Page 22 of Pucking Matt
Jen smiles and says, “You’re such a career girl. I love it. I want to be you when I grow up.”
I shrug. “It’s all in the daily habits.”
She nods. “Text me when you get home, okay?”
I take that as my cue to leave, making a beeline for the exit before I run into Matt again.
In the Uber drive to my house, my mind is working overtime. How can I get back at Matt without being psychotic? Or being petty? I could "accidentally" spill his drinks every time he orders. Or maybe I could start calling out ridiculous fake names for his order. “Strawberry Protein Shake Extra Protein for Puck Face!”
I shake my head. No, that's amateur hour stuff. I need something big. Something that'll really get under his skin.
By the time I get home, I'm drunk, frustrated, and no closer to a solid plan. I kick off my heels and head straight for the kitchen, pouring myself a glass of water. I should go to bed. I should start working on that brief for Mr. Robinson.
Instead, I search for a playlist until I find one that’s calledBad Bitch Energy.Now I’m having a dance party on my couch, on my kitchen table, and I don’t think I’ve been this drunk in my entire life.
“Take that, Matt!” I shout at my reflection in the TV screen as I bust out my best (worst) dance moves. “You think you can declare war on me? I'll show you war!”
In a burst of drunk girl energy, I decide now is the perfect time for a face mask. Because nothing says "I'm winning at life" like green goo.
As I slather the mask on, I catch sight of myself in the bathroom mirror. Hair a mess, face half-covered in green, eyes slightly unfocused. I look ridiculous. I feel ridiculous.
And yet, I can't stop grinning.
“Bring it on,” I tell my reflection. “He has no idea who he’s messing with. They didn’t call me a crazy bitch for no reason.”
I dance my way back to the living room, face mask cracking as I move. This isn't me. The real Amber Hughes doesn't dance alone in her apartment or put on face masks at 1 AM. The realAmber Hughes is all about control and plans and being the responsible one.
But tonight? Tonight I'm Drunk Amber. And Drunk Amber thinks she can take on the world.
As I collapse onto the couch, exhaustion finally catching up with me, I make a mental note: No more declaring war while drunk. It leads to weird things when I’m alone. Like why am I dancing around, happy about this?
I don’t know.
Ask the alcohol.
As I drift off to sleep, one thought lingers: Matthew Pearson has no idea what he's started. And I'm going to enjoy every minute of making him regret it.
The morning light feels like a personal attack as I pry my eyes open. My head throbs in time with my heartbeat, a painful reminder of last night's poor decisions. I groan, reaching for the ibuprofen in my cabinet.
As I swallow the pills dry, wincing at the bitter taste, I give myself a stern internal pep talk.
I have a shit ton of work to do today, and there’s no room for indulging in this migraine.
I drag myself around my apartment, each movement feeling like a herculean effort. The face that greets me in the bathroom mirror is a sorry sight – puffy eyes, smudged makeup, and hair that looks like it's been through a wind tunnel. I splash some cold water on my face, the shock helping to clear some of the fog from my brain.
Instead of wallowing in my apartment, surrounded by the evidence of last night's impromptu dance party (how did my bra end up on the ceiling fan?), I decide a change of scenery might help kickstart my productivity. I gather my laptop, a stack of files that feels way too heavy for how thin it is and throw on avitamin C serum mixed with coffee grinds that should pinch my face awake.
The walk to Starbucks is an exercise in willpower. Every step reminds me of my aching head, and the morning sun feels like it's personally offended by my existence. But I push through, driven by a mix of caffeine-need and stubborn determination.
I can be both a hard worker and a girl who goes to college parties. I think.
The familiar smell of coffee hits me as I push open the door, and for a moment, I'm transported back to my high school days when I would come here every morning. I can get through any amount of hard work. The proof is in the pudding. And I guess that pressure and stress might’ve been why I attacked Matt that day in high school.
I order the largest black coffee they have – none of that frappe, sugar-laden nonsense today – and claim a corner table. As I set up my office, I can feel the curious glances from other patrons. I must look a sight – hungover, dressed in casual clothes with a suit cardigan, surrounded by files. I’m used to the eyes and the comments.
You’re a little young there to be so busy.
Aren’t you the cutest little thing with all your files?
