. She releases my wrist and runs her fingers through my hair. “You’re so, so pretty. Is that natural blonde?”
I want to bat her hand away, but I decide instead to be patient. “Yeah,” I sigh. “It is.”
She nods and fingers her own dark locks mournfully. “I wish I had blonde hair.”
“There’s always time.”
She shakes her head. “Nah, you can always tell a fake blonde from a real one. Brunettes, too.”
I frown. “Not sure that’s true. I can’t ever tell.”
Her eyes stare off in the other direction. I assume I’ve lost her until she suddenly whips back around to face me, her eyes wide and fervent and super solemn, and asks, “Can we be friends?”
Her lower lip is quivering like her whole life depends on my answer to this question. I feel like I’m back in preschool, making the other little girls swear to be my BFF forever and ever.
“Um… sure?”
“I’m so lonely in this city,” she mumbles. “I’ve been here for weeks and I haven’t met anyone I like. You’re the only one I like.”
I hear the sound of a car growling down on the street. “Sure,” I tell her, getting to my feet and walking over to her curtained windows. “We can be friends. How about you tell me your name first?”
I slide the curtain to the side and take a peek at the street below. The car has stopped across the street, but now, I can see that it’s just a taxi cab. And a few seconds later, a couple climbs out, lugging sleek suitcases behind them.
“My name is Freya,” she says. “Freya Lennox.”
I let the curtain flutter closed and turn to her. “I’m Jessa Demp—well, I was supposed to be Jessa Dempsey. But that’s a long story. Jessa Gilmore is what we’re sticking with.”
Freya’s smile is bright, spreading from ear to ear. “Jessa Gilmore,” she repeats clumsily. “Pleasure to meet you.”