Moving is torture. I feel bruised and exhausted, and it’s distracting enough for me to not initially realize that I’m completely naked. And alone. I have delicate points of pain on my ribs, my neck, my upper arms. When I manage to sit up, I see that most of the bedding is on the floor, but I’m on the bare mattress, as if I’ve been plucked from the chaos and intentionally laid here.
Near my bare hip is a piece of paper, folded carefully in half. The handwriting is neat, and somehow easily recognizable as foreign. My hand shakes as I quickly read the note.
Mia,
I tried to wake you, but after failing decided to let you sleep. I think we only got about two hours at any rate. I’m going to shower and then will be downstairs having breakfast in the restaurant across from the elevator. Please find me.
Ansel
I start shaking and can’t stop. It’s not just the raging hangover or the realization that I spent a night with a stranger and can’t remember a lot of it. It’s not just the state of the room: a lamp is broken, the mirror is smudged with hundreds of handprints, the floor is littered with clothing and pillows and—thank God—condom wrappers. It isn’t the mortification over the dark stain from a soda bottle on the rug across the room. It’s not the delicate bruises I see on my ribs or the persistent ache between my legs.
I’m shaking because of the slim gold band on my left ring finger.
Chapter THREE
I’M SHAKING BECAUSE WHAT THE FUCK DOES THAT MEAN THAT I HAVE A RING THAT LOOKS LIKE A WEDDING RING AND WHY CAN’T I REMEMBER WHAT WE DID? The only thing I remember after pulling Ansel down the hall last night is more alcohol—a lot more—and flirting.
Flashes of a weaving limo ride.
Harlow shouting out the window and Ansel’s goofy smile.
I think I remember seeing Lola kiss Oliver. The pop of a camera flash. Dragging Ansel down the hall and sex. Lots
of sex.
I sprint to the bathroom and lose the contents of my stomach. The alcohol coming back up is sour, tastes like shame and a hundred bad ideas poured down my throat.
I brush my teeth with a weak arm and shaking hand while giving my reflection the dirtiest look I can manage. I look like shit, have about seventeen hickeys on my neck and chest and, I’ll be honest, from the looks of my mouth, I sucked dick for a long time last night.
I gulp water from the faucet and stumble back out into the bedroom, pulling on a shirt from the first suitcase I trip over. I can barely walk, collapsing on the floor after only about thirty seconds of hunting for my phone. When I spot it across the room, I stumble-crawl over, only to realize it’s completely dead and I have no idea where I put my charger. Cheek pressed to the floor, I give up. Eventually someone will find my body. Right?
I really hope this story is funny in a few years.
“Harlow?” I call out, wincing at the gravelly sound of my own voice, at the scent of detergent and stale water emanating from the carpet so close to my face. “Lola?”
But the enormous suite is completely silent. Where the hell did they end up last night? Are they okay? The image of Lola kissing Oliver returns with more detail: the two of them standing in front of us, bathed in cheap fluorescent lighting. Holy fuck, are they married, too?
I’m almost positive I’m going to throw up again.
I take a moment to breathe in through my nose, breathe out through my mouth, and my head clears slightly, just enough to stand, get a glass of water from the tap. To not vomit all over the expensive place Harlow’s dad is paying for.
I devour an energy bar and banana I find in the mini-bar, and then drink an entire can of ginger ale in almost two gulps. I will never get enough liquid back into my body, I can feel it.
In the shower, I scrub at my aching skin, shaving and washing everything with trembling hungover hands.
Mia, you’re a disaster. This is why you’re a sucky drinker.
The worst part isn’t how horrible I feel or what a mess I’ve made.
The worst part is I want to find him as much as I want to find Harlow and Lola.
The worst part is the tiny curl of anxiety I feel knowing that it’s Monday and we’re leaving today.
No, the worst part is that I’m an idiot.
As I dry off in the bedroom and pull on some jeans and a tank top, I look over to where I’ve left his note on the mattress. His tidy, slanted handwriting faces the ceiling, and a slim thread of a memory pushes into my thoughts, of my hand on Ansel’s clothed chest, pushing him out of the bathroom and sitting down on the toilet seat with a stack of paper and ballpoint pen. To write a letter? I think . . . to . . . me?
But I can’t find it anywhere; not under the enormous pile of blankets on the floor, not in the dismantled couch cushions in the living room, not in the bathroom or in any of the chaos of the suite. It has to be here. The only other time I wrote myself a letter, it was the one thing that guided me through the hardest point in my life.
If a letter from last night exists, I need to find it.