“Um, Molly?” says Olivia. “You’re sort of zigzagging.”
“Oh! Oops.”
“You sure you’re okay?”
“I’m totally okay.”
“Okay . . .” She bites her lip. “Hey, do you mind if I call Evan really quickly? I want to catch him before he goes to bed.”
Here are the facts about Evan Schulmeister: he falls asleep at ten thirty, with earplugs and a retainer, and wakes up at five to run three miles. Every day.
“Totally, totally fine,” I say. I think I’m saying totally a lot. I’m totally saying totally a lot. This must be a special feature of Drunk Molly. Just like regular Molly, but with 150 percent more totallys.
Olivia pulls out her phone and walks a few steps ahead of me, and I take my phone out, too. My head feels funny: light and spinny and wobbly, but my brain still works well enough to text.
Abby what are you doing rightt now? I really really kiss you!!!
Haha miss you not kiss you, I add.
And now I’m walking along the bridge, and Olivia’s still talking to Evan—even though she’s seeing him on Sunday. I mean, she’s literally driving up to Pennsylvania to see him in two days, and she’s still cradling the phone like every second on the line is precious stolen time.
That Evan Schulmeister.
So I just amble along behind her, pulling out my phone every few seconds to see if Abby’s written back. Which she hasn’t. I text her again.
ABBY MY LOVE WHERE ARE YOU?
Then, I almost bump into someone. But I feel my phone buzz, finally. And it’s Abby! Except it’s not actually Abby, because the text says: Hey! Sorry—this is Simon. Abby fell asleep. Want me to wake her up?
Oh, hi Simon!!! That’s okay
This is her cousin Molly btw
I check the spelling a few times. I don’t want to be incoherent, Drunk Molly for my first conversation with Simon. THE Simon. Abby’s new best friend. My replacement. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.
Ha.
Yeah. It’s not funny.
Hi, cousin Molly! Simon writes.
I can’t believe she’s asleep already, I say.
I KNOW! She fell asleep watching Harry Potter. Side-eye emoji.
I write back frantically. WHAT? That is the worst. She is the worst
She’s a squib, he writes. Which makes me smile all the way to Woodley Park.
Olivia doesn’t hang up until we step onto the escalator, and she’s quiet for a few minutes. She’s always like that after talking to Evan. I think it takes her a minute to shift back to the regular world. Probably because he’s such a sex god. REIN IN YOUR HOTNESS, EVAN SCHULMEISTER. For Olivia’s sake. For the world’s sake.
But we get on a train almost right away, and we even get a seat together. It’s a miracle. It’s the neighbor guy from Kimmy Schmidt saying it’s a miracle. It’s that miraculous. Except I think I need to vomit, and that’s probably not allowed. Not on the Metro. Not on Olivia. I breathe in and out until the wave of nausea passes.
Just a few more stops.
I keep replaying the night in my mind, trying to make sense of it, and my hand trails across my breastbone. All that skin. Patty calls it “décolletage.” It’s kind of a sexy thing, even though sexy isn’t a word I usually associate with myself. But I kind of felt like that tonight. I actually think Hipster Will was flirting. With me.
The train passes Rhode Island Avenue, and Olivia tucks her knees up and rests her chin on top of them. Which is a pretty impressive position to assume in a Metro seat, especially when you’re six feet and change. She tilts her head toward me and smiles. “So, Will texted you?”
“Um. Sort of?”
“How do you sort of text someone?”
I close my eyes and lean back. “I don’t know. Well, I think Cass and Mina forced him to.”
Olivia giggles.
“No, I mean it,” I say. “I’m pretty sure Cassie made Mina harass him until he did it.”
“So Cassie forced Mina to force Will to text you.”
“Exactly.”
Olivia’s tiny smile. “Yeah, you might be overthinking this.”
But here’s the thing Olivia doesn’t get. I’m not trying to overthink things. I’m trying to be less careful. But you have to be your heart’s own goalie.
And if I’m going to be rejected, I want to see it coming.
I WAKE UP TO MY phone buzzing: four texts from Abby.
Were u drunk texting Simon on my phone last night?!
And I’m not a squib!!!!
(What’s a squib??)
Did u seriously get drunk?
I can’t move yet. I stare at my light fixture. I’ve never noticed this, but it’s collecting a thin layer of dust. And a bulb is burned out. I should fix that, eventually. Maybe when I’m slightly less catatonic.
But I really should get out of bed. It’s the Fourth of July. That’s actually a pretty big deal in our neighborhood. There’s a parade, with papier-mâché animal heads and clowns and entire floats dedicated to composting. That is a thing here: moving platforms decorated to honor decayed perishables.
Cassie’s rustling in the bunk bed above me. “Oh hey,” she says finally, her voice thick with sleep. “You up?”
“Kind of.”
She laughs. “Me too. Ughhh. Last night was . . . something.”
I’m scared to know what she means by that. Maybe something happened after Olivia and I left. Maybe Drunk Cassie evolved into Drunk-as-Fuck Cassie, or even the ultimate Shitfaced Cassie.
I don’t even want to imagine what Shitfaced Cassie might have said about me to Will. Shitfaced Cassie is not known for her carefulness.
I squeeze my eyes shut and try to think of something neutral. Anything. My Fourth of July outfit: a pale denim shirtdress over navy leggings with white stars. And I don’t care if anyone side-eyes me for wearing leggings in July, because I am not here for chub rub. Also, they’re very patriotic leggings.
But then Cassie shifts, and the bed creaks, and I’m nervous all over again. I feel like the two negative ends of a magnet. Like there are parts of me that can’t come together. If Cassie did say something to Will, I want to know. But also, I never want to know.
“Hey, so I invited Mina to the parade and fireworks and stuff,” Cassie says suddenly.
“Oh, okay.”
“Are you cool with that?”
I sit up slowly. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Because . . . I don’t know.” I hear her yawn. “I know that’s usually our thing.”
And it’s true: normally Cassie and I watch the parade together. And yes, under normal circumstances, the idea of Mina tagging along might bother me a little. But I’m so preoccupied by boy drama right now that it barely even registers.
It occurs to me that this may be exactly why Cassie wants me to have a boyfriend in the first place.
She hoists off the top bunk a moment later, sliding in beside me under my blanket. “Anyway, you and Will were so cute last night.”
“Um. Okay.” I hug my knees.
“For real. He was totally flirting with you. Mina gave him so much shit after you left.”
“What did she say to him?” I blurt.
Cassie just smiles, and I feel this wave of quiet panic.
“Cassie! What?”
“Oh my God. Stop worrying!”
“Why are you smiling?”
“Because you actually like this guy, and it’s so fucking cute. Crush number twenty-seven, right?”
“I don’t have a crush on Will.”
Cassie laughs. “Okay.”
“Wait. Did you tell him I did?”
“Molly. No. Stop freaking out.”
“Okay.”
And for a moment, she’s silent.
“But, like, okay. Real talk,” she says finally. “This boyfriend thing. Do you actually want this to happen?”
“I don’t know. I guess so.”
She rolls her eyes. “That’s a yes. And that’s great, okay? You’re allowed to want this.”
I bite my lip.
“But at some point, you have to put yourself on the line. You know?”
Okay. I know she’s right. I mean, my brain knows it. But I can’t seem to get the rest of me on board. It’s like trying to hold my breath. There’s this protective thing inside of me that opens my mouth, unpinches my nose.