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I was sitting cross-legged on my bed, already tipsy and staring at myself in the mirror. Lauren was doing her makeup next to me, moving in that effortless way that made everything seem easy for her. Meanwhile, I was trying not to smudge my eyeliner after doing a few lines. The energy in the room was electric—between the drinks, the coke, and the loud music blasting from my speaker, I was buzzing.
“You know what? Fuck that dinner,” I said, slurring a bit, tossing my eyeliner onto the bed and reaching for my drink. The memory of Beyoncé and Rihanna laughing together still made my stomach twist. “Like, I can’t even believe it. Wifey sitting there, all cozy with her ex, like I wasn’t even in the room.”
Lauren laughed, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Girl, you and this ‘wifey’ shit. You really out here catching feelings for some expired coochie.”
I snapped my head toward her, narrowing my eyes. “Don’t call it that.”
She smirked, still blending her highlighter. “Well, what else am I supposed to call it? That woman is, what, like 40? She’s not your type, babe. You usually go for girls closer to our age, not women who’ve got, like, a kid and a mortgage.”
“First of all, Beyoncé is a woman, not some girl who doesn’t even know how to text back,” I shot back, standing up from the bed and pacing around the room. The alcohol was hitting hard now, mixing with the coke and making my head feel light but hyper-focused on defending my wifey.
Lauren rolled her eyes, sipping her drink. “A woman with baggage.”
“I like her baggage!” I huffed, grabbing my outfit off the chair. Tonight, I was going for sleek and dangerous—a tight black mini dress with a high slit and lace-up heels that screamed, don’t touch me unless you’re Beyoncé. “She’s hot, okay? And that ‘expired coochie’ is still fresher than anything you’ve ever had.”
Lauren burst out laughing, nearly choking on her drink. “You’re crazy. You know that, right?”
I shrugged, pulling my dress over my head and adjusting it in the mirror. “Maybe. But you can’t tell me Beyoncé isn’t fine as hell.”
“I mean, she’s hot, sure. But she’s also out of your league.”
“Bitch, everyone’s out of your league,” I said, smirking at my reflection. I didn’t care what Lauren thought. Beyoncé was different. She had this... presence. And yeah, she had a kid and was older, but that didn’t mean shit to me.
Lauren rolled her eyes again, finishing her makeup. “Alright, whatever. Let’s go before you start crying over your sugar mama.”
I laughed, grabbing my clutch and heading for the door. “I don’t cry. I party.”
We hit the club like we always did—like we owned the place. The lights were low, the bass was pounding, and everyone looked glossy and electric under the neon glow. I could already feel the buzz in my veins, my heart racing from the coke and alcohol, my body loose and ready to move.
