One thing Lauren has learned has learned in the trenches of dealing with her mother and her own partying life, is that no two hangovers are the same. There are definitely themes, though. There's the lingerer, which sticks around all day. There's the late-loomer, that only appears and settles in after you've been lulled into a false sense of security. There's the virtually scot-free, whereby some miracle occurs and you barely feel the damage. Then there's the slammer. That one likes to deliver an instant hit. Before you've even opened your eyes you've registered the clatter of light against your eyelids, the taste of garbage mouth, and the familiar sickly swirl of your stomach.
Looks like this morning is going to be one of those. Unfortunately, Lauren's kind of on first-name terms with the slammer after that last, dizzying summer after school ended and Vanessa went to camp and Lauren needed to fill her days and nights with anything distraction she could find until college came her way.
What Lauren is not familiar with is the bright line streaming onto her bed. Or the smell of chimney smoke and aftershave. Or the sound of footsteps on wooden floors somewhere below. Her thoughts hit pause as sigh and a shuffle of sheets emerges next to her. Oh no. She drags one eye open to see an outstretched arm and a wave of dark hair and shuts it again. No. Yep. She assesses the sleep situation: listening for slow, even breaths, registering the weighty stillness of the body next to her. But still, she doesn't feel safe until she hears that tiny snuffling snore.
Her brain and body skitter into action. Sitting up, she fights the urge to cradle her head and does a visual sweep of the room. Most of her clothes are scattered between the door and her side of the bed. It's a weird attic room with ceiling that nearly slopes to the floor on both sides. In fact, she kind of recalls knocking her head against it as they stumbled towards the bed last night. She presses her fingers to the sides of her scalp, hunting for evidence. Yep, there it is a light tenderness. Scanning the room, her gaze lands on a pile of legal textbooks and a tattered copy of Kerouac. Confirmation enough. At least it's the devil she knows.
As she pulls on layers of clothes, last night smashes its way back into her memory. The shots, the dancing, swirling in a darkened room to any song that came, reducing the world and her brain to nothing but sensations. Evan and his bottle always there, somewhere, his hand at her waist, that cocky grin. She pulls on her sweater and sighs. And here she is, in the aftermath of Baby's First Terrible College Decision. Yay.
Wary of the sounds of human life downstairs, she licks her fingers and swipes the worst of the smears of charcoal from below her eyes. The Lauren in the mirror is hollow-eyed and pale, her straightened hair now a frizz of curls around her head. The voices gets closer as she pads down the wooden stairs, boots in hand, and tiptoes along a long hallway. Maybe she'll find the front door before she finds the voices. She gets to the end of the hall and swear under her breath. The door leads to a bathroom. She turns the other way, but at the far end she can see bedspread sliding off a mattress and a pair of long feet through a half-closed door.
"Goddamit." She wraps her scarf around her neck, steels herself, and walks through the only other door. It's a large kitchen living room area. A mess of books and coffee cups and scattered mismatched cushions cover every surface.
"Well, well."
She looks up, feigning a smile and then freezes. Raf grins from his spot at the kitchen island, a cup of coffee in his hand. For a fleeting second Lauren wishes she could smack the smug smile away, snatch his coffee and run. But not even coffee is going to save this moment. There's Leyla, too, kettle in hand, one eyebrow raised, a smile teasing at her mouth.
"Small town," Lauren says, aiming for casual. It comes out as a croak.
Raf turns to Leyla. "Who knew that this is how we'd see her let her hair down."
"Raf," Leyla says, her soft voice chiding.
The fact that Leyla seems to think Lauren needs saving from this moment just makes her cheeks burn brighter. She sets her shoulders, pulls on her boots and gives them a casual smile. "It happens every now and then."
"And aren't we lucky to bear witness?" Raf teases.
"Well, bye now." Lauren gives him a sneer of a smile and turns toward what has to be the door. Her momentary cockiness dissolves at the sight of Dan, sleep ruffled and stunned.
"Lauren, what are you doing here?"
"Nothing," she mutters, digging her hands deeper into her pockets. She can feel Raf's grin searing into her back.
"Did you come to see me?"
"No, I, uh…" She hunts for the right way to say it.
"If I'd known, i would have—"
"She was visiting Evan, Dan," Leyla says gently, coming to her rescue again.
"Yes, visiting Evan," Raf says slowly, teasingly. "At 10am on a Sunday morning."
"I didn't know you even knew Evan," Dan says, rubbing at his face.
Raf hides his smirk in his coffee. Even Leyla looks slightly amused.
Why not just make the humiliation complete at this point? Lauren zips up her jacket. "Look Dan. I'm not visiting anyone," she tells him. "I got way too drunk at a party last night and slept with your roommate." She points at the ceiling. "Evan. Attic guy. Kind of a dick."
Raf chortles somewhere behind her. "Not inaccurate," she hears him whisper.
"And now," Lauren says through gritted teeth. "I am trying to make a hasty exit and none of you seem to want to let me."
"Oh, sorry," Dan mumbles, stepping back as if to get out of the way.
She feels a flicker of guilt, because he still seems genuinely confused. "Don't be sorry," she says softly as she edges past him. "I'll see you soon."
"Have a nice day, Lauren," Raf sings behind her.
Thank you for reading. I'd love to hear your thoughts so far...