Of all the miseries inflicted on humankind, some are so minor and yet, while they last, so very painful.

My head is pounding.

My stomach is rolling.

My eyelids can barely stay open.

How is it that after all these centuries a true remedy for a hangover has yet to be discovered?

Glancing around, I take in my surroundings. Bright, colorful tapestries and bold prints are everywhere. Different-sized paper lanterns hang from the ceiling above the bed. A crib is in one corner and a baby swing in the other. Piles of blankets and baby clothes are stacked on one of the chairs. And photos of a happy couple and their little baby cover the dresser. This room is filled with love from top to bottom.

I’m in my brother’s girlfriend’s best friend’s room. Maggie May Masters used to live here, and by the looks if it, she comes back often. I’ve been here, but not since Maggie married and had a child. She was wild and single the last time I visited, which makes me realize just how long it has been.

Still, I’m thankful for where I am. At least this house is next door to he who shall not be named right now’s house.

I cover my eyes. Oh God, I can’t believe my brother is MIA.

Good thing I met Maggie two Thanksgivings ago when I came to visit the keeper of secrets himself. So I’m not sleeping in a total stranger’s bed.

Makayla, his girlfriend, had just moved in with him at the time—my secret-keeping brother, that is—and Brooklyn had just moved out. Brooklyn wasn’t around, but Maggie, who is Makayla’s best friend, and I had hit it off wonderfully. She is a lot of fun. And of course I fell in love with Makayla immediately. How could I not—I could see how much my brother loved her. Honestly, she couldn’t be more perfect for the evil one. Even if I am mad at my brother right now, I am really happy for him. He deserves happiness.

A beeping noise has me trying to lift my head. My phone is on the night table and after two tries, I’m finally able to grab it. My father has called five times. Wonder if the bitchy witch Vanessa told him about seeing me? I can’t imagine she did. I know I have to deal with my father, but I can’t right now. Thumbing down, I read Carter’s five text messages.

Carter: Are you there yet? Call me.

Carter: Mia Girl, I’m waiting for your call.

Carter: That’s it. You are officially no longer my best friend.

Carter: Okay, so I was hasty. Your status remains intact. Now call me.

Carter: Amelia, I’m worried. Call me.

Feeling bad I didn’t call him last night, I shoot him a quick text.

Me: I’m here. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be in touch soon.

And then I send a text to my mother, who I know I have a lot of making up to do with, but the way I’m feeling right now, that, too, will need to be postponed.

Me: Hey Mom, I want you to know I decided to take a last-minute trip to see Cam. I’ll call soon. And Mom, I love you.

I love you—three words I haven’t spoken to her in a very long time. Like I said, if what Vanessa told me is true, and I think it is, I have a lot of making up to do.

One more text to Cam telling him to call me, and after I set my phone down, I decide it’s time to get up.

Stumbling out of bed, I feel a slight draft. Looking down at myself, the first thing I notice is that I’m wearing a man’s T-shirt—no, not just any man’s T-shirt; it’s the same black T-shirt Brooklyn was wearing last night under that fine leather jacket of his. I know this because it reads Voodoo. Last night I kept thinking it read Vodka, and all I wanted to do was lick him, and his brooding stare.

The second thing I notice is that I have no pants on, which means I’m bare down there. Having stripped my panties off midair yesterday because they were uncomfortable, I now can’t believe I ever did such a thing.

Inside the bathroom, I use my finger to brush my teeth, search for some aspirin, find it, take it, and then look at myself.

That’s one hot mess looking back at me.

Unable to stand this feeling, I decide I should resort to drastic measures to cure this hangover.

Let’s see.

There’s burned toast. Hate that.

Greasy food. Don’t think I can stomach that.

A Bloody Mary. No way. No more vodka.

Carter swears by the harrowing concoction called “The Bull’s-Eye.” Which is raw egg mixed into a glass of OJ. I can’t even. Just the thought gets to me. In fact, I think I just threw up a little in my mouth.

There has to be a better way to silence the house DJ playing in my skull.

I got it.

Extreme temperature change.

Opening the bathroom door, I’m back in Maggie’s room. Somehow I manage to still the room long enough to make it over to the French doors that lead outside. I fling them open and stand there in the cool temperature, waiting to feel better.

Waiting.

Waiting.

Nothing.

No change.

Okay, I really need to amp up this cure.

Glancing around, I catch sight of my camera. That makes me smile. I brought my old one because Carter took my newer one on New Year’s Eve. It’s my most favorite one anyway. Maybe because of the happy memories it evokes, maybe because I want a piece of my past that makes sense—who knows.

Continuing to look around the room, I locate my suitcase lying on the floor. It takes more than five minutes to ward off the nausea while trying to find what I’m looking for, if I even brought it. I packed in a rush and just threw things in.

Ah-ha! Found it.

No, never mind. That is a bra.

Tossing it aside, I continue looking.

Hair tie. That is helpful.

Rifling through some more things, I find nothing.

Okay, so I have no bikini top or bottoms. And no underwear, either. Great. Doesn’t matter. I find the panties I stashed away in my purse on the plane and slide them up my thighs.

Don’t judge.

They are practically clean. I mean, I wore them for like a whole two hours.

Yes, I’m so convincing myself of this.

Whatever.

Here goes nothing.