Page 7 of Dial F for Finance

I press my face into the pillow and make a sound that should probably remain undocumented.

My phone is on the nightstand. I don’t want to look at it because looking at it may confirm there are messages, and messages would indicate that the rest of civilization continued to exist after my humiliation, which feels both implausible and offensive.

I look anyway.

Nine thirteen.

Two texts from Audrey.

One from Serena.

One from Layla.

None from Dominic.

That last fact lands with a tiny, mean little sting I refuse to examine.

I open Audrey’s first because Audrey’s concern tends to arrive in bullet-point form and therefore feels containable.

Audrey:

Good morning. Hydrate.

Also, if you’d like me to dispose of a body, Logan says I’m not allowed to help, but I feel I should offer.

I shut my eyes briefly.

Serena:

Babe. You Irish-goodbyed. Are you alive?

Layla:

Morning! You disappeared before I could thank you for coming. Hope you had fun.

Fun. Layla thinks I had fun. Layla, who spent her wedding night blissfully unaware that one of her bridesmaids was outside propositioning a groomsman against a stone pillar like a woman auditioning for a cautionary tale about open bars.

I type back the only acceptable response to each.

To Audrey:

Me:

Alive. Hydrated. No bodies required yet.

To Serena:

Me:

Irish goodbye was strategic. I’ll explain at brunch.

I won’t explain at brunch. I’ll deflect at brunch.

To Layla:

Me:

It was beautiful. You were beautiful. Thank you for having me. x