Page 41

ELLISON

If I grit my teeth any harder, I’m going to have to start wearing my stupid nightguard during the day.

Twenty-six minutes, I tell myself. Twenty-six minutes until this pointless meeting that could have been an email is over and I can finally drag my ass out of this uncomfortable chair and do something less brain-meltingly boring.

A text dings through, popping up on my laptop screen.

Lily: I’m bringing so much tequila

Notification: Lily has changed the group name from Reality Hussies to Drunk To Escape Reality Hussies

Poppy: ha

Poppy: I’m making brownies right now

Poppy: And I have a crockpot with queso going

My stomach growls in anticipation.

Giana: I’ll pick up some tacos from that place by Ell’s house

Lily: I can’t wait

Lily: Lucy, what are you bringing

Lu: My blender for your tequila. Margaritas?

Lu: That okay with you, Ell?

I drag my gaze away from the nonstop notifications coming through my laptop long enough to realize everyone on my stupid video call is quiet.

“Good to hear. I don’t see a problem there. Any reports from your team, Trent?” I ask, pretending like I’ve been listening.

I don’t have to listen.

I wrote the damn agenda, because my boss can’t be bothered to do shit besides say things like “put a pin in it and circle back” or “team synergy is important” or “can you get me a coffee when you come into the office?”

I hate this job. I blink, waiting for Trent to respond.

“My team is worried about the current workflow but anticipates—” he starts, and I immediately tune him out, putting myself back on mute and tapping out a quick response to the group while smiling vaguely at the camera.

It’s truly one of the few things this job’s taught me to do well: pretending to listen while I think about anything but insurance underwriting.

It’s the only field I could find work in since graduating college in post-Roth invasion Earth. It sucks, but it’s money, but the money doesn’t get close to making up for the fact that I’m absolutely bombarded with the fact our planet’s gone to shit since the Roth invaded and is only getting worse.

Familiar dread makes a knot in my stomach, and I exhale slowly, trying to harness some of my hard-won peace.

Ellison: That sounds so freaking good. I’ll have the usual stuff, but tacos and margs and binge watching WME sounds like an ideal night

World’s Most Eligible, or WME, is the biggest reality TV show right now, and me and my tight group of friends are hardcore addicts of it and all reality TV shows.

From the ones where they have to survive on the side of a volcano for a month to the ones where they’re ice-fishing and falling in love, to WME, the most absurd dating show I’ve ever witnessed, we’re in.

Poppy: I’ve been dreaming about candy all week

Lily: I’ve been dreaming about getting shit-faced all day

Ell: You might have a problem, Lily

Lily: Yeah, my problem is that life sucks and it feels like the world’s going to end any minute

I grimace, glancing back at Trent, who’s still droning on about whatever currently is making him feel important.

The timer on my phone blinks, silently going off, and I rub my hands together.

“Alright, everyone, I’m sorry to interrupt, but please send any final thoughts to the group e-mail. Trent, thank you for volunteering to put together call notes for us today,” I chirp.

Trent nods officiously, and I resist the urge to flip off my camera and tell my coworkers that I hate this job and go out in a blaze of fire.

But I smile vaguely instead.

“Have a great weekend, everyone. See you on Monday.”

I don’t wait for anyone to respond, so past giving a fuck that I simply exit out of the video conference and slump in my chair.

Ell: You know, Lily, tequila might just be the answer tonight

Poppy: Oh, babe, we gotta find you something else for work

Lu: The job market’s shit, the Earth is hotter every day

Giana: Meanwhile, the dating pool is ice cold and shit at the same time

I huff a laugh at that. The only dating any of us like is the kind where we live vicariously through starry-eyed singles on a remote island forced together.

Lu: If the fucking Suevans had openings for more wives, I’d probably take them up on it

Poppy: God, they’re so hot, right

Giana: at this point, I’d take a Roth over a human man

Giana: at least they’re hot

Giana: heh get it get it

My nose wrinkles.

Ell: I’m not into getting burned alive

Ell: I have to finish up a few things and then you all can start heading over in maybe thirty minutes or so

The girls all respond excitedly, and I grin at the influx of messages I actually want to see before closing the old laptop trying to burn a hole through my thighs.

The things I have to finish up consist of making my tiny apartment look like a normal functioning human lives here and not a hot mess of a hobgoblin.

And put on something on my lower half that’s not covered in last night’s dinner stains.

I lift an arm, sniffing experimentally at my pit.

I need a shower.

Lily: Also we’re staying the night at your place

Lily: For safety

Poppy: PAJAMA PARTY

My nose wrinkles. Poppy is relentlessly fashionable, an absolute bubble of style and optimism at all times. Compared to my general apathy and pessimism, she’s practically radioactively positive.

Ell: Only if everyone else wants to do that

Lu: I’m in

Lily: One less thing to do after tequila. It’s a yes

Giana: We’re outnumbered, Ell

Ell: I get the first margarita, then

Poppy: Deal

I’m pretty sure I have a cute set of shortie pjs around here. I bought them when I was last dating someone seriously and never wore them again.

Sighing, I stand up. My hips and knees pop at the same time, a clear sign I’ve been sitting for way, way too long.

Time to clean… both my apartment and myself.

***

We’re all only half watching the drama unfold on my tv screen. Likewise, the sixth pitcher of frozen margarita is only half full.

I close one eye, squinting at where it wavers on my newly cleaned coffee table. Well, now there’s tortilla chip crumbs dusting the surface and some congealed queso keeping it company, along with a few random Swedish Fish swimming towards the cheese blobs.

Might be six pitchers of Lily-made margaritas were way too many.

Or, based on the floaty way I feel, just the exactly right amount.

Ha.

“Look, look, lookity look,” Poppy screams.

“Fucking hell, Poppy,” Giana says, wincing. “We’re all right hereeee, you don’t… don’t have to yell. It’sss too loud.”

It comes out garbled, and I snort in spite of myself.

Lucy tips back her head and cackles, some of her margarita sloshing over the rim of her glass. No salt, because we forewent that task after pitcher number two.

Shit. We are all really drunk.

“I’m glad you all are staying the night,” I try to say.

It comes out more like I’mglaaaaddyallrestayinniiiight.

“Ell is shitfaced,” Gianna announces.

I close one eye, then the other, trying to bring her into focus.

Poppy stamps her adorable little kitten heel on the floor. Yes, kitten heel, complete with a tuft of fur or feathers or something soft looking on the strap across her foot. They match her sexy little slip perfectly, and she looks adorable and stylish as usual.

I curl my lip as I pluck at the Hawaiian print shorts. “At least I’m comfy,” I tell myself.

Poppy jabs a finger into my shoulder.

“We’re doing this,” she says, and I sway a little at the impact of her fingertip.

“Doing what?” Lily asks, always game. That’s Lily for you, though.

“I found a reality show that need contestants,” Poppy says breathlessly.

Then she hiccups, and we all laugh way too loud and too long.

On screen, the current World’s Most Eligible couple are making out, and I throw a Swedish Fish on the screen. It bounces off and plops into the quickly defrosting frozen margarita pitcher.

“Going for a swiiiiiim,” Lucy sings out. “Little fishies in the seaaaa!”

“Shhhhhh,” Poppy presses her finger to her lips, staring us all down. “This important. Isss important.” She stomps her foot again, and the fur on her heels wobbles dramatically.

“You look hot,” I tell her.

“Super hot,” Lily confirms, raising her glass so we can cheers.

We miss, and more margarita spills onto the carpet where we’ve ended up.

It only makes us laugh more, especially when Giana, scoops some off the ground to plop in her mouth.

“That is sick,” I tell her.

“Five second rule,” Lu says.

“Alcohol kills everything,” Giana says after swallowing.

I shake my head. I don’t think that’s quite true, but I can’t remember why.

“I’m going to fucking lose it,” Poppy says, and tears spring to her eyes. “Listen to me.”

“Shit,” Lu says, glancing at her. “Everybody shut up. Poppy has to talk. Poppy talk. Poppy cock.”

I snort, then regret it as some frozen margarita starts to go up my nose.

I don’t even remember taking a sip.

“I’m signing us all up. For this show.” Poppy turns her phone screen so we can see it.

“Okay,” I shrug. “Why not?”

“What kind of show?” Lu asks.

Poppy squints at her, trying to figure out what her slur meant.

“We’ve applied a gazillion times and never gotten in,” Gianna says, somehow the most coherent of us all. Her dark brunette waves spill over her shoulder, and she’s so pretty it would make me sick if she weren’t my friend.

“You’re all so pretty,” I tell them.

“Focus.” Poppy bellows the world, a drunken nightie clad drill sergeant. “It’s a combination adventure and survival,” her tongue trips over the words, and she clears her throat.

“Sotally tober,” I tell Lu.

Lucy nods knowingly.

Lily tries to wink at all of us, but only succeeds in blinking very slowly.

“Combination adventure and survival—” Gianna starts

“And dating!” Poppy interrupts, holding a finger up.

“Fuck it,” I say, holding my now empty margarita glass up to cheers the girls. Half clink against mine, and then we’re refilling our glasses.

“Okay, good,” Poppy says, slightly breathless. “When?”

“Do they have an ASAP option?” I ask on a laugh. The idea of getting out of my life even for a little bit sounds amazing. Getting to do one of the shows I’ve been obsessed with since I was a kid with my best friends sounds even better.

“They do,” Poppy confirms. “Here. I have a tab filled out for everyone separately. Just pass it around and fill out your socials and sign electronically.” She beams at us.

It takes us all way longer than it should, between trips to the bathroom to pee, making another pitcher of margaritas, and forgetting how to spell my last name.

But we get it done.

And before we’ve drunk our seventh pitcher of frozen margaritas, we’re all signed up for the reality tv show Poppy found.

Somewhere between the start and finish of the eighth pitcher, the couple on TV are breaking up for other singles, Poppy’s tapping away furiously at her phone, and the rest of my friends are passed out.

Lucy’s snores are impressive and alarming, to be honest. I yawn, half-asleep myself.

So when blue light streams through my apartment window, the TV blinking on and off, and Poppy standing up on wobbly drunk legs —in her heels— I’m pretty sure I’m dreaming.

Because there’s no way I’m really in what looks like a space ship.

That would be silly.