Chapter 23
Willa’s eyelids hurt. And her head. And her throat. And her back.
It took her a moment to realize she wasn’t in her bed, but hanging halfway off a lumpy couch, still wearing her jeans, fitted T-shirt, bomber jacket, and Air Force 1s from yesterday.
Shit.
Her phone was on the floor. She picked it up with shaky hands and saw that it was 8 a.m.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
She checked her texts.
7:30 p.m., Pete: “Putting the boys to bed.”
9 p.m., Pete: “Are you OK?”
9:30 p.m., Pete: “Hello?”
10 p.m., Pete: “I really wish you’d write back and let me know where you are, and if you’re OK.”
10:15 p.m., Willa: “Sorry phone is dying all good here just got stuck in long chat with Ashley about problems with her man. Should be home by 11:30 depending on Lyft.”
11 p.m., Pete: “I’m going to bed.”
11:30 p.m., Willa: “slfkjwerysl; sdfkj;agtw”
1 a.m., Pete: “Just woke up and you aren’t here. What the hell?”
1:15 a.m., Willa: “Hey Pete. This is Jamie. I’m with Willa and she’s totally fine. Just going to crash at my apartment so she doesn’t disturb you by coming in late [smiley emoji].”
Willa held her phone to her chest and felt shame swirling in her gut, along with what she guessed were tequila shots, cold pizza, and Gatorade. She sat up, directing her stomach to behave itself, and walked to the window of the loft apartment. Midtown. How did I get here? She tried to piece things together. They left the park at 5 p.m., then walked to The Blue Door, a bar on Piedmont Avenue. Shots. More shots. Dancing and screaming the words to “Getting Hot in Herre” by Nelly. A guy yelling something in her ear. Then … oh God … cocaine in the bathroom?
Shit.
Willa found her cross-body bag on a kitchen stool and took a quick look at herself in the mirror near the front door. She tried to wipe the mascara smudges from under her eyes, then gave up. There was no hiding this hangover.
She headed outside, ordered a Lyft, and sat on the curb next to a pile of picked-over chicken bones. Why so many chicken bones on the sidewalk, Atlanta? Her stomach turned at the thought of wings. She breathed out slowly.
In the car she opened the window, leaned her head against the door, and closed her eyes, dreading the day ahead — how sick she’d be, the anxiety she’d feel as shards of memory sliced through, how she’d have to explain to Pete why she hadn’t come home when she said she would. Oh, and the exhaustion. Unlike the old days, there was no going back to bed until 2 p.m. and then ordering fast food and watching TV on the couch. Pete would not be sympathetic, and rightly so.
Willa would have to pretend to be Supermom, like everything was fine, she felt great, and that she could easily handle a full day of kid soccer and other activities.
She walked through the door and saw the boys on the couch, watching YouTube videos again.
“Mommy!” James said, jumping up to hug her. “Did you go to a sleepover party?”
Willa looked up and saw Pete watching her from the kitchen. He did not look happy.
“Yeah, kind of, honey,” she said. “Mommy’s gonna go shower now.”
Willa trudged to the bathroom and peeled off her clothes, then stood in the hot shower for a while, trying to hide in all the steam.
“So, um, what the hell, Willa?” Pete said through the closed shower curtain.
“I’m so sorry,” Willa said, the heels of her hands pressing into her aching eyes. “My phone died. So I went back to Jamie’s for a little bit, to charge it before calling a Lyft, and I kind of passed out.”
For a while, the only sound in the room was the water hitting the tub and the pounding in Willa’s ears. Then Pete spoke: “You can’t be doing that. I mean, look, you know I like to drink, and I’m not above getting drunk. But you have to let me know where you are. You can’t leave me wondering and worrying.”
“I know,” Willa said. “I really am sorry. I was safe, but I shouldn’t have stayed out so late, and I should have texted you. I’m so, so sorry. It won’t happen again.”
“OK,” Pete said. She heard him open the bathroom door, then close it.
Willa turned to let the water pour over her face. It felt like an all-hands-on-deck meeting was going on in her brain. Leading the discussion were shame and guilt, with support from depression, anxiety, and embarrassment. Others were there too, including frustration and selfishness. Hedonism kept yelling “YOLO!”
She stepped out of the shower and toweled off, then saw she had some unread texts.
Jen: “Last night was SO FUN.”
Jamie: “I know! I’m laughing my ass off remembering that guy who kept grinding up on Willa.”
Ashley: “LOL!”
Jamie: “And how I got lost, trying to find the bathroom?”
Jen: “Yes, hilarious! Gotta do this again soon.”
Ashley: “For sure. Right now, though, I’m eating Lucky Charms and going back to bed.”
Willa couldn’t help but envy how uncomplicated things were for them. She thought about how long it had been since she had felt that kind of ease.
“Hey, thanks for texting my husband and letting him know I was OK,” she texted Jamie. “It would have been really bad if he didn’t hear from me until I got home this AM.”
Jamie texted back: “No problem. Coaches gotta stick together.”
Charlie knocked on the bathroom door. “Daddy told me to tell you we’re leaving in 10 minutes for soccer!”
“OK, honey, I’ll be ready soon.”
She pulled her wet hair into a low ponytail, then went into the bedroom and put on some sweats and a FitFams baseball hat.
As she grabbed the boys’ soccer bags, her coffee, and a bag of pretzels, she looked to Pete for some sense that he really accepted her apology. Maybe a reassuring smile? The look he gave instead read like disappointment.
His eyes traveled to her hat. Then he turned away.