How to Look Happy (3 page)

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It’s about six hours later when I wake up with my head spinning and my bladder screaming at me. I’ve never been able to sleep well when I’m drunk. I lift myself slightly, and the sunlight filtering around the edges of my matchstick blinds lights up the room enough for me to squint and spot the glass of water and bottle of Advil Carrie must have put on the nightstand beside me, along with my glasses. I’m horrendously nearsighted and need to sign up for LASIK surgery, but the idea of being awake and aware while laser beams slice through my corneas makes me queasy in a whole different way than I’m feeling right now.

I smile at my best friend’s thoughtfulness before a strong wave of nausea lands me flat against the pillow again. “Aaagh,” I moan, waiting out my churning stomach before trying again to pull myself into a seated position.

When I swing my legs off the bed, they knock into a small metal trash can that Carrie has pulled over to rest beside the bed. The woman left no stone unturned. Luckily I don’t have to use it before I drag myself to the bathroom and let loose in there.

Back in bed several minutes later, I’ve just downed the glass of water along with two ibuprofen tablets when I notice my phone on the floor next to my bed. I pick it up and click the home button out of habit, though the likelihood of anybody trying to reach me at 7:00 a.m. is slim. A text notification pops up, and I squint at the phone to read it.

It’s from Carrie. No surprise. I figure she’s checking up on me and wonder for the millionth time how I got so lucky in the BFF lottery. The message’s contents
are
surprising, though:
WAKE UP! WAKE UUUP! I’m coming over…

Alarmed, I prop myself up on one elbow and swipe the phone’s screen to open my remaining messages. My half-closed lids pop open wide when I see that I have fifteen new texts. I have eight missed calls, too, but I didn’t hear any of them because my phone is set to silent.

My hand shaking, I open the thread of texts from Carrie. She’s sent two others telling me to wake up, and I figure she’s the source of the missed calls. I scroll up to read the rest of the messages in chronological order. The first one came around 6:00 a.m.

Can’t sleep. Worried abt u. Call me when u get up.

The ensuing texts started coming about twenty minutes after the first.
OMG. How did u manage this?? Thought u were passed out!!

Get on FB, Jen. N.O.W.

Calling…is ur phone on silent??!

Wish I hadn’t locked ur keys in house! I’d come fix this myself.

Damn, damn, damn, damn, damn.

Wake up.

Still calling. Wake UP!

Forced into sober awareness by this point, it occurs to me that Carrie isn’t the source of all fifteen texts. Sitting halfway up in bed, my stomach issues all but forgotten, I fumble out of the message thread to find out who else is trying to reach me.
Who all did I drunk-text last night?
As the words “last night” enter my brain, my throat constricts with dread.

The rest of the texts are from Jeremy, and at first they make even less sense than Carrie’s. As I read, though, fragmented memories of the events that occurred after we left the bar start flooding my mind. I scroll back through the thread and read.

Call me.

Call me now.

Nev mind. We’ll talk abt this tmrw when u being rational.

A half-hour long break between messages and then:
Hope u got home OK. Guessing Carr took care of things?

There’s another break, and I see that he’s sent the last two messages within the past hour.

WTF!!! What RU trying to do to me??

And then, finally, an ominous,
Call me the second u wake up.

As I read the last message, my doorbell rings, and I lean over the side of my bed to throw up.

*  *  *

The doorbell dings for the third time as I pad through the living room in bare feet, still wearing the rumpled dress I came home in last night. Simon is going crazy by this point—the doorbell sends him into a leaping, circling frenzy—and meanwhile my head is throbbing, and my phone is in my hand. I click the Facebook icon as I stretch up on my toes to see through the crescent-shaped window on the upper part of my front door.

As expected, my view is of the top of Carrie’s head. The deadbolt isn’t locked, so I turn the lock in the doorknob and pull the door open. Carrie pushes through it immediately, talking a blue streak before I have a chance to say a word.

“Have you seen it yet? Oh my God, Jen, I’ve tried to call you like a million times. Please, please, please, God, tell me you’ve taken it down.” She walks up behind me as I push the door closed and looks over my shoulder at my phone’s screen. I clutch it tighter, afraid she’s about to rip it out of my hand.

“You’re freaking me out,” I say, my hands shaking as I glance down my Facebook wall. I have several new notifications, so I click the icon to view them and walk toward the couch as Carrie drops her purse onto the floor and trails me impatiently. All the notifications are from people who’ve commented on a status or posted on my wall, and the people are totally random—my old roommate, a past client, a cousin in Virginia, a planner from the city engineer’s office, a friend from my Zumba class, a guy I went to high school with, my coworker Quinn. I click my former roommate’s wall post, and it reads,
OMG!! You OK?????
Next I click Quinn’s post.
You are so screwed.

“Why?” I exclaim. “Why am I screwed?” I look at Carrie, panic taking over my confusion. “What’s going on?”

She’s been poised to grab the phone from me, and finally she does, plucking it from my hands and tapping frantically at the screen. I watch as she pulls up my profile page, scrolls down to my current status, and then thrusts the phone back in front of my face. “Read it,” she says. “And then delete it before anybody else sees it!”

Feeling a new round of nausea coming on, I follow her orders and read, the words blurring together as my life as I know it passes before my eyes. My Facebook status, updated at 1:23 a.m., reads:
OMG worst day ever!!! First my boss sucks face wit my biggest client, who she’s stealing from me, btw. And now jeremy tels me he’s screwing some chick at work and wedding. Is. Off. FML…
So far it has twelve comments, and as I watch a new one appears, this one from an architect I worked with on a project last year.

Letting out a strangled yelp, I fumble to figure out how to delete the status as a new round of vomit rises up in my throat. I press one hand to my mouth and jump up from the sofa, the phone clattering to the floor. As Carrie clamors for it, I bang my shin on the coffee table and rush for the half bath in the hall between the living room and kitchen. I don’t make it.

The remaining contents of my stomach land on the antique rug that lines the hardwood floor of my hallway. Afterward I sink down onto it, tears sliding from my eyes and mingling with the mess on the floor. I cough and sob at the same time, and then I hear Carrie get up from the sofa. Simon is circling the mess and staring at me with huge, woeful eyes.

“Deleted it,” Carrie says in a breathless rush, her footsteps hastening toward me. “Oh. God. Oh, honey,” she says. “Here.” She extends a hand to me and pulls me up from my heap on the floor. “Let me get—”

“No!” I yell, the realization of what she’s doing yanking me out of my slobbery stupor. She’s already done so much. I can’t let her clean up after me again. Her eyes are wide, and I stammer, “I’m sorry. You’re not… I’ll clean this up. God, thank you
so
much for—”

I put my fist to my mouth and close my eyes for half a second. “Thank you,” I say again. Then I step over the pile of puke and flee to the kitchen to gather cleaning supplies.

Life goes on, indeed.

*  *  *

Two hours later I’ve managed to shower, pull on a T-shirt and yoga pants, eat a slice of dry toast, and sip tentatively at a mug of coffee. Between these activities I’ve spent the rest of the time on damage control. Carrie stayed for about half an hour after I finished cleaning up, insisting on helping despite my mortified protests. As the second in command at a PR firm, Carrie’s
job
is damage control, and without her here I’m not sure I could have held on to what was left of my sanity, much less my dignity. Eventually, though, she had to leave for work.

As for me, I’m not sure how much longer I’ll
have
a job. I doubt Candace saw my status—we’re not Facebook friends—but she’s sure to hear about it and might have already. At any rate, so far I’ve put off calling the office. It’s about 9:30, roughly an hour past my usual arrival time. I plop down heavily at my kitchen table and stare at my phone, feeling as if I’ve been trampled by a bull in Pamplona or thrown off the back of a moving vehicle. My head is still throbbing despite the Advil, and my stomach feels like it’s challenging me to a duel.

After debating over and over in my head and imagining a range of scenarios each worse than the last, I hold my breath and dial the office number. Jeremy will be here any minute, and I don’t want Candace to have my unexcused absence as a ready reason to fire me.
Jeremy.
The mere thought of his name makes me feel like I could start vomiting all over again.

“Greenlee Designs. How can we help you?” Carson Cullers, our office manager, interrupts my anguish in a voice that seems brighter than usual this morning. I’ve always suspected that Carson doesn’t like me, so I’m sure my incriminating Facebook status is the reason for her good mood.

“Hi Carson, it’s Jen,” I say, my voice dull by comparison. “Is Candace in yet?”

“Jen!” She squeaks my name so loud my throbbing head gives an extra pulse. Then her tone turns all low and conspiratorial. “No, she hasn’t shown up yet. You can try her cell.”

I almost laugh at the thought of my name showing up on Candace’s phone screen this morning. “No thanks,” I say. “Do you mind sticking a note on her desk that I called you and that I don’t feel well today?” Even though I’m sure it’s pointless, I want a record of the fact that I did call in sick.

“Sure thing, sweetie,” she says, and I pull the phone from my ear and stare at it in surprise. Carson has never used the word “sweetie” to address me. She’s efficient and brisk and generally reserved. I’m not sure what to make of it.

“Um, thanks,” I say. “I’ll be there tomorrow,” I add for good measure.

“Sure, okay,” she replies, and I can hear another line ringing in the background. “Gotta run, sweetie. Hope you feel better.”

My brow furrows as she hangs up, and, thinking our conversation didn’t match any of the scenarios I’d envisioned, I shake my head and heave a giant sigh. I have bigger issues to deal with right now. I move into the living room, flip open the laptop that’s resting on a small desk in the corner by the front window, and fire it up. For some reason, I think a bigger screen might offer a broader perspective on the scope of my social media fail.

While the computer warms up, I peek through the front blinds to see if Jeremy’s car has made an appearance yet out front. My house is a compact foursquare I bought with my dad’s co-signature and shared with a roommate for the first two years I owned it. Once I began building a big enough clientele to earn a decent salary, I found I could cover the mortgage without help, so when my roommate Murphy decided to move in with her boyfriend, I didn’t advertise for another roommate. I’d been expecting Jeremy to move in soon since the lease on his condo is up in July, and I’d finally eked a long-term commitment out of him, but now I guess I understand why he wouldn’t give up his bachelor pad.

My stomach gives another sick lurch.

I crane my neck and peek as far as I can through my blinds and down the street, which is quiet on this weekday morning. My neighborhood is urban and settled, with mature trees lining the sidewalks and a diverse cast of characters occupying the neat rows of Craftsman bungalows, foursquares, and Tudor revival cottages. I don’t have a covered portico or even much of a driveway, so when Jeremy or anyone else comes over, parking is a fend-for-yourself situation. Right now the street space in front of my house is empty.

I plop down in my molded-plastic, Eames knock-off desk chair and steel myself for the onslaught. Even though Carrie pulled down my post, my wall keeps getting new comments asking if I’m okay, what happened, etc. Some of the comments are from friends, but most are from Facebook “friends” who are more interested in the juiciness of the gossip than in my well-being. Per Carrie’s instructions, I’m answering the comments one by one in private messages and hiding the wall posts from my public feed.

I had no idea I even
had
this many onlookers to my life. Amazing how people come out of the woodwork when there’s something to gawk at.

I’ve just answered a question posted by my second cousin, Elissa, who lives in Ohio, when the sound of a car door slamming out front makes me jump. Rapid footsteps pound up my porch steps, and my doorbell rings for the fourth time this morning. Simon’s in the backyard, probably chasing squirrels, so he can’t do his customary doorbell dance. But I hear him barking by the back fence.