Page 47 of Best Woman
“Rise and shine, bitch.”
My eyes crack open painfully, glued shut by a mixture of eye makeup and tears.
At first, Daytona’s presence doesn’t register as odd, because we’d been in this position so many times before.
Despite her hedonistic lifestyle, Daytona is an unbearable morning person and anytime we crash at each other’s homes, she always wakes me up early, demanding breakfast.
None of that explained why she was waking me up now, in my father’s apartment. In Florida.
“What,” I croak, “the fuck are you doing here?”
She is wearing a Juicy Couture tracksuit straight out of the early aughts, hair piled atop her head, huge vintage Dior sunglasses shielding her eyes from the sun slanting through the blinds.
Everything about her is at odds with the scenery, but at the same time, it makes complete sense that she’s here.
Daytona insisted herself upon the world, and because of that, there was no place in which she didn’t belong, no space she could not command and make her own.
“I’m here to get you the fuck out of bed and play fairy godmother.” She studies her nails, claws so viciously red they look dipped in blood. “I don’t have all day, and you have a brunch to get to, so let’s go, girl.”
I laugh, somewhat frantically. “No, seriously, what the fuck are you doing here? You’re supposed to be in Atlanta, not my Dad’s spare bedroom.”
As if summoned, my Dad pops his head in the door, two coffee mugs in hand. “Morning, Jules. Daytona, I only had skim milk, I hope that’s OK.” He hands her the mug I’d always loved as a kid, whose handle was an airplane streaming an arced jet of wind.
Daytona takes the mug and cocks her head coquettishly. “That’s just fine, honey. Thanks so much.” To my horror, my father blushes and adjusts his glasses, handing me the other mug and closing the door on his way out.
“Have you been flirting with my dad?”
She sips her coffee, the picture of nonchalance. “You know I like them a little seasoned.”
I gulp down some coffee, choking a bit on how hot it is.
The ensuing coughing fit helps wake me up a bit more.
My body feels sore, mostly concentrated in my feet, shoulders, and head.
My eyes are dry and the bobby pins I’d never taken out were poking my scalp.
And, right, I’d been publicly humiliated by my mother in front of a ballroom full of people last night, then exposed as a horrible person in front of the girl I was into and my brother, whose wedding I ruined by being the victim of one scene and the cause of another.
Tears start welling up in my eyes again, and I squeeze them shut to stave them off.
As the world goes dark, I hear the thump of Daytona setting her mug down on the nightstand, then taking mine out of my hands and doing the same with it.
Then, unthinkably, her arms wrap around me as she draws me to her crushed velvet bosom.
“I know, honey. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” She strokes my hair and holds me as I let myself fall apart. It feels awful, but also really, really good.
Once I’ve cried off the rest of last night’s mascara, Daytona cuddles up behind me and explains into my rat’s nest hair that she’d been filling her tank at an Atlanta gas station when Aiden DM’d her on Instagram.
They’d been following each other since meeting in New York, and after the disaster of last night, Aiden had wanted to make sure one of my friends knew what had happened, even though he was confused and pissed over the drama with Kim.
“He knows you pretty well, girl,” Daytona says as she works through the tangles of my hair with a brush.
“He knows how much you need your family.”
That unleashes another round of sobs, and when they’re done, Daytona continues her tale. She’d only been a few hours from the state line and knew she could make it here by morning if she—
“Don’t say it,” I said, needing to make the joke so I wouldn’t start crying again.
“ I drove all niiiiiight, ” she sings in that husky voice, “ to get to you. Don’t worry, it wasn’t a huge imposition. I’m crashing with this beautiful daddy in Fort Lauderdale. We’re gonna fuck in his pool later.”
How could I possibly thank her for this? How could I begin to explain how much it means that she’d come all the way here and held me while I fell to pieces?
“It’s so fucked-up, girl.”
Aiden had given her a sketch of the details, but I fill in the lines with every miserable moment: how good the sex with Kim had been, how conflicted I’d felt about it after, the triumph of feeling like I’d won the wedding, and the realization of how hollow that victory was when my mom destroyed it so easily.
Not being able to accept Kim’s support, lashing out at her.
The way she’d looked at me as she realized how mean and ugly I was, the way I’d used her to prove something to myself that was, essentially, unprovable.
How I’d probably irreparably damaged my relationship with Aiden.
“I thought this was my commencement ceremony, my graduation, my fucking bat mitzvah,” I admit, cleaning off my face with a makeup wipe while Daytona gives me sloppy French braids.
“When I walked into that restaurant last night with Kim on my arm I felt complete . I’d aced the test, won the race, stuck the landing. ”
“I can always tell you’re hungover when you use too many analogies,” Daytona says from behind me.
“This was supposed to be it, you know? I was at my brother’s wedding in a designer dress with my lesbian high school crush on my arm. You don’t get more unclockable than that! And then my mother…”
“Clocks you harder than Big Ben?”
I start to giggle, then laugh, until finally, I’m cackling loudly, uncontrollably. It’s not even remotely funny in context, but right now it’s either laugh or cry, and I’ll take the less painful option.
By the time I laugh myself out, Daytona has finished my braids and is unpacking the duffel bag I’d noticed sitting by the door. She begins pulling items out and finding a place for them with military efficiency: a makeup case, blow-dryer, Spanx, and a giant mason jar of Sour Diesel.
“A very cute Asian boy dropped a bag off right before you woke up,” she says. “He said you keep some stuff at his place and might want it. He told me to say hi.”
“Hi,” I say, crushed by their kindness: Rachel, Aiden, Ben, Daytona. My dad.
Unsurprisingly, there are no calls or texts from my mom. A heart emoji from Randy, missed calls from River and Kyle. Even the twins had sent me a photo in our group chat: an image they’d photoshopped years ago of Mom, edited so that she was falling into an erupting volcano.
Daytona’s back is to me as she spreads her tools out on the dresser, so it is easy to say: “Thank you. I love you.”
She turns to face me, face softer than I’d ever seen it. “I love you too, bitch. Now get your ass out of bed, I’m going to make you sickening .”