Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
PETER PARKER WAS coming to Thanksgiving at the penthouse.
And despite the raging hangover, Sloane did her very best to make herself presentable. She took about four Tums to settle her stomach, drank three bottles of water, and took four Tylenol to dull the pounding in her temples before she began getting ready. Her hands shook as she applied makeup to her freshly washed skin. Was she ... nervous? No, that was ridiculous. Peter Parker was a friend – a cute one, who was also a big help with her article – and he was simply coming so that she didn't have to be the only one at dinner without a guest. He knew his role, and so did she.
Then, why was she putting so much effort into her appearance?
Sloane sat on her floor, head in her hands, practically having a breakdown over if she should redo her mascara after some got on her eyelid. Get a grip, she told herself firmly, before getting to her feet and digging through the clothes she hung in the closet. Sloane picked out a fitted black turtleneck, a pair of dark green and navy plaid flared pants, and her favorite gold hoops. She wound her hair into a thick French braid with a few baby hairs framing her face. To the blind eye, she was the picture-perfect New Yorker. Little did any of her family realize how dreadfully hungover she was.
Peter told Sloane that he'd be over before dinner, that he wanted to visit his Aunt May and celebrate in the morning. So that left Sloane to her own devices for a few hours. Once she exited her room, the fresh scent of maple bacon, cheesy eggs, and thick-cut honey ham filled the room. Sloane wondered at first if her mom had actually made breakfast, but just like the meal they were having this evening, the food was in catering trays. Sabrina was handing Everett a plate when she noticed her daughter in the doorway of the living room. "Come here, Sloane," she said, another plate in her hand. "Breakfast was delivered. I ordered our favorite – cheesy eggs!"
Sloane's stomach churned at the thought of food, and then throwing it all up after. But she knew food was exactly what she needed at the moment to settle her stomach. With a forced smile, she took the plate and looked down at the pre-made eggs. They didn't look as good as when they were homemade. "They were dad's favorite," she finally corrected, turning to Sabrina. "He turned us both onto them, remember?"
