I open my eyes. The sun’s not usually this bright in here…

Wait, am I waking up from a nap? I’m on the couch, and I’m under a blanket—something’s not normal.

I spot my phone a few inches away. It’s unplugged for some reason. I reach over to grab it…and oh, hell fucking no.

“Arghgth!”

I don’t know what language I’m yelling, but a sudden bolt of pain across my forehead is making me speak in tongues. I stop moving, and that helps a tiny amount. At least it’s enough to keep me from yelling again.

I take a couple minutes to stare at the ceiling. The pain subsides from indescribable torture to a brutal headache. I can move my neck now, enough to look at the empty room without making it worse.

The sunlight is intense. It must be early afternoon at the latest. Mysteriously, there are medicine bottles on the coffee table.

Do I have a fever or something?

I look back up at the ceiling. I don’t think I have the flu, just an earthshaking headache that’s also making me nauseous.

My mouth is like a fucking desert. And when I move my tongue around, I taste…what is that?

Whiskey.

It’s all starting to come together, piece by fragmented piece. But who was I out with? Why was I drinking whiskey?

I need to brush my teeth. I also smell like whiskey, and…is that barbecue sauce? Oh, shit. Right, that’s where I was.

Why the hell don’t I remember anything? My phone may hold some answers.

I lay a small couch cushion on my forehead. It doesn’t cure my headache, but it helps. I feel like I can check my phone without throwing up.

I grab it and switch the screen on. Success!

But just looking at my phone’s screen for a split second causes a spike in headache pain. Fuck.

I shut my eyes, and a memory from last night comes roaring back…I was drinking whiskey, and I did a shot with…who the fuck was it?

I keep my eyes closed for a few minutes to dial back the intensity of my headache. I remember getting ready for the barbecue, taking a taxi, fucking in the bathroom—mmm, that was nice…

…and then I hung out and did a shot with Kirk’s ex-girlfriend.

That’s the last thing I remember. What I don’t remember is why she was there, or why I was with her and not Kirk.

What’s her name again?

I open my eyes, still gripping my phone. I try to check the time, but when I turn on the screen, all I see is a text notification.

Oh, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me.

Jogger, you’re the last damn name I want to see right now. And that message? Really? WTF, dude, I barely know you. All we did was talk for like ninety seconds.

“No more giving guys my number while I’m out for a run.” At least, that’s what I try to say quietly to myself. It ends up sounding something like “noogjmklsdfkoutjskad run.”

But fuck. Fucking Jogger. This is not my first message from him since that run I barely remember, but I can shut down this bullshit real fast by blocking his number and deleting him from my contacts.

I close my eyes again. This headache’s relentless, but I really want to remember more about WineBar’s barbecue. I start drifting back toward sleep.

Miranda! That’s it.

The memory of Kirk’s ex’s name jolts me back awake. I was drinking with her, which is already weird enough. I’m also still holding my phone a foot above my face. I’m glad I didn’t fall asleep like that.

It’s totally the worst when you fall asleep and drop your phone on your face. Am I right?

I turn the screen on again. My list of contacts is on the screen from earlier. Miranda’s name is right there, underneath where Jogger used to be.

I sit up; my headache’s almost completely gone.

Do you know that feeling, early on during a hangover, when you still feel sort of drunk and a little more courageous than usual? I don’t know if everyone experiences that, but at this moment, I have no qualms about hitting the fuck out of the button to dial Miranda’s number.

Miranda’s phone starts ringing…I hope I’m able to talk now.

“Hey, Emily!” Miranda picks up after two rings, answering like I’m her best friend. Forget losing a night, I feel like I have amnesia with months or years just fucking gone.

“Uh, hey. So…some barbecue last night, huh?”

“Oh, for realsies!”

Is she for realsies going to talk like that? I think my headache’s coming back.

“You can say that again,” I mumble. I reach for the aspirin bottle on the coffee table, hoping Miranda spills some details without me having to press.

“How much do you even remember, Emily?”

Fuck, I must’ve been noticeably drunk. Miranda’s also kind of laughing as she speaks, which means something embarrassing happened. Now I need to rely on her to brief me on the godawful truth that my brain can’t recall.

“The last thing I remember was taking that shot with you, Miranda. If you could fill me in, that would be lovely.”

“Okay, where do I begin? Well, first of all, I had to bring you back to your place.”

“You took me home?”

“I had to. Kirk wasn’t going to at that point.”

I realize that my hand is frozen in midair, reaching for the aspirin. The aspirin that Miranda apparently left there. I let my hand drop down to the couch.

“Why wouldn’t he?”

“Oh, Emily. You really don’t remember, do you?

“I already said I don’t. Please, just tell me what happened.”

“So, okay, we were drinking, you remember that. Then, hmm, do you want the highlights?”

“I…guess?”

But I’m starting to think, No, maybe I really fucking don’t.

“So, there was the keg stand—that looked fun—and you kissed Kirk’s cousin before coming onto Kirk hardcore in front of everyone. You also showed him your tits, also in front of everyone. Then I think you disappeared for a while, but you came back to put your panties on the grill. Do you remember why you did that? I’m curious.”

“No.” I feel numb. Like my entire body feels displaced at the moment. I can’t process.

But as much as I want to deny this is real and then wake up and realize this is all just a nightmare, I know that it’s very fucking real—my new, horrible reality.

“Were WineB…Kirk’s parents there? Did they see any of it?”

“Oh, yeah, a lot of his family saw the whole thing. In fact, you asked Kirk’s dad about his dick size!”

What?

Oh.

My.

God.

I want to hurl my phone across the room and watch it break into a hundred pieces against the wall. Instead, I just hang the fuck up on Miranda and squeeze the phone uselessly in my hand.

I sit frozen on my couch, motionless and stunned. I stay there, frozen in place, for what could be a few minutes or maybe longer.

Months? Years? Fucking decades? I’m not keeping track of time anymore; I’m just thinking about the damage, the devastation, my own embarrassment, and Kirk’s embarrassment in front of his family.

Eventually, I look at my phone again. Nothing new from Kirk, or anyone.

Suddenly, I feel caged in. I can’t stay like this any longer. I send a text to Kirk, just asking how he’s doing today.

I wait a few minutes and send another, asking if everything’s okay.

I start pacing. Holy shit. I can’t stay like this, wondering and waiting.

I need to talk to Kirk. I call his number, and I immediately get a voicemail message.

No ringing, no resolution.

Nothing.

I don’t know what Kirk’s thinking, or how ruined everything is, but I’m really fucking scared that I’ve fucked up royally. And there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.