For the fifth time in as many seconds, my fingertips swipe under my eyes.
Keeping my head down, I make my way through the crowd. I just want to get out.
I want to go home and pretend none of this happened. Pretend I never met Nero.
The bodies start to thin, so I finally look up, expecting to see the wide entrance to the event space. But instead, I see a wall.
What…
Confused, I spin around.
You have got to be kidding me.
The plane hanging from the vaulted ceiling is on the wrong side of the room. I went to the wrong side of the room. The giant arched entryway I came in through is on the complete opposite side of the massive room.
No no no.
“Champagne?”
I blink at the waiter who materialized next to me.
“No, thank you,” I respond automatically, before noticing the tray of flutes he’s holding. “Actually, yes, please.”
He gives me a polite smile, nodding to the tray.
I hesitate for one second before I tuck my purse under my arm and use both hands, grabbing a drink in each.
The waiter doesn’t bat an eye at my behavior, moving away and on to the next guest without another word.
If I was a normal person, who had alcohol in her apartment, I wouldn’t need to double fist it now. But I don’t like wasting money on booze, and tonight calls for getting drunk, so the least Nero can do is supply me with drinks.
Nero.
My heart nearly stops at the thought of his name. And in response, I raise one of the glasses of champagne, and gulp it down like a frat boy. The bubbles rioting in my throat.
A woman walks out of the wall ahead of me, and I narrow my eyes.
It’s then I realize I’m already drunker than I thought, because she just came out of a door.
Relief swamps me, and as I hurry toward it, I see the sign designating it as a ladies’ room. On my way, I find another little table to set my empty glass on, then use my free hand to push into the bathroom.
The noise level drops when the door swings shut behind me, and I’m greeted with a large, dimly lit restroom fancier than any I’ve ever seen.
The marble floor continues throughout, the walls are covered in a dark floral wallpaper, and the stalls are all their own individual little rooms with floor-to-ceiling wooden doors.
Not needing an embossed invitation for this little party, my heels click across the floor as I make my way to an open stall door, locking it behind me.
Keep it together, Payton.
I press my butt to the door and bend forward, careful not to spill my full glass.
In my newly found privacy, I let my breath hitch.
Just once.
Get home. Get home, then you can lose it as much as you want. You can cry until you throw up if you want. But not until you get home.
The bathroom is so fancy the stall has a shelf attached to the wall, rather than a hook on the door, for your purse or jacket. I set my drink on the shelf, then slip my phone out of my purse and open the Uber app.
It only takes me a few seconds to request a ride, and luckily, it’s a busy time of night so lots of cars are available. I select one that’s only five minutes away, then hit confirm.
Taking a breath, I pick up the second glass of bubbly and down it as fast as the first.
