It was a windy and dark Saturday night around 9 p.m. He sat in the living room of his messy uptown loft, perched on the couch wearing his alma mater sweats and an old tee shirt he got from Coachella last year. He had spent the better part of the chilly day inside, using various coping mechanisms to cure his brutal hangover from the previous night. At this particular moment, he was coping with a little hair of the dog; the Miller Lite empties scattered across the coffee table sought to keep track of his progress.
It had been a while since he had spent a Saturday night in by himself. Ever since he moved to the city after graduation, he and his friends had been letting loose every single weekend. It was like undergrad 2.0. He and his buddies were right-swiping their way across the whole damn city. He loved the night life and loved his new city, but last night’s events and consequential hangover had left him feeling a little down and out. What a weird fucking night. He blankly stared at SportsCenter replaying that douchebag Grayson Allen’s latest antics, but he only saw moving images. His mind was somewhere else.
Last night would have been like any other normal night, had it not been for the rare and unfortunate events that befell the squad on the way out of the bar at last call. They had bar-hopped downtown, eventually ending up at Ranch Republic, a bar widely known for its overcrowding and constant Top 40-EDM remixes. Hammered drunk and sweating through his ostentatious Robert Graham button-down, he pushed through the crowd, following Kyle, Forrest, and Jake down the stairs and through the bar toward the exit. He was burning a cig and pulling a cute redhead who had been one of his dance-floor make outs of the night by the hand, leading her out with him. His mind was focused on the impending promise of after-bar munchies and marking a redhead off of his bucket list, when someone very forcibly grabbed the back of his shirt.
Immediately he whipped around, ready to beat a dude’s ass for putting his hands on him. But when he turned around, he was face-to-face with not some random bar patron looking for a fight, but a petite blonde in an oversized gray sweatshirt dress and a pair of over-the-knee boots. It was Macy. The same Macy, in fact, who had just dumped him a few months earlier after he slept with her sorority sister. His college ex-girlfriend now stood face-to-face with him. In his city. In his bar.
He was about 13 drinks in and blinked rapidly in the smoky bar light, trying to get his drunk brain to form words. What the fuck was she doing here? Wasn’t she back in school for the spring semester? Wasn’t she still seeing that fuckboy Connor? A million questions swirled around in his head, but nothing stuck. “Hey there, stud,” she said with a wink he knew so well. “Funny seeing you here. One more round?” He dropped the cute redhead’s hand.
He now sat in the darkness of his living room, listening to Super Bowl updates and cars honking on the streets outside. He rubbed his eyes. What a night. He scrolled through Instagram, throwing haphazard likes on every scantily-clothed Instagram model and fitness blogger he saw. He had muted The Boys group text, who were giving him constant shit about the previous night’s turn of events. Where the fuck was that pizza he ordered an hour ago? He was back to a comfortable level of drunk and was looking to top it off with an Italian pie. As he pulled up Safari to call the pizza joint, he heard a knock at the door. Finally. It had taken them long enough.
He grabbed a twenty out of his wallet and headed toward the door. He flipped the locks and grabbed the door handle, pulling it toward him.
“Whaaaaat…are you doing here?” he asked slowly, incredulously.
“I just wanted to clear some things up before I left,” she said breezily. And with that, Macy stepped into his apartment. .