One Drunken Night

fourteen: tears

dedicated to Ella for her constant guidance on this book:) book banner on the side made by the awesome Mia (littlemissreader101) 

Kelly's

Wednesday Morning

A buzzing sound makes its way into my dream.

With a mental sigh, I allow my brain to focus and cautiously open one eye. The bright spring sunlight cuts the room in half and I see dust-motes dancing in the wall of light. I pull the duvet up over my head to keep it out. It's only seven in the morning; too early to be alive. How am I supposed to function properly at this time of the day?

I roll myself off my back and rub lethargy from my eyes. Reaching behind, I untangle my loose bun to release brown waves cascading like a waterfall. I forgot to remove the hairdo before I fell asleep and it was jabbing me in the skull the entire night. Did it hurt? A lot.

Ethan's snoring thunders the room. Yesterday night, he was promoted to a couch. Our luck got cashed out again; zero vacant rooms. Tolerate him for one more night, I told myself, and that is all I can mange. Tonight, I don't care how, but I'm having four walls to myself.

I slip into the disposable motel slippers and walk over to him. "Wake up else we are going to be late," I warn. Our schedule for the morning is to set out by eight and reach Disneyland before half past ten, and one hour is not exactly sufficient for us to get ready. (Keep in mind we only have one bathroom.)

He stirs; I reckon he's already left slumberland.

***

Ethan's

Wednesday Morning

I exit the bathroom, still groggy. The cold morning shower was definitely refreshing, but I can definitely use more sleep. On a proper bed. Yes, I am complaining. The fabric is prickly and the sofa set is so small my legs were dangling off the armrest. The cons of being tall.

Kelly is in front of the vanity mirror, rubbing some cream onto her face. I remember some girl telling me that is either fundamental or foundation or something. She pats it evenly over her face and then reaches for another tube of "stuff" in a black pouch.

"What's that?" I pop over beside her, picking up a sleek back tube. She jumps backwards, taken aback at my incredible teleportation skills.

"What the- don’t do that!" She yelps, shoving me as I chortle.

She snatches the black tube from my hand and uncaps it to reveal a mini stick with bristles poking out.

"Why is the comb so small?" I question the feminine contraption only as long as my finger. This must be why girls take so long to get ready in the morning.

"It's not a comb you dweeb. It's mascara," She throws me off with the foreign pronunciation.

"Maz-Kah-Ra?" I echo.

"Yeah. Makes your eyes pop!" Her lips smack together. She pulls the comb along her lashes in an upward motion.