We're All in This Together by Amy Jones

Author:Amy Jones [Jones, Amy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: McClelland & Stewart
Published: 2016-06-07T00:00:00+00:00

NINETEEN

2003

Nicki wakes up, head throbbing, and runs to the bathroom to vomit. Good fucking god, what have I done? she thinks, hands shaking, head pressed against the toilet seat, feeling as though a thousand-pound weight has dropped from the sky and onto her back, keeping her pinned there. She can still taste the tequila coating the insides of her mouth, can still smell the tinny, stale-beer smell of the bar, and can definitely still hear Dallas snoring in the next room. It isn’t even a dawning of sick recognition that hits her then, just a slow resigned sigh, like of course that’s Dallas snoring in the next room, who else would it be? And here she is, kneeling on the bathroom floor of some seedy motel and throwing up like she’s in fucking high school, for Christ’s sake.

It was Jenna’s birthday, or at least it had been Jenna’s birthday on the previous Tuesday, but now that they were adults with jobs and kids and shit, they couldn’t just go out and party any old night of the week. So they saved up their hairspray and the money from their tip jars and went out Friday night, seven of them wobbling on too-tall heels in too-tight skirts, outfits they never would have worn back in the day, pre-kids, pre-divorces, pre–credit card debt, when all they needed to be sexy was a baby tee and some strawberry-scented lip gloss. Nicki might have only been twenty-six, but stuffed into her Spanx, with her eyeliner stretched out to her temples, she felt more like forty-six. She hoped she didn’t look as desperate as she felt, standing at the bar at Scuttlebutts, waving a twenty discreetly for the benefit of the bored bartender, who ignored her as if she was just some middle-aged mom with a bad haircut whose idea of a good time was two wine coolers and being in bed before ten. The whole thing made Nicki’s head hurt.

As she made her way back to the table balancing a tray of tequila shots, she bumped into Dallas. Really, Dallas bumped into her, while walking backwards through the bar with his arms thrown up in the air, yelling something to one of his bros across the room who was making rude gestures with a test-tube shooter. She didn’t even know it was him until they were both on the floor, dripping with tequila, lemon wedges scattered between them, the salt shaker uncapped and overturned on Dallas’s chest.

“Watch where you’re fucking going!” Nicki yelled, driving her heel into Dallas’s side.

“Fuck, Nicki,” Dallas groaned.

Nicki sat up, waving off a couple of outstretched hands from the crowd of amused onlookers. She found one shot glass that was still three-quarters full of tequila, hoisted herself up onto all fours, and crawled across the floor to Dallas, then leaned over and licked at the pile of salt on his T-shirt with a catlike flick of her tongue. Then she sat back on her heels, downed the shot, and dropped

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