After a terrible accident, Gemma is left with no memory of the first twenty years of her life and nobody to turn to who can help her remember. When she loses her job, Gemma sets out on an adventure to find something worth living for. What she doesn'...
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THE CLOCK ON my nightstand displays, in faint orange numbering against its white backdrop, that it's seven o' two when the doorbell to my unit rings.
Capping my neutral lipgloss, I place it on my dresser and rush over to the pile of bags at the foot of my double bed, searching quickly through them for the pair of ballet flats I purchased earlier. I relax a little when I hear Charlotte's exclamations of amazement at the luxury apartment and I know Émile has opened the door for her.
After grabbing my shoes, wallet, and jacket, I start toward the staircase to meet them. It's only when I'm tucking my wallet in my jacket pocket, my hand brushing against a smooth box, that I remember Audrick's gift from earlier. I'm quick to open the box and fasten the pretty piece around my neck, admiring the way it complements the flattering V-line of my black blouse with a quick glance in my mirror before going downstairs.
As I make my descent, I can hear that Chelsea's moved past marvelling at the grandioseness of my apartment and that she and Émile have moved onto introductions.
"Are you coming too?" she asks him as I step into the room.
"Unfortunately, yes."
Chelsea cackles, reaching up to adjust the strap of her khaki halter top.
"She'll probably hate it so much she won't want to go again."
"No, she doesn't seem the type," Chelsea agrees.
Émile's gaze finds me as I walk over to where they're situated, between the kitchen island and the living area. Brown eyes meet grey ones as he smirks and says, "Well, if that's not the case she'll have to find new friends to bring next time."
I roll my eyes, but can't manage to fight off a smile. "Come on guys," I say, looking first at Émile, then at Chelsea, and back to Émile again. "It can't be that bad."
♠♠♠
It really is that bad.
At first the obnoxiously loud music and bustling crowds paired with disco lighting and free drinks made the event look like a night of fun just waiting to unfold, like a present waiting to be unwrapped. But my eager anticipation quickly turned to disgusted disappointment when I dragged Émile and Chelsea onto the dance floor, which I was quick to learn was a mosh of people dancing suggestively, making out, yelling the lyrics to music I vaguely recognized but not well enough to know the lyrics by heart, and spilling their sticky beverages in the process.
Really, the movies make parties and getting wasted look much grander. In reality, drunk people just ask your name over and over. And over.
