Page 163 of Unexpected Heroine

LETTIE

It must be an unwritten rule of nature that a woman going through a breakup must be in want of a group of girlfriends to bathe her in man-hating trash talk.

Day one post-breakup was sad and quiet.

Day two has been a certified bitch fest.

Stella and Freya have led the penis-bashing brigade with a determined vigor. These two are giving me all the cock contempt I could ever need. Dick disparaging. Roasting the rod. Belittling the balls.

It’s almost funny.

Do we have to knock others down to make ourselves feel better? That’s never been my style. As a gender, why do we do this?

It’s like my suffering has triggered this primal reaction from my girl squad, whereby we band together to remind each other how shitty men are. As if to say they aren’t worth our tears.

Perhaps it’s because most women have been royally screwed over by someone they thought was the one. The person who was going to guard and cherish their heart forever. Their partner. Someone who they trusted explicitly. Then... bam. The love is gone. Trust destroyed. That kind of scar doesn’t fade easily.

Witnessing me in the midst of a betrayal seems to hit close to home for my friends, inciting a familiar sense of injustice. All that feminine rage has to go somewhere. Like to the dining room table with a bottle of wine or three.

Of course I’m not drinking since I still can’t handle the idea of being intoxicated. But Stella and Freya sure as hell are. Like little lushes. Or fish.

Related question. What’s the origin of the phrase drinking like a fish? Are they really just swimming around drinking all day? That’s gross because they defecate in that water. Fish are nasty. Remind me not to eat them anymore.

But I digress.

So Stella and Freya are drunk, raging against the man, while I’m trying to stay upright and not cave under the weight of grief.

Annnd there goes their third bottle of pinot. That’s gonna hurt like a bitch in the morning.

“Another dead soldier,” Stella jokes as she shakes the last few drops into her glass.

Back home in Climax, dear sweet Bonnie Gilman used to say that about every bottle of booze that was polished off in her presence. Then she’d thank them for their service before tossing them in the recycling bin.

Unscrewing the top, Freya opens another bottle—yes, we’re fancy with corkless wine. She leaves the cap barely attached to the mouth of the bottle. “Let me bless this one,” she says while flicking the cap with her middle finger, sending it sailing across the room.

We all laugh. Even me.

It hurts my ribs. but not too much. My physical pain isn’t terrible since I haven’t been laughing as much as a few evenings ago when we had our little game night at Tomer’s house.

It’s my heart that’s a shit show.

“Sure you don’t want some, Lettie? You just saw me open it,” Freya asks, angling the bottle in my direction.

“No thanks.”

Stella leans her head to the side, her blue-streaked hair flopping over her eye with the sudden movement. “Is it bothering you that we’re drinking?”

“Nah. It’s entertaining.”

Sort of.

Silently, I remind myself there’s nothing wrong with them drinking three nights in a row. Especially since tonight is more about them drowning their sorrows and frustration... well, by proxy sorrows. They went through some shit these last few days, picking me up off the floor and watching me break down time and time again. That has to be hard to stomach.

I get it because when my friends hurt, so do I.

They’ve earned a few nights on the sauce. Wish I could stomach the idea of getting sloshed. Wouldn’t it be nice to numb all these emotions? Just for a few hours. Wonder if it would silence my racing thoughts too?

“It’s just like I was saying. Damn dicks can’t be trusted.” Freya tsks her lips as she tears open a lollipop wrapper. “They’ve been dickstracting and dickmatizing straight women and the gays for years. Penis holders are out there running amuck on their third legs, blinding us to red flags with their cocky ways.”

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