ANOTHER ROUND of auditory abuse pulsates from my phone. I hit snooze again and notice the time.
This can’t be right.
A groan sprints out of my throat. I should’ve been awake an hour ago. If I’m not on the road in ten minutes, I’ll miss my flight back to New York.
I strip the covers off my sweat-drenched skin and swing my legs off the bed. An aching throb blooms in my forehead. This is exactly what everyone warned me about as I got older. My body can’t handle alcohol the same way it did back in the day.
I scramble to shove my toiletries and clothes into my overflowing suitcase.
Why did I overpack?
I mean, really, four bikinis? My combat boots? Two different sets of lingerie?
Yeah, like I was going to make use of them both.
I throw on a pair of lounge shorts, a sports bra, and Avery’s old Rams sweatshirt from back when we met in North Carolina. The top usually brings up nausea-inducing memories of a certain asshole I never want to remember, but it’s a decade old and too comfortable to not travel in.
The night comes back to me in pieces.
A glass of champagne to toast Avery and Luca, another while we danced, a few shots of tequila with Molly and…
Nico.
No. Fuck. Fuckity fuck.
I chug a glass of water, brush my teeth, and shove my laptop into my tote bag. I should’ve packed last night. Instead, I alternated between panicking about kissing the one man who was off-limits and giving the creators of my vibrator a run for their money.
I kissed Nico Navarro.
I kissed my best friend’s new brother. That was her word. Brother. I’m going to be sick.
Was it the kind of kiss that soaked through every inch of my panties? Yes.
Did I want him to split the fabric of my dress and take me right there on the cliff’s edge, the night sky watching as stars erupted in my eyes?
Most definitely. I pocket the idea for an upcoming novella. But was the entire thing a Godzilla-sized mistake?
Abso-fucking-lutely.
No more tequila for me. Not a single other drink will touch my lips. This body is a temple. A horny, stressed-out, occasionally achy temple, but it’s mine, nonetheless.
Ugh!
The entire moment could’ve been scripted for a film. Falling stars and perfect words. He wanted to kiss me, and I let him because it felt almost romantic.
I can’t recall the last time I had a first kiss that good.
Unlike a movie, however, Nico and I will not get a happy ending, just a few awkward moments pretending the drunken mistake didn’t happen. Plus, he’s traveling this summer, and I’m going back to New York. This was a blip in our friendship, and we’ll go back to normal in no time.
I roll the credits on the memory. My alarm blares again.
“I know. I know,” I yell, scavenging my room for a pair of socks. There’s no more time to waste. I need to get out of here.
I slip on my shoes, sockless, throw my tote over my shoulder, and drag my carry-on out of the room.
Four hours and some three hundred miles later, I’m in the security line at the San Francisco International Airport begging people to let me go ahead of them so I don’t miss my flight.
After having stern words with an elderly couple on their third honeymoon, I’m only a few steps away from passing through TSA. I throw
my items into a bin, pull my laptop out of my tote, and lug my carry-on onto the conveyor belt heading into the scanner.
“Ma’am, no shoes,” the TSA agent yaps behind me.
No shoes? You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. The last minute decision to skip out on socks was a colossal mistake.
I slip out of my sneakers, and the soles of my bare feet meet the cold, sticky ground. Acid burns the back of my throat. This is horrible. I tiptoe to the scanner, counting down the seconds for the people ahead of me to finish getting patted down.
Looks of disgust roll off people’s faces. Geez.
Little do they know I could make thousands selling pictures of these nicely pedicured toes online.
You’re all getting a free show, and I’ll need a tetanus shot when I get home.
After passing security, I sprint through the terminal, searching for the flight information display system to confirm my gate. Hopefully, I can buy a bottle of hand sanitizer to douse my feet before I get on the five-hour flight back to New York.
I scan the board of departures until I see my flight.
San Francisco to John F. Kennedy New York: Canceled
This can’t be right.
I palm at my eyes.
The entire board is ablaze with red lettering. All East Coast flights are canceled.
A soft laugh slips out of me before growing into a maniacal cackle. The universe is really fucking me up the ass without a drop of lube.
I want to get home, shower, and wipe away the less-pleasant memories from last night.
Besides, where am I going to go now? The hotel is hours away, I don’t know anyone in San Francisco, and Avery and Luca are probably already on the road to their pre-honeymoon cabin rental.
I pull my phone from my tote and check my email. A message from my airline sits there, detailing that the flights are grounded for the next two days due to stormy weather conditions. That would’ve been helpful to read before I left the hotel.
I look back up at the board as it flips to another screen.
San Francisco to Rio de Janeiro: Boarding
