Phoebe Berman's Gonna Lose It(49)

The tequila burns my throat as Ethan waterfalls the liquid into my mouth. I bite into a slice of lime before I have the chance to gag.

“So are you gonna tell us what’s happening with you and the photographer?” Jamie asks.

My entire face twists into a grimace from the sour taste.

“I’m not even feeling buzzed.” I avoid answering her question and instead gesture toward the bottle Ethan stole from behind the unmanned bar. “I need another.”

“Are you sure?” Jamie asks, wiping a dribble of tequila from her mouth with the back of her hand. “You said that about the last one. And the one before that.”

“Of course.” I grab the bottle from Ethan, who, up until this point, has been the sole dispenser of the shots. “I can handle my alcohol. I’ve been doing this much longer than you two have.”

I take a giant swig, at least double the size of Ethan’s tiny pours, schooling my expression into one of indifference. “I’m actually starting to appreciate the taste of alcohol as I get older.”

I bend down to rub an imaginary scuff off my heel, using my hair as a blanket to hide behind as I try not to vomit up all the crab cakes I housed a few minutes ago.

“I need everyone to have a good time tonight.” Ethan throws his arm around Jamie. “And if that means Phoebe knocking back five shots within a minute, so be it.”

Jamie nods but takes the bottle from my hands and puts it back in its spot behind the bar nonetheless. She grabs Ethan’s hand.

“We should go back out.” She pulls Ethan toward the doorway that leads to the hall where everyone’s gathered in the interim. “I want fifteen more of those tuna tartare cones.”

“You guys go ahead.” I usher them forward. “I’m just going to play around with the table settings for a second before everyone floods in here.”

I force myself to take three deep breaths as the door closes behind them, and then quickly grab my phone from the empty janitor’s closet, where I stashed it before the ceremony.

I have a missed call from Jonathan, followed by a few texts from him.

Jonathan:

Just checking in

Wanted to hear your voice

Miss you

I skim through some of the messages from the group chat, too.

Meg:

Noah and I have been texting:)

Alex:

If it can’t be me I’m glad it’s you.

Meg:

I think I really like him!

Phoebe, has Finn said anything?

And can you please send us some wedding pictures?

Nora:

Ugh, so excited for you, Meg

And so jealous

Dog Dad was a complete dud

Meg:

No!

Nora:

Phoebe, please send pictures of you in your dress to cheer me up Front and back

Jonathan: Phoebe??

How’s it going??

Alex:

Earth to Phoebe?

No matter the occasion, it’s highly unlike me not to answer my friends. Especially Jonathan. Ever since I somehow managed to text him a selfie in the middle of getting my wisdom teeth removed, it’s been a running joke that there’s no event big enough to keep me from my phone. But in this moment, I find myself too overwhelmed to respond. I’ll be sure to check in with them later. As for now, there’s only one text I’m capable of sending.

Phoebe:

Can I call you?

My phone starts ringing within seconds, and I pick up on the first ring.

“Hi, Sandy.”

“Phoebe. Is everything okay?”

I’ve made it clear to Sandy that I’ll only ever call in the case of a true emergency, so the edge of concern in her voice is warranted. The last time I requested a phone call was from the ER waiting room, after taking an edible, looking at my reflection under fluorescent lighting, and diagnosing myself with yellow fever.

My head starts to swim from the tequila, and I will myself to focus on the crisis at hand.

“Matthew is here.”

“Wordle Matthew?”

“Yes.”

“He’s where?”

“Here! At the wedding!”

“Wordle Matthew is at your sister’s wedding?”

“Wordle Matthew is at my sister’s wedding.”

“Did you invite him?”

“He’s the photographer. My mom hired him. She had no idea. I had no idea. He had no idea.”

“Wow. This sounds like the beginning of a beautiful—”

“Sandy,” I cut her off. “I was supposed to see him this weekend. But I told him I had to cancel my trip. I lied. And now he’s here,” I say with a sigh, thinking about the way he looked at me earlier. “And I think he’s upset.”

“I can understand that.”

“What do I do?”

“The only thing you can do.”

“Call an Uber?”

“No.” She chuckles. “Tell him the truth.”

“What’s the truth?” I’m so used to lying as a means to conceal my anxiety that I’m not even sure what being honest about this would look like.

“You tell me,” she says. “Pretend I’m Matthew. I’m upset and confused about why you lied to avoid seeing me. Tell me the truth about what happened.”