Bowling Dreams & Cheap Wine

Chapter 12

A man is the first thing I smell. Not sweaty, body odor like the guys at the arena, but hints of fresh rain and fall days. I want to keep inhaling, despite my spinning head. Someone please attach it back to my body. My stomach is like the high seas, up high and swishing low, a whirlpool of sickness threatening to come up. A major headache breaks through my skull. "Turn off the sunlight," I groan and pull the covers over my head. The smell now causes my stomach to turn.

My eyelids peel open.

These aren't my sheets.

This isn't my bed.

I push the covers back.

I sit up fast, regretting the decision and flop back on the pillow. What happened last night? I never drink that much. I never club. There was something about Steph's boot...a men's bathroom...security guards?

DIANNA.

I sit up straight and stay up.

My phone. I look from side-to-side. "Where is it? Where are you? Where's my phone?" My voice growing agitated. She had fallen...she stood up...blood running down her mouth. I spot my phone on the nightstand behind a blue Caboodle filled with mini lotions. Reaching over too fast I knock the Caboodle onto the floor dumping out the contents.

"Shoot!" I get out of bed, landing on unsteady feet. My head. The alcohol. Heart-pounding seconds fly by as I scramble to put the lotion—hold on. These aren't lotions. I narrow my gaze at the fine print. I blink and put the words further away. Ah. That's better. These tubes aren't cute lotion samples. They're lubricant. I clench my intimate muscles and load the lube back up and shut the container.

I'll deal with this lubricant situation in a sec. Right now, I need to know my friends are okay. Whoa. Slow down. Take it all in. Find out where you are. The room provides clues. 

Belongs to a male.

A lot of navy blue.

Black-and-white framed city photos on the walls.

A stack of neatly folded scrubs.

A text comes through. My attention is pulled to my screen. It's from Lisa.

Dianna is back at home. She's okay. Are you okay?

A photo follows. Dianna in a hospital bed. Arm in a sling, wrist wrapped in a cast. Her mouth is missing a front tooth on the top and the bottom.

Oh no.

I read more texts. The blaring red light of an ambulance a vague memory. But there had been one. And two paramedics. Someone--God no--in our group had inquired about one of them removing their shirts. I slap my hand to my forehead. Lisa had gone with Dianna in the ambulance. Steph, Tamara, and I went home with...

Raj?

Raj.

The last person I remember texting was Nate. That's right. I texted him after the bathroom but before Dianna fell. How did Raj get in the mix?

The awful, knotted feeling in my stomach returns as I read my messages. I want to do the snot-nosed, soul-hating kind of crying because my dear, sweet, wonderful friend fell from a platform and now she's missing teeth and has a broken wrist. She should never have been up there in the first place. What were we thinking?

My phone has exactly five numbers belonging to men. 1. My brother-in-law. 2. Lisa's husband, Julian. 3. Raj. 4. Nate. 5. Greg from Southern BBQ, (I'm on their regular customer list). I swore I had texted Nate last night. Only, I didn't.