After The Party

05 | long live the love

"JESUS!" I JUMP, glancing up into my open doorway, said door slamming against the wall loudly. It's always a goddamn entrance with her. "Carajo. ¿Qué quieres?"

Her brows pinch.

"What the fuck do you want, June?"

"I can't believe Chelsea showed up—" It's breathy, a single sentence slurring so quickly I barely understand it. Clearly unfazed by my jittery vibe, June sits. "I wish I'd stayed."

"Wait." I let my screen go dark as I gauge her disappointment. "Where did you go?" June had left me in a seedy bathroom in Bushwick? "I don't remember, like, anything."

"Aw fuck you said you were okay when I left," she sighs. "I was so fucked up I puked on the J platform, left before you went to that... Halloween Party at The... Love?" It ends on an uncertain lilt, and I wince. My stomach lurches. I'd left June.

I went.

Why did I go without June?

Why did Chels show up?

"Where did you come from, anyway?" I nod at her curtly. "I knocked."

"I just got in. I went for a jog," she says, and as I look her over, I realize, yes, June is in leggings and a sports bra, popping an Airpod lazily. Her forehead shiny. "I have to sweat off a hangover. It works. Really."

Yeah, okay. If I went for a jog ahora mismo, I would probably pass out. But June can do whatever June does. Okay.

Would June have told... Chelsea?

"Did you..." My throat is dry. I unlock my iPhone again, finding the top of her profile: here for a good time not a long time ✨ in her bio, iconically @chelseainchelsea on Instagram. "Did you tell Chelsea where I'd be?"

"No, did you?"

I don't...

Her post at Otero-Mesa isn't her latest post. Beside it, a dark, blurry photograph of spray paint on a dirty wall: LONG LIVE THE LOVE.

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chelseainchelsea ✨🖤
Hace 3 horas / 2 hours ago

The Love.

So Chelsea had been...

Our Messages are empty, dark. I couldn't quite remember if I'd stopped reaching out or if Chelsea had stopped responding.

"No."

Her Profile Picture encased in an opaque ring—Stories I'd already supposedly seen. Chels would know.

"I mean, you posted a bunch of shit on Insta, I bet Chels knew where to find you."

"I don't know. I... I don't remember her showing up." I'm in her Story, in a haze, faraway... "I don't remember seeing her... at all, June. I haven't seen Chelsea in—fuck, I don't know, I—"

"Why don't you call her, Noles?"

"Um, no," I mutter. Not anymore. I've decided I refuse to call Chelsea and ask her what I may or may not have done while I was blackout drunk.

Chelsea is always fucking with you, Nola.

"I'm not going t—"

"Oop, I am—" June shrugs, and lowers her iPhone, a shrill, scratchy ring filling my bedroom awkwardly. "I'll do it. I'm pissed I missed her."
Neither of us... see Chelsea much anymore.

It clicks.

"Hey, you've reached Chelsea! Sorry I'm unavailable, if you leave a message, I'll get back to you! Promise!" I can almost visualize an emoji hanging off it. Promise! ❤️ So Chelsea. So Cute.