Rays of light spilled into my bedroom the same moment I regretted misplacing my trust in that fourth tequila shot last night.
"Just let me die," I declared to no one in particular.
"Could you be any more overdramatic?" a voice I had hoped to Merlin wasn't still there replied.
Cold air brushed over my bare legs as the covers were ungraciously yanked off the bed – my bed. I would have felt the goose bumps if I could feel anything at all. Besides shame, obviously. How could I let this happen again?
"It's unethical to let me live like this." I decided that ignoring the elephant in the room, albeit in the form of an incredibly attractive man, was not going to help. I lay there, struggling with how I was going to entertain my unexpected morning guest. He never exactly stayed for breakfast, and I had no clue how to not burn the place down without a wand.
"It's unethical how long you went without shaving your legs."
I shot up, ignoring the pounding in my head that had kept me horizontal in the first place. "How was I supposed to know you were going to have another breakdown? So sorry I didn't prepare for the pity sex."
"You're hot when you're bitchy."
"If only I thought so about you," I murmured so only I could hear.
Disregarding any sense of modesty, he stepped over the pile of last night's clothes – which, unfortunately for my self-esteem, included skinny jeans that wouldn't fit over my big toe – and walked over to the window to draw the curtains. This was the first time I saw him naked while sober, noting the scorpion tattoo on his right shoulder blade that I failed to spot the last three times we "rendezvoused" this past year.
Okay, four. I'm so pathetic.
Hoping to provoke a reaction, I asked, "Why did Emma break up with you this time?"
"Same reason we broke up the other five times." Merlin, I slept with him six times? "She doesn't think I'm marriage material." He used air quotes for emphasis before he pulled a shirt over his head. Maybe I wouldn't have to ask him the pancakes or waffles question after all.
"And clearly you running into my bed every time you two have a falling out is proving her wrong," I responded, amused at the sight of him struggling with those stupid pants.
"Hey," he started before pausing to search for his other sock, "we aren't together." He peeled the aforementioned sock off the lampshade on my nightstand. "Technically. It's not cheating."
"Then why doesn't she know we've slept together? Normally a few hours after you two practically announce divorce," I added.
"I'm protecting you."
"She's eight stone."
"Of pure evil."
I ignored his remark, as it would not be wise to badmouth his on-again, off-again girlfriend. This time tomorrow he'll be waking up in her bed again, so keeping mum on anything Emma related was my way of staying neutral. You know, as neutral as you can be for consistently sleeping with the same man who only remains single for 24 hours.
"I have to, uh, shower."
Mirroring my awkward tone, he suggested, "So I have to, uh, go?"
In the same second I thought that maybe, just maybe, he wanted to stay, that this was going to turn into something more than ten hours of drunken mistakes… his cellphone rang.
Suddenly realizing that he was very much clothed while I was very much not, I wrapped a sheet around myself and scrambled out of bed. "You better get that." I tried to hide the hurt in my voice as I made my way to the bathroom. As I opened the door, I turned to face him. "And see yourself out before you answer. I don't want to be in the same vicinity as you when you lie to her about where you were last night."
Without a word, I slammed the door so I wouldn't have to hear him say, "Em. Hi. I'm so glad you called."
"Vic, this is why you don't tap Muggles." Dominique was, judging by her tone, exasperated over my life choices. The younger sister with a much more structured life, Dom knew how to subtly imply that she had her shit together. For example, she planned this brunch. Considering I was on my third mimosa (hair of the dog, right?) while she opted for coffee because Merlin, Vic, tomorrow's a Monday, I left all scheduling up to her. "I mean, when they piss you off, you can't even hex them. What's the point?"
"What's the point of being with wizards?" I asked slyly, smiling into the brim of my glass. "We're related to, like, all of them."
Dom, ever the logical one, considered this with a shrug. "Good point. I'll be sure to use that the next time Nana Weasley pesters me about being single."
"It's better to be single than to be your coworker's friend with benefits."
"You realize you can end that any time, yeah?" Dom asked sarcastically. "And I reckon you could even do that before he gets back with Emily."
"Emma," I corrected. "And it's too late. They're probably having missionary sex as we speak."
"Then quit," she joked, knowing my only response would be indignation.
"I worked way too bloody hard to let Logan drive me away. I'm getting that Managing Editor position if it kills me."
Ever since I could remember, I had hopes of becoming a writer for the Prophet's Muggle Liaison section. Getting that job required an expansive knowledge of Muggle politics and pop culture – topics in which my Muggle Studies courses only scratched the surface. As soon as I finished Hogwarts, I delved right into the world of Muggle journalism. Due to my inexperience – I certainly could not put a Hogwarts professor as a reference – I settled for unpaid internships at various news rags and a glamorous life of living at home with my parents. While all my friends were selling their souls to the Ministry or getting paid to play Quidditch, I was forced to leave my wand at home and take the Tube to get to work. Like Maman always said, I never liked taking the easy route – a sensibility that unfortunately seeped into my love life. Those internships eventually paid off. Having adequately padded my non-magical resume by the time I was 20, I got a job at a local newspaper and traipsed off to live in Muggle London, finally free from the shackles of Shell Cottage and the confused looks from my parents.
As a Copy Editor, I had to fight off the stares I received when coworkers learned my age. Rumors invaded the office; one day I was a prodigy that graduated from Oxford a year early with three degrees, the next I slept my way in (which was all the more amusing to me when I learned that my boss, Rory Sayer, was gay). Guess which rumor stuck? The gossip, however, was not totally false; Rory was the reason I snagged the job, just not for the reason some jealous employees assumed. A Squib whom I met for career advice as a sixth year after I told the Headmistress my plans of working the Muggle beat, Rory sympathized with the obstacles I had to go through to acclimate to a world that was not mine. While other bosses would never hire someone with no proof of education (unless it was for free, of course) and laughably basic computer skills, Rory felt like he owed me a shot. I was forever indebted and thankful. So thankful, in fact, that I stayed on after he promoted me to Chief Copy Editor after two years.
And cue my replacement. Logan Bleeding Bell. Fresh out of Cambridge – and so much more mature looking than the 22 years he was claiming, according to all the salacious cougars I worked with – he got the Copy Editor position scandal free, a point he always liked to make any chance I was in earshot. Oh, Vicky, I'm so lazy. I only had to blow two blokes to land this gig. Three years later, and a promotion so close I could almost see the new line on my CV, the only thing that changed between us were our job titles (he became Chief Copy Editor when I took on the position of City Editor) and the amount of times we slept together.
Logan had 25 years to grow up, and he chose to ignore every single birthday. His perfectly maintained six pack, perfectly coifed jet black hair, and perfectly sparkling blue eyes allowed him to be a perfect arse. He reveled in his lothario status because women allowed it – after all, he was the definition of tall, dark, and handsome. It made for better snogging, better fights, and better sex. He loved Emma, until she got too serious and he had to break her heart just to remind her how easy he was to lose. Then it was snogging, fights, and sex (not always in that order) with me. Until, inevitably, it wasn't anymore.
Nervously playing with the hem on her skirt, Dom pressed, "But… you can give that application to the Prophet a go. You have more than enough ex–"
"It's just not in the cards right now," I cut in, more sternly than I intended. I was comfortable at West End Report. I was comfortable with the steady stream of promotions Rory was offering. I was comfortable with the rivalry I had with Logan that made me a better writer; with having to hide my identity from coworkers and lovers (even if it was just the one); with having my own life that I built without the help of any of my famous relatives.
I was proud. But I was also scared. Because I certainly couldn't go back home and face him.
"How about you let me get this one, yeah?" Dom said after the bill mercifully came, cutting through the tense moment of silence between us. Remembering that I bought Logan shots last night ("Oh Emma is just the wooooorst, boo.") and thankful that Grandpa Arthur taught all of us how to use Muggle money, I allowed it with a gracious smile.
"You know I'll be visiting Hogsmeade soon, anyway. I'll catch up with everyone before Christmas for once!" I did my best to sound bright and cheery, ignoring the dread I felt when I remembered that Louis would almost definitely want to invite a less than desirable guest. "There's no way we're celebrating your 22nd here."
"We better not be. I'm tired of having to find intricate places to Apparate. I almost landed in a rubbish bin this morning."
"You could always take the Tube."
The expression I received must have been akin to how people looked when our parents were younger and it was announced that Voldemort was back in power.
"Point taken," I responded with a laugh.
Dom wrapped a scarf around her neck while complaining about how chilly it was becoming. I took a look around the quaint al fresco café Dom chose for our monthly meet-ups. Crisp autumn leaves littered the floor so purposefully that I would not have been surprised if the staff had bought them for decoration. Just like Dom, it was a little pompous with just enough charm to make up for it. Her change was delivered on a wooden slab with Gigi's Trattoria engraved on it. How unnecessary.
"How cute," she proclaimed, grabbing her notes and putting them in her wallet – not before taking a painstaking amount of time removing the crinkles and putting them in monetary order.
It was no wonder she was the only one who genuinely seemed to enjoy Uncle Percy's company.
"Well, until November, mon amour," I said, hugging my sister as tightly as I could. The worst part about living in West End was how little I got to see her, Louis, and my parents. With Louis finishing up his last year at Hogwarts and Dom working for the Department of Magical Transportation, we had birthdays and holidays – and not always all of them. All three of our lives became very hard to mesh the older we became. I had become so immersed in the Muggle world that I sometimes forgot to bring my wand with me when I visited home. Whereas one was an energetic 18 year old obsessed with Quidditch and the other was a by the books practitioner of magical law enforcement.
Dom studied the somber look on my face. "I know you won't admit it because you're more stubborn than Maman and Uncle Ron put together, but I can tell you're lonely. November 3rd. The Hogs Head. We'll get you so drunk you won't even realize that Teddy is there."