2
Annie
Cézanne had kept me out way too late. Or maybe I’d kept her out too late. Either way, the next morning, I was feeling the side effects.
I popped two Tylenol and downed a bottle of Gatorade as I leaned back against the refrigerator. My head was spinning. I wasn’t sure I was even hungover. I might still be drunk. How many shots had I taken? The number eluded me. As did how I’d gotten home.
“Annie, is that you?” my roommate, Jennifer, asked as she entered the kitchen.
“Yep,” I muttered.
Jennifer and I were as opposite as opposite could be. We’d gone to high school together, but while I’d been the head cheerleader, she’d been the quiet, shy yearbook nerd. I’d worn designer clothes while she’d been in hand-me-downs. I cringed now when I thought about how judgmental I’d been then.
