For the Love of Friends
Sara Goodman Confino
CHAPTER ONE
Sunday morning, six o’clock
A time best experienced while sleeping, preferably in your own bed and next to a loved one. Or Leonardo DiCaprio.
It is not, however, best experienced as I did—waking up, incredibly hungover, in an unfamiliar hotel room next to an unfamiliar sleeping man. Who, while mostly hidden by the combination of a hotel quilt and a mercifully facedown sleeping position, was likely not Leonardo DiCaprio.
Oh dear God, I thought, leaning over as far as I could to try to see my bedmate without actually waking him. What （and who） did I do last night?
Think, Lily!
Megan’s engagement party. That explained the hotel. Sort of. I had been planning to stick to two drinks and drive myself the forty-five minutes home afterward. Which clearly had not worked out as intended. But what happened?
My eyes traveled to my cell phone on the nightstand, triggering a hazy memory of stepping onto the hotel’s terrace outside the reception the previous night to answer a call. I closed my eyes, wincing. Amy had called. Repeatedly. Until I finally answered. My twenty-four-year-old little sister had gotten engaged. Which, under normal circumstances, probably doesn’t seem like an excuse for getting wasted and sleeping with some random guy, though it felt like one that morning.
But I would deal with that later. First I needed to get out of that hotel room, preferably without waking my mystery bedmate.
When I was younger, I would have tried to justify my actions at the engagement party by forging an exceptionally ill-advised relationship with said bedmate. I would have snuck into the bathroom to try to salvage the tattered remains of what I had looked like before I morphed into the bridesmaid of Frankenstein, crept back into the bed, and pretended to wake up Disney-princess style, with a graceful, stretching yawn and perfect mascara. The courtship that would follow would be half-hearted on both of our ends, pursued by me solely so I could continue my day-to-day existence without feeling bad about myself for sleeping with him, and by him to keep getting effortlessly laid.
But I was thirty now, and therefore too old to lie to myself and call it honor. Or in this case, too old to lie to myself and call a one-night stand the start of a relationship. Fine, if you wanted to be picky about it, I was thirty-two and therefore way too old to kid myself that this was anything worth pursuing. So I slowly inched my way off the mattress without allowing it to shift. Once fully out of bed, I breathed a quick sigh of relief, then looked around the room for my clothes.
The little black dress I had worn to the party had been flung across the room’s desk. It posed the next problem: the bandage-style, knockoff Hervé Léger dress had required my roommate’s help to squeeze into the night before. And after a full night of drinking enough to black out, there was no way I was getting it back on without Spanx and a pair of pliers. Which left bedmate’s dress shirt or suit jacket. As the odds were pretty high that I would never see this guy again （considering that I didn’t even know who he was）， I felt no guilt buttoning his shirt over my bra and underwear. Would I be doing a very obvious walk of shame? Yes. But again, it was six o’clock on a Sunday morning. The only people who would see me would be hotel staff and any other walk-of-shamers. I could handle this.
I quickly gathered my cell phone, keys, dress, shoes, and purse and tiptoed to the door, where I found two matching bags, one labeled “maid of honor” and one labeled “groomsman.” I was Megan’s maid of honor, which meant that I would, in fact, be seeing the bed’s occupant again. Repeatedly. And in very close proximity.
Why, oh why, couldn’t I have picked literally anyone else?
I had to stay and face what I had done.
I turned back to figure out my plan of attack and peered over the edge of the bed, trying to get a glimpse of the sleeping groomsman’s face. But he stirred and gave a little half snore. Grabbing the maid of honor bag, I ran out of the room in a panic.
Breathing heavily, I leaned against the hallway wall. Maybe he won’t remember either, I told myself unconvincingly. And, worst-case scenario, there are six bridesmaids and six groomsmen. There’s room to hide in that number. I began to formulate a plan—I would give the shirt to Megan and ask her to return it to its owner. And if I could convince her to not tell me whom I had spent the night with, I couldn’t act awkward around him because I wouldn’t know who he was. I might just be able to survive this wedding after all.
I padded barefoot to the elevator before wedging my swollen feet into the impossibly high heels I had worn the night before. As I waited for the door to open, I studied my reflection in the mirror and rubbed desperately at my eye makeup, trying to look less like Alice Cooper. Then I pulled the ribbon off my bridesmaid swag bag and belted it around my waist in the elevator, doing my very best impression of a person who meant to look the way I did right then. Head up, eyes straight ahead, bored expression, I didn’t even look around to see who could be watching me as I crossed the lobby and made my way down the too-steep-for-my-hangover marble staircase to hand the valet my parking ticket. Only when I was safely ensconced in my car, bare thighs sticking to the leather, did I allow myself a moment to rest my head against the steering wheel.