ent. My face is still wet, mascara streaking down my cheeks like a dam ju

, but it's no use. I'm ugly crying, sobbing like I

ed even when I'm falling apart. "You know, I told you not to tr

like a sob than anything remotely joyful. "You did," I reply, voic

like a walking red flag wrapped in a cheap suit," she adds, leaning back in her seat, her arms cro

, shiny enough to blind a person. But for some reason, they're comforting right no

. "No kidding. But he

re. I start to feel the tension of the night start to seep away, just a li

bottle of champagne on that asshole,

," Callie says dryly, not trying to comfort me but, in some twiste

e one I've been saving

and giving me a side-eye. "Just don't throw a bottle of anythin

ugh a little, despi

, pathetic thing that I willingly let

r, eyes wide with panic. "What if I'm

're fine. Just get tested." She waves it off like it's no big de

ne," I mumble. "I was gonna settle down with

"You're better off without him. You deserve so

own like water, but th

ke to castrate Monty and feed him his dick sautéed in sriracha. She's wearing this black leather corset top with a cutout that basically turns heads every

p adjusting. My lipstick is smudged just enough to say, I cried in an Uber, and my eyeliner's wing is hanging on for dear life, like my will to l

ghts are dim, purple and red strobes flashing across dark brass table tops and bodies grinding on the dance floor. It smells

s balls probably have the texture of a used loo

th the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, no tie. His jacket's slung over one shoulder, and there's a silver watch glinting on his wrist like it

watch

s trying to figure out if I'm crying over a bre

eeks warm. "Callie. Hot

urns around and s

LLI

vin Klein ad walk in here? Why's he lo

y hyper-aware of my everything. "

her thumb. "But honestly? It's giving tragica

o look at him again, but when I

e starts w

rply. "Shit. He's

not c

. We're d