Chapter 17: Ophelia

Chapter 17: Ophelia

I’m never drinking again.

Ever.

The mere sight of the three (three!) empty bottles of wine on my floor makes me want to throw up. Again. And the rolling in my stomach is nothing compared to the pounding in my head.

Oh. My. God.

Good thing it’s Sunday, and I don’t have to do anything today. What time is it even?

I look for my phone. Actually, I feel around for my phone because opening my eyes hurts too much. But it’s not where I expect it to be. I broaden my search, keeping my eyes tightly closed. However, when no amount of feeling around on my bed produces my phone, I’m forced to open them.

It’s not on my bed. It’s not on my nightstand. Shit. It’s not even under my bed. It is, however, inside a wine glass on my coffee table.

At least the wine glass was empty, courtesy of my luscious—and lush-ous—self. I resist the urge to retch right here and now. Aaaand my phone is totally dead. Great.

I can’t believe I didn’t charge it. Wait—why didn’t I charge it? I’m sort of a nut about that. A battery percentage below seventy-five percent is enough to give me heart palpitations.

I squint, not only because the overcast November sky outside my window is too bright, but also in an effort to remember last night.

I remember a penis, that’s for sure. And then crying. And then …

Oh shit.

Did I FaceTime with Xavier Henry?

Yup. That’s it. Time to empty the contents of my stomach.

Drunk texts are one thing. Drunk Facetiming? There should be a breathalyzer on the phone that prevents you from opening apps if your blood alcohol content is above a certain level.

Definitely, if you put away three bottles of wine on an empty stomach.

I hope I didn’t say anything embarrassing. I mean, this is me we’re talking about, so the chances of that are zero, but I can hope.

Right now, I’m happy not to have a memory of this mortification—because I’m sure I did something mortifying—at least for the time being. After a three-hour nap and a pile of greasy eggs, I start to feel a little more human.

Not enough to dry my hair after I shower, but at least I was able to summon up the energy to shower. Fine, I sat in the tub the whole time, but it still counts. I no longer smell, so that’s one win for the day.

I should probably go to bed for the night while I’m still ahead. I’ll ignore the fact that it’s only three p.m. I check my phone, now almost fully charged.

I have text messages.

A lot of them.

I don’t recognize the number. It’s not a Boston area code. Probably spam looking to talk to me about my car’s extended warranty or to tell me how I can lose eight inches in two weeks.

It’d better not be penis man from last night. Although I’m pretty sure I blocked him immediately after leaving the restaurant.

But as soon as I open the first message, the roiling in my stomach is back. My knees start to buckle, and I sink quickly down onto my bed. Sundance joins me, talking to me fervently about how I’ve neglected him all day. Absently, I pet him on the head, not wanting to believe my eyes.

I quickly open my messages on Instagram and confirm what I’m afraid is true. Yup, this number, with its 410 area code, is Xavier Henry.

That would be the same super-hot, professional soccer player, Xavier Henry, that I drunken FaceTimed with. I only have to read one message to know that whatever I thought happened last night, it was about a billion times worse.

Xavier: You okay? You seemed pretty far gone.

Xavier: Don’t freak out. It’s not a bad idea. Let me think it over.

Xavier: Ophelia, are you there?

Xavier: You know, and maybe I’m a bit trousered myself, but the more I think about it, the more I think it’s a brilliant idea.

Xavier: I’ll call my agent and lawyer in the morning. I think we should discuss the details in person. Sleep tight.

Xavier: I’m on the train up. I’ll be into South Station around 5. How far are you from there?

Xavier: I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this. As soon as your lawyer looks over the contract, we can go ahead and get married.

It’s the last word that has me running to the toilet again.

Married.

What the hell happened last night?

And he’s coming up here? I look at the clock. He’s going to be here—here!—in about two hours. My place is a disaster. I’m a disaster. Apparently, my life is a disaster.

Married.

Every time I even think about that word, bile rises in the back of my throat. What the hell happened last night? I guess the good thing about him coming here is we can figure this out.

Wait—where does he think he’s going to stay? I don’t know this man from Adam, and did I invite him to sleep here?

Oh my God. I am never drinking again.

What am I going to do? I call Marley. She’ll know. Dammit. No answer.

Me: Marley, call me. This is an emergency. I think I did something stupid.

Marley: Again?

Me: CALL ME ASAP

And then I wait. How dare my best friend choose to have a life when I’m in crisis because I’m a FREAKIN’ idiot?

Think, Ophelia, think. What happened last night? I attempt to rifle through the alcohol-drenched corners of my brain, but I’m still coming up short. Surely—surely—I should be able to recall something as momentous as being proposed to. Just the fact that I’ve been waiting my whole life should make my synapses fire a little more.

But no. Like Taylor Swift says, "I’ve got a blank space, baby."

Shit.

And while this may seem like the perfect time to panic, I don’t have time for that. I run around, scooping up strewn clothing and dishes. Books get piled up and the papers on my desk are quickly neatened and put into the folders where they belong anyway. I wash my dishes and wipe down the counters. A quick pass of the vacuum, much to Sunny’s dismay, and then I tackle my bedroom.

Not that I’m letting him in there, but in case he peeks. My dresser, piled high with makeup and lotions and jewelry, is a lost cause. It’s fine. I don’t want him thinking I’m a neat freak. Next, onto the bathroom where I clean out the litter box and sweep the bathroom floor. But as I clean, the memories are slowly filtering in. Flashes of conversation. He went on about trades and international laws and needing to get married. Like in a book. Oh God, tell me I didn’t.

At least I put down the toilet bowl brush before I bury my face in my hands.

I did. Obviously, I did because he mentioned it. I somehow, in my inebriated state, thought my life should be like a romance novel, and I proposed marriage. Between him and me.

And now he’s coming up.

I can’t breathe.

But it’s not like he accepted. Or is even taking me seriously. There’s no way he could. I mean, it was pretty obvious that I was hammered. He can’t hold me at my word. I wasn’t fit to give it in the first place.

I focus on sucking air in and letting it out slowly. Surely, he was coming up anyway. Surely he knows how drunk I was.

Surely we’re not engaged.

No, of course, we’re not.

He’s reasonable. I’m sometimes reasonable. Marrying a stranger is not reasonable. So once he gets here, we’ll talk it out, and then I’ll make sure he knows this was all the product of too many assholes, too much wine, and too many romance novels. I’m willing to give up two of the three.

Okay, I’m really only willing to give up the assholes, but there’s never a need for me to drink that much again. At least not any time soon.

I can breathe again. Yes, he’s not expecting me to marry him. No way would he. Time to finish in here. Three disinfectant wipes later, the bathroom is in decent shape.

Now onto me.

My hair is half-damp, but the idea of blow drying it and straightening it just seems like too much. I opt for two French braids and pull on my thickest high-waisted leggings, hoping to make my lower end seem fit and toned even though running through various romantic scenarios in my brain is as active as I get. I don a crop top sweatshirt, which barely shows any skin on me because of my height, and I’m good to go.

Well, after I add hoop earrings and some makeup because I’m three shades paler than printer paper. A hangover does nothing for my complexion.

As I finish my makeup I stop and look at myself. What am I doing? Am I just going to let this random guy in my apartment? I don’t know him at all.

Me: MARLEY….

But also me … should I go meet him at South Station? It’s kind of a hike down there. I’ve got to take the C line all the way into Park Street and then change to the red line. We’re talking a good forty-five minutes, at least, so if I’m going to go, I should go.

I mean, he is on a seven-hour ride up here to see me. I wish I could remember all of the night. Like what happened after I asked him to marry me. Oh God, what if I flashed him my hoo-ha, and he’s coming all this way for sex?

What if he thinks because I showed him my lady cat that I expect him to make a purchase at the pet store?

What is wrong with me?

Please don’t let me have gotten naked on FaceTime.

These are things I never thought I’d pray for as a child, but I’m sure there’s a patron saint for keeping your clothes on while on a video chat. Whatever that saint is, I bet they’ve been working overtime since COVID started.

I should go meet Xavier. That way if I get a sketchy vibe or whatever, I can take him to a hotel rather than have him here. It’s definitely safer to meet up with him in a public place. I throw on my oversized coat and head for the T-stop.

I text Xavier to let him know I’ll meet him in front of the Dunkin’ Donuts. Then I send one last text to Marley.

Me: So apparently, I’m engaged. I don’t remember all of it, but I’m on my way to meet him now. Hope you don’t see me on an episode of Discovery ID. If Dateline interviews you, please talk about how much everyone loved me, and don’t let them use a bad picture. I don’t want to be known as a loser who talked more to her cat than to other people.

Serves her right.