Page 113 of True Blue

Now, I wake up with a killer pounding in my head from the liquor and cheeks sore from smiling and laughing so hard.

When I reach for my phone to check the time, I see that it’s almost three in the afternoon. Then I see that I’ve been added to the girls’ group chat.

When I open the photo dump Genevieve sent, I don’t even feel embarrassed.

There I am, very drunk, grinning so wide my face looks split in half, eyes glassy, cheek smushed against my equally drunk new friends at the pub. There are even pictures of us with the drag queens, their names bubbling up through my hangover and making me laugh—Lexa Preaux and Amanda Tory Meating.

I scroll through the rest of the pictures when a text from Petra pops up.

Are you alive, darling?

Barely, I type back, as I drag myself out of bed and stumble straight into the shower, cranking the water as hot as it will go.

By the time I’m drying off, another message comes in.

Lunch? Greasy food cures hangovers.

Smiling, I give her a thumbs up, and she sends the address and a time to meet. As I’m brushing my teeth in the mirror, I smile around my toothbrush, feeling excited despite being severely hungover.

I feel alive.

“Hair of the dog?” Petra giggles at me as I find her at a table.

She already has an espresso martini waiting for me, along with some greasy fries—or chips.

“Yes, please,” I say, taking a sip of the drink. I don’t really like coffee, but I do enjoy an espresso martini.

Petra pouts at me. “It’s unfair you look like that, hungover,” she grumbles.

I frown and glance down at myself. I pulled on a pair of jeans, my softest cardigan, and tossed my hair up in a claw clip. I looked like death warmed up, and Petra sits in front of me, cute dress, perfectly done hair and makeup, looking like a damn Greek goddess.

I give her a solemn look.

“I’m sorry, Petra, but as a doctor, I’m going to have to recommend you get your eyes checked. Have you seen yourself?”

“Charmer,” she giggles with a wink.

I smirk at her and take another sip of my drink.

“I’ll have to let my husband know he’s got competition if he doesn’t treat me right,” she glances over my shoulder before leaning in to whisper. “Though that bloke over there hasn’t taken his eyes off you since he walked through the door.”

“Who?” I ask, confused.

She gestures with her head over my right shoulder. Not even trying to be subtle, I twist around to follow her line of sight. There are a couple of men at the bar, but they’re completely wrapped up in the football game on television.

No, there’s only one person she could be talking about.

The green-eyed man staring right at me.

My whole body goes still.

“Indie?” Petra’s voice sounds far away now. “Are you alright?”

I blink a few times, trying to see if my eyes are betraying me.

My ex-boyfriend is sitting across the pub, four thousand miles away from where I left him, giving me an awkward wave and an even more awkward smile.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”