We’re rounding hour three of shots and beer bongs and mimosas and Everett has essentially gone ghost. I’d texted and Snapchatted and even tried to FaceTime him, all which have gone unanswered. I know he’s with Alli’s parents, but exacerbated by all of the shots and beers and mimosas, I’ve grown irate at the fact that I’m being ignored to appease them. Irate and slightly irrational.
Okay, completely irrational.
There are moments of clarity I have while drunk. Moments where I already know I’m going to regret my drunk behavior in the morning. The moment where I say a silent apology to my sober self that I’ll have to deal with the aftermath of acting like a complete asshole. Or in this case, the psycho girlfriend that guys so eloquently call us.
That moment comes after the second text.
And then again after the third call.
I’m drunk.
And angry.
And hurt.
And drunk.
And I have more than enough self-awareness to know that it’s a dangerous combination.
“Why…” I sniffle as I sit on the edge of my bathtub. “Why aren’t you here? Or taking my calls?” The tears slide down my cheeks as the devastation I’m trying to keep locked away seeps through my brain and pours from my mouth. “How long does brunch have to be? It’s been three hours and…can you just come be with me?” I sniffle again. “I hate this so much. I hate that I’ve been reduced to…this. An…afterthought. I miss being important. Even before we were together, I knew I was important, and now…now you won’t even take my calls.” My lip trembles just as fast footsteps move up the stairs and into my bedroom and then my two best friends are standing in front of me, holding cups full of liquor looking at me with sad and angry eyes.
Skyler holds her hand out as Peyton speaks. “Give us the phone, now.”
“Call me.” My voice shakes as I press the end button and squeeze my eyes together.
“You’re better than this, Leigh,” Skyler says.
“Better than my pain? I don’t think that’s possible.” A flair of jealousy ripples through me as I think about Skyler with her perfect relationship and Peyton with her contentedness over being single. They’re both happy with their uncomplicated relationship status while I spend so much time feeling nauseous and jealous and anxious and sad and betrayed.
There’s that word I try not to think about because it is a mistake. And he doesn’t remember. And we weren’t together. There are so many complications and gray areas that make me feel like I shouldn’t feel betrayed because he’d never betray me.
But it doesn’t stop the way I feel because feelings are beyond reason and rationale, which I barely have any of in the first place after three shots of tequila.
“Give me your phone.” Peyton takes a long sip from her straw and narrows her gaze before tucking a sleek blonde strand behind her ear.
“No, I’m fine. No more calls.” I try to protest.
“Yeah, bullshit,” Peyton argues. “You’re going to hate yourself tomorrow.”
I swallow, hearing what I already know spoken aloud. “Why isn’t he answering?”
“Because he’s at some Stepford family brunch and he’s got manners!” Peyton says and I can hear the exasperation in her voice. “Maybe Alli took his phone. Maybe they took him into some dungeon in Virginia with no service and have him tied up in the corner where they plan to keep him until Alli gives birth. Take your pick.” Peyton shrugs.
“Pey! You’re not helping.” Skyler puts her hand up and sits next to me on the tub, putting her hand over mine. “Everett adores you. He’s probably sitting at the table, thinking about you, but he doesn’t want to be on his phone the whole time. It’s like sitting in a class where you know the teacher is a stickler about texting. Now imagine the attention is completely on you. He’s probably being grilled and questioned and that means he can’t entertain all of your drunk texts and calls,” she says, and even in my drunken stupor I can tell she’s placating me slightly.
“But what if I needed him?” He’s never not…been there.
“Babe, he was answering here and there at first, but you’re drunk and he knows that, and he knows that I’m here and Peyton is here and Pat and Dave are here.”
“But he’s not here.” I pout.
“And is calling him nonstop going to change that?” Sincerity radiates from her brown eyes like an older sister I never had, despite being six months younger than me.
“Phone.” Peyton presses and finally I acquiesce, placing my phone in her hand.
“Tell me if he calls or texts or…”
“Yes, yes whatever.” She slides it into her back pocket of her jeans. “Now come on, let’s go whip the guys at flip cup.”