wander around my apartment when a sudden urge to eat chocolate hits me. I tear through my kitchen cabinets like finding it holds the key to world peace, but the only thing I come up with is unsweetened cocoa.
What kind of Libra doesn’t have a solid chocolate stash? A bad Libra, that’s who. Although, I’ve eaten a ton of chocolate during my mourning period this week which makes me a good Libra again.
I plant myself on a bar stool at the kitchen counter and pour some sugar from the sugar bowl right into the cocoa. Then I stir it before putting a big spoonful into my mouth. It’s dry, very dry, but once I mix it with enough spit it gets better.
I pick up my phone and text Ben.
LibraGrl: You suck eggs, Banana Pants!
When he doesn’t respond, I remember he’s at an engagement party.
LibraGrl: Screw you, you phoney baloney. I hope your boss sends you to Mars and leaves you there.
* * *
LibraGrl: I hope you go on Survivor and they don’t give you any rice and you have to eat rats.
* * *
LibraGrl: I hope when you fall asleep tonight someone sneaks into your apartment and gives you a perm.
* * *
LibraGrl: I hope your toenails fall off…
I’m really warming up here, but I’m also starting to get seriously nauseated. Oh God, vodka, orange juice, and cocoa are not the best combination on an empty stomach. I stagger to the kitchen and open a bag of bread. After pulling out a handful, I shove it into my mouth. I need something to sop up the booze, but I think I’m too late.
On my wild sprint to the bathroom, I trip over an area rug and fall flat on my face. The pressure of hitting the floor is all it takes to trigger the release of my stomach’s contents. I don’t have the strength to pull myself up, yet alone clean up the mess. In fact, I don’t have the strength to do more than lie there and cry.
Luckily, unconsciousness claims me like the Grim Reaper trying to hit his monthly quota. As I pass out, my last thought is that I hope Ben breaks up with Gwen and comes crawling back to me. Damn it, I think I went and fell in love with the guy.
Thirty-Six
Ben
“… as much as I hate to admit it, your rocket scientist here is so much more handsome than Dr. Kwak,” Gwen’s aunt says, grinning back and forth between us.
We’re sitting at a table together, having endured the speeches, and a lengthy dinner interrupted by a tinkling of champagne flutes every thirty seconds for the newly engaged couple to kiss. I thought that was just a wedding tradition, but this family apparently uses it for the engagement too. It’s seriously over the top.
Having been inexplicably dumped exactly thirty-eight hours ago, I’m a little irritated by the sight of happy people right now. I have a long sip of my white wine while Gwen’s aunt drones on about how adorable we are together.
“You’re going to have the cutest babies!”
No. No, we’re not.
“Well, Auntie June, it’s a little early for that kind of talk,” Gwen says with an uncomfortable smile.
June shakes her head vigorously, causing the fake flower clipped into her far-too-dark-for-her-age hair to flop back and forth. “I can tell. You two have a connection, everyone’s talking about it.”
She’s the seventh person to say something similar. What is it with this family? They really want to marry Gwen off. Is it so they can see more PDA-on-demand? Not happening, weirdos.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I pull it out as discreetly as I can to check it, my heart pounding. June’s now picking out our best features for our babies, as though it’s possible to put in an order or something. Her eye color, but his eye shape, his chin, her nose … I hate people.
Rapid-fire texts are coming in from Serafina,. My first thought is I’m so relieved she’s okay, and then I see what she wrote. Phoney baloney? She hopes someone gives me a perm? What in the hell is she talking about?
“How come you two aren’t out on the dance floor?” Aunt June asks.
“Good question. Let’s go,” I say, standing quickly and pulling Gwen with me.
The band is playing “The Chicken Dance” (of course), which is my least favorite of all barnyard dances, but in the name of getting away from June, I’m willing to humiliate myself. Gwen and I stand