Page 5 of Howl for Me
And for the first time since I got here, I believe her, and I let go.
Chapter Three
Iwakeupslowly,like I’m swimming up from the bottom of a deep, syrupy sleep. My head is thick, stuffed full of cotton and static, and every breath feels just a little too loud in the quiet room. It’s a morning that hums with invisible noise, the sun too sharp against the blinds. My mouth tastes like the bottom of a forgotten ashtray, dry and sour, and my tongue feels like sandpaper. I let out a groan, soft and hoarse, and press the heel of my hand to my temple. Everything aches in that pleasant, aching way that tells me I probably danced too long, laughed too loud, and drank more than I should’ve. I don’t regret a thing. Then I see it.
A glass of water, a bottle of Advil, and next to them, a folded piece of paper. I blink against the light and sit up, wincing just a little, muscles stiff from whatever the hell last night turnedinto. I reach for the note with fingers still clumsy with sleep, and unfold it.
Lori.
Her name is sprawled across the top in a looping, confident script, and beneath that is a phone number scrawled in blue ink. In the corner of the paper sits a perfect, smudgeless kiss of red lipstick stamped right onto the page. I can’t hold back my smile. She made sure I got home safe. I really like her. She’s right, it's good to have a friend here. The nerves from yesterday seem a little less, knowing I have a friend here now.
Still groggy, I look down. Her dress still clings to my body, now wrinkled and a little looser, the fabric smelling faintly of her perfume and the ghosts of last night’s party. I run a hand through my tangled hair and drag myself upright, my feet cool against the floor as I shuffle toward the bathroom. The mirror is ruthless. Smudged mascara, eyeliner tracing ghostly shadows under my eyes, stare back at me.
I grip the edge of the sink, blinking at my reflection through the lingering sleepy haze. My hair is a mess, tangled from sleep, and there’s a faint imprint of pillow creases along my cheek. Yeah, I look exactly how I feel; wrecked. With a sigh, I reach for my toothbrush, scrubbing away the stale taste clinging to my tongue. The minty foam stings a little, but I welcome it, swishing water around until I almost feel human again.
I turn toward the shower, twisting the knob until the pipes groan to life. Unzipping the dress, I let it slip down my body; the fabric clinging for a moment before pooling at my feet. Bracing my hand on the wall, I step forward, stopping when I hear a faint crinkle. The sound is small, nearly lost beneath the rush of water, but distinct. My brow furrows as I glance down, spotting the dress at my feet.
I crouch down and brush my fingers over the pocket, finding something stiff and crumpled inside. When I reach in, I pull outa faded fast-food receipt; the ink is smudged and barely hanging on. But it’s the back that catches my attention.
Job.
Someone scrawled the word across the back in bold, slanted letters, inking a lazy smiley face beside a phone number.
A slow pulse of excitement stirs in my chest. Reggie. Teddy. The party. Fragments of last night flicker through my mind, the hazy glow of string lights, Lori’s hands on mine as she spun me into the music, laughing. The memory of someone cannon balling into the pool, arms flailing wildly before the splash swallowed them whole. The steam thickens around me, curling against my skin, but suddenly the idea of a shower feels secondary. I twist the knob off, cutting the water mid-stream.
Stepping over the dress, I grab the towel off the rack, wrapping it around me as I push open the door. The cool air of the apartment is a shock against my skin, but I barely notice. My bare feet pad across the floor, my grip tightening around the receipt.
The phone sits on the wall, waiting. I hesitate for only a second before I snatch up the receiver, my fingers dialing before my brain can second-guess it. The buttons click beneath my touch, each tone ringing out sharp and final. I hold the phone to my ear and wait. It rings once, then again. Then finally a voice answers, low and a little rough, like he’s just rolled out of bed or hasn’t been to sleep at all.
“Yeah?”
I clear my throat, trying to sound more confident than I feel. “Hi, my name’s Cassidy. I’m calling about a job?”
There’s a beat of silence, and then, “You free in thirty minutes for an interview?”
My eyebrows shoot up. No questions. No screening. No polite small talk. Just straight to it.
“Uh..yeah,” I say, fumbling for something to write with, gripping the phone with one hand while digging through the kitchen drawer with the other. I find a takeout menu, flip it over, and scribble the address down on the back with a half-dried-up marker. “I’ll be there.”
The click on the other end feels like a door slamming open and shut at once. I stare at the receiver, still in my hand, for a long second before shaking myself out of it. What the hell did I just agree to? I set the phone down with a soft clunk and exhale. Alright. No time to spiral. I spin around and head straight to the bathroom, towel still barely clinging to my chest. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and wince; I look like a wild raccoon that just stepped out of a wind tunnel.
I grab a tissue and wipe away the remnants of last night’s makeup, splash some cold water on my face, and pat it dry. Not perfect, but better. I reach for my hairbrush and start working through the waves, tugging gently at the knots until the strands fall smoother over my shoulders. Sunlight filters in through the apartment window, catching in my hair and making it look a little more golden than usual. That helps to make me feel confident enough to go through with this.
Pulling open the small closet, I sift through the limited options I brought with me from Utah. Everything suddenly feels too plain, too square. I pause on a buttery yellow ribbed top, snug at the waist with a deep scoop neck, the kind that hugs in all the right places without trying too hard. I pair it with high-waisted bell-bottom jeans, faded and soft, that cling to my hips and flare out dramatically at the ankle. It’s simple, but it works. Casual, form-fitting, and unintentionally sexy. I glance in the mirror, smoothing the fabric down over my stomach, and adjusting the waistline just slightly. Not bad. Not bad at all.
"I really need to go shopping," I murmur to myself, twisting to check the back view. "After seeing what everyone wore last night… I need a serious wardrobe upgrade."
That dress Lori lent me made me feel pretty and powerful. I actually felt like I belonged here. If I get this job, I might drag her along to help me shop. She probably knows all the best places and could charm a discount out of anyone with just a smile. The thought makes me grin as I grab my bag from the kitchen counter, my heart pounding with a mix of nerves and adrenaline. I have thirty minutes and no idea what I’m walking into.
The moment I step into the daylight, I regret skipping the Advil. The sun hits me hard, bright and merciless, like it knows exactly how much fun I had last night. My temples throb in rhythm with my heartbeat, and for a second, I consider turning back. But a glance at my watch shuts that thought down. There’s no time. I’ll deal with the headache. Time’s already slipping away faster than I’d like, and apparently, I slept through half the day.
Who does interviews this late in the afternoon, anyway? It’s probably some supermarket with flickering lights and a broken freezer section, the kind that stays open until 2AM, just long enough to make me the perfect candidate for graveyard shifts. Lucky me. I can practically see myself behind a cash register already, under those buzzing fluorescents. And yet... I don’t care. Not really. I’ll bag groceries, mop floors, and stock shelves until dawn if it means I get to stay. I didn’t haul my ass across two state lines just to come crawling back to Utah, tail tucked, admitting I failed. I didn’t claw my way through four years of college, fighting tooth and nail just to be taken seriously, just to go crawling back and admit defeat. No way in hell.
I was the only woman in my communications program. The only one. Every time I walked into a lecture hall, it felt like stepping onto a stage mid-performance, every head turning,every stare weighted with doubt. They didn’t expect me to last. I’m sure some didn’t want me to. The jokes were quiet but sharp. The condescension? Louder than any shout. They'd try to trip me up in discussions, cut me off mid-thought, always waiting for me to fall flat so they could nod like they'd known it all along.
And then there was my mother. God, my mother. She thought college was a phase I’d grow out of. Said it outright and more than once.
“Stop wasting your time with all that nonsense. You need to meet a nice man, Cassidy. Settle down. I’m not getting any younger, you know.” It was always the same script on repeat with her, like she was reading from some handbook she never questioned. That was her dream. To be a wife and a mother was her end goal. To build a home and keep it full, and there’s nothing wrong with that. Truly, it’s a beautiful life, a sacred kind of work. One day, I hope I have that too. A husband, a home, little feet running through the kitchen. That’s a dream for another time. Not now. Not after everything I’ve done to break free from the box they tried to keep me in. I’ve earned the right to want more, to chase something bigger. The fire in my chest still burns with the need to prove every single one of them wrong. I glance at my watch again and quicken my step.
