Page 9 of How Freaking Romantic

My alarm goes off at seven, sending “Escape (The Pina Colada Song)” echoing across the room from where my phone is charging on the kitchen table. My eyes fly open only to wince at the sunlight streaming in through the window. Goddammit. I forgot to close the curtains again.

I groan, trying to keep my eyes closed as I roll out of bed and stumble toward the small table.

With one eye open, I begin batting at the screen, somehow turning the phone off before Rupert Holmes starts singing about making love at midnight.

Someday I’ll remember to turn my alarm off on the weekends. But not this day.

I trudge to the bathroom—a small closet-sized room that barely has space for its toilet, sink, and bathtub—and turn on the faucet, splashing a handful of cold water on my face before looking up at the mirror where my reflection is waiting patiently to depress me.

I hadn’t washed my face last night; I had simply fallen into bed and waited for sleep to take me, like that would erase everything that had come before it.

Of course, it hadn’t. And there’s the evidence written across my face: the smoky streaks of mascara under my eyes, the faded lipstick smudged across my swollen lips.

The memories of last night come flashing back in one horrifying moment. Nathan’s tall, broad body enveloping mine, my lips navigating his, nipping and pulling and pressing as his hands found my hair, my jaw, my hip, and—

Ohmygod .

I sit down on the edge of the tub and let my head fall forward. I kissed Nathan Asher.

I want to blame the alcohol. That would be the easy excuse.

I was drunk! It didn’t mean anything! Except I’m not hungover.

I don’t even have a headache. Sure, I was tipsy last night, but not enough to usurp my judgment.

The champagne had been like a talisman, something to keep in my hand to distract me from his presence.

Or at least the small dimple in the corner of his smile.

But it didn’t work. I still kissed him.

My hand instinctively goes to my lips, feeling their tenderness. No, I didn’t just kiss him. I threw myself at him.

Oh. My. God .

I strip and turn on the shower, stepping in before it has time to reach its peak lukewarm temperature. But even under the cold water, the dull ache in my belly remains.

What had I been thinking?

Getting laid , a voice that sounds a lot like Mrs. Seigel echoes in my head.

I scowl and lather my hair.

Okay, yes, it has been a while since I’ve been with anyone.

Even longer since I’ve been in anything remotely close to a relationship.

And if I’m being honest with myself—really, brutally honest— the loneliness of the past year has been almost harder than school.

The fractures in our friend group were easier to ignore during class and work and studying, but at night, when it’s just me alone in this small apartment, the weight of the solitude feels so much heavier.

It makes me sad and angry and frustrated because I don’t know what to do with it all.

Maybe that’s why I kissed him. I had given him my worst and he rose to the challenge, throwing it right back so by the time we stood in front of my building, there were no more weapons left.

Kissing him was just another outlet for the anger, a release valve for the pressure that had been mounting since I first saw him.

That’s still not an excuse, though.

I dry off and brush my teeth, glowering at myself in the mirror. And then, as I throw on a pair of old sweatpants and a worn sweater, an entirely new and terrifying thought enters my mind: I have to tell Jillian.

My cell phone is still charging on the table, and I stare down at it for a long minute before finally picking it up.

New excuses start flying through my head as I find her number—she’s probably busy, she might not be up yet, she could be busy unpacking—but I still press the call button and bring the phone to my ear.

RING.

RING.

RING.

Suddenly it connects, and my pulse spikes in my veins until an automated message begins: “The number you are calling is not available. To leave a message, please press the pound sign.”

I press pound. I hear the beep. But for a moment I’m struck dumb, staring straight ahead at the blank wall in front of me, at a complete loss as to what to say.

“Hello… Jills. It’s me. Bea. Hi. I’m here. And… leaving you a voicemail. Because I have to tell you… a thing. So… this is a voicemail. Call me back. Yeah. Thank you.”

I hang up and fall back on my bed, my heart racing even faster, not really willing to ponder how insane that message will sound when she eventually listens to it.

It’s another minute before I look at my phone again to see the time: 7:49 a.m. It’s Saturday, the day I usually set aside for cleaning and grocery shopping, but I still have to do last night’s laundry and make up for all the reading I didn’t do because of—

I squeeze my eyes closed, warding off the memory.

Right.

I stand and head to my hamper to begin separating my colors from my whites, and somehow convince myself that everything will be fine.

There’s a distinct sort of bliss found at a laundromat on a Friday night.

Something akin to nirvana, or at least as close as you can get while wearing sweatpants.

The key to this peace is twofold: one, it’s always empty except for one or two people coming in to check their machines, and two, the soft lull of those dryers is a perfect white noise machine, drowning out the city just beyond the large front windows.

A person can spread their notes and their laptop and all their bar exam study books out across the main folding table without a single nasty look from anyone.

It’s perfect, the ideal study/relaxation atmosphere.

Unfortunately, it is not Friday night. It is Saturday morning. And that bliss I usually find has been replaced by a room full of people who likely have regular plans on Friday nights and aren’t consumed by abject horror at having to wait for a free dryer.

The main folding table is lined with people actually folding clothes, so after I throw my clothes in a washer, I find a free chair along the wall and open the only book I brought with me, The Bar Exam & You .

I do my best to block out the cacophony of conversation and movement around me, and focus.

Still, by the time I pull my clothes from the dryer and drag the basket back to my seat, I’ve barely made it through one chapter.

I’m folding my favorite days-of-the-week underwear when I hear my phone ringing somewhere in my bag. My heart drops as I reach for it, half expecting to see Jillian’s face on the screen. I find Maggie’s there instead.

“Please tell me you’re in the city,” I whine when I answer.

“I’m never in the city. I live upstate now, remember?”

“You said the Hudson Valley wasn’t upstate,” I reply.

“I just spent an hour driving around trying to find this hardware store, only to have to ask a guy in overalls where I could find the caulk. I get to call it upstate today.”

I smile to myself. Whenever Maggie complains about moving out of the city, I know it is more for my benefit than hers.

After graduating from Fordham, our group had the next few years all planned out: we would all live in the city, spend holidays together, celebrate milestones, create a real-life version of Friends .

Then Maggie got her dream job at a hedge fund.

The first year there was spent learning that she hated hedge funds and the American banking system in general, then the next three had her saving every paycheck and dreaming of what she would do when she finally quit.

The answer came in the form of a real estate listing for an old bed-and-breakfast in Cold Spring.

She and Travis put in an offer, and just like that, their lives turned into a Hallmark movie, albeit one that required some serious renovation.

“And did overalls guy know where to find the best caulk?” I ask.

She laughs. “He did. Now I just need to find the tile adhesive, then I can go home and start day drinking.”

“We can day drink here, you know.”

“Yes, but up here I can do it while pretending it makes me better at retiling a backsplash,” she replies. “I’m trying to get the whole kitchen done before we go on vacation.”

“Mags, you two don’t leave for Miami until next month.”

“And?”

“How long does it take to tile a backsplash?”

“Yeah, well, when you’re day drinking, it takes a little more time,” she says. “So, what are you up to?”

“Laundry.”

“Isn’t that usually Friday nights?”

I scowl. “I hate that you know that.”

“Oh please, at least I can fully appreciate the gravitas of you being there right now. Does this mean you had plans last night? A date? Please tell me there was drunken debauchery.”

I try to laugh. It sounds ridiculously forced.

A pause. “Wait, am I right?”

“It’s nothing,” I say, folding a pair of faded blue underwear that have “Wednesday” printed across the front.

“Oh, it’s definitely not nothing,” she murmurs. “Spill.”

“I told you it’s nothing.”

“Your voice is doing that high-pitch thing you do when you’re lying.”

I wince at being called out so thoroughly. “I did something epically stupid.”

“Hold on.” I hear Maggie shuffling around before her voice finally returns. “Sorry, I had to move a bucket of drywall compound so I could sit down for this. Continue.”

“Okay.” I let out a long breath. “You know Nathan Asher?”

“No,” she says, then pauses. “Wait, maybe? Why does that name sound familiar?”

“He’s Josh’s divorce attorney.”

“Right,” she says, unfazed. “The one you called an asshole.”

“Yeah, that one.”

“Oh God, did you go back there? Is he getting a restraining order?”

I gnaw at my bottom lip. “Not exactly.”

“Okay.” When I don’t elaborate, Maggie continues, “You’re going to have to give me something here because I’m lost.”