The first thing Abbie noticed when she woke up was the pounding in her head.The second was Francis, snoring softly on the couch, one arm flung over his face, shoes still on.
The apartment smelled like leftover fries, burnt butter, and whatever Alma had decided to call “breakfast” at three in the morning.
She groaned. “God, kill me.”
“Already tried,” Alma called from the kitchen. “You wouldn’t stay down.”
Abbie buried her face in the pillow. “Why are you so loud?”
“Because hangovers are the universe’s way of humbling you,” Alma said, pouring coffee into mismatched mugs. “And because someone has to document your suffering.”
Abbie sat up slowly, blinking against the sunlight bleeding through the blinds. “Francis is still here?”
Alma nodded, flipping something on the stove with chaotic
