was thrown in a fucking blender. Running was for crazy people, and I’d stuck to walking ever since. But if I had to compare how I was feeling now, that would be it—like I just attempted a damn 5k. I didn’t understand why I felt like shit. If this was a hangover, then this was the hangover from hell. I started thinking about hangover cures.
“Girl. You either look thoroughly fucked or slightly fucked over,” Yasmin said while plopping into the chair across from me. Yasmin had beautiful brown skin, long black hair, and golden eyes that drew you in. She wore a designer summer dress—because every time she left the house was a fashion show—and was digging through her Louis Vuitton purse. “I know I have some ibuprofen in here somewhere…”
“I already took some,” I grumbled. “Just waiting for it to kick in.”
“I really wish you’d smoke pot instead of drinking so much. Fewer calories and no hangover, my dear,” Yasmin said with a haughty shake of her head.
“It’s only fewer calories until you get the munchies,” Ryan joked before sitting down next to Yasmin. Ryan wore his signature zero fucks outfit, which consisted of a retro Star Wars T-shirt and skinny jeans. His blond hair was combed over to the side, and the bags under his eyes made me wonder if he spent all night playing video games. Probably. He was a major gamer. Sometimes we had to force him to leave his apartment for some human interaction. If we didn’t, he’d hiss at us.
“True that,” I replied, fanning my face with my hand. When did it get so fucking hot out here? I looked around, and nobody else seemed to be as uncomfortable as I was. With every passing second, the sun breathed down it’s unholy hellfire onto my delicate skin. If we stayed out here much longer, I was going to melt, and that would not be cute. “Can we go inside? I’m going to spontaneously combust if we stay out here much longer.”
“It’s like sixty-eight degrees, Drew,” Ryan said, looking at me like I had three heads. “And you always want to sit on the patio for brunch. It’s, like, your thing. Remember the snowstorm last year? I almost froze my tits off,” he argued while looking at Yasmin for help.
“You like patios. Since when do you not like patios?” she asked. What the fuck was up with them fixating on this? “Oh my gosh, are you having a hot flash?” Yasmin asked.
“Is this a menopause thing? I thought that happened when you were like eighty,” Ryan interjected. Neither of them was helping my predicament. Oh God, I’m old. This was it. This was the steady decline of my youth. It started with hangovers and ended with hot flashes.
“Whatever, can we please just go inside?” I snapped. That came out a little harsher than I had meant it to, but my skin was practically on fire.
I stood up abruptly and didn’t wait for Yaz and Ryan to follow before walking inside. The moment I was in the shade, I let out a sigh of relief. My skin had stopped burning by the time I made it to the hostess stand, and my mood instantly brightened with the lack of pain. Hell hath no fury like an uncomfortable woman. I took off my sunglasses and perched them on top of my head as my two best friends made their way in.
“See? Isn’t this better?” I asked them, my voice overly chipper. The hostess led us to a cozy table off to the side of the restaurant, and I could see the mimosa bar from the booth. “And look, now we’re closer to the alcohol.”
“I suppose it’s good to try new things. And I do like their mimosas. They use quality ingredients, and it shows,” Yaz said as she looked over the selection.
Ryan and Yasmin slid into the rustic bench on the other side of the table, still looking a little confused, but fortunately, they decided to drop it. I picked up a menu with a rooster on the top and browsed through entrees that had organic ingredients and cutesy names. I ordered craft blackberry mimosas for the table and the only meal on the menu that was covered in cheese.
“I had the worst date last night. It was so bad it even made it into my dreams.”
“I thought you had a good date,” Ryan replied. “So good that you forgot to call and cancel our burger plans.