Chapter Twenty-Three
Meghan
Oh, god—is it morning? My head feels so heavy and thick, and I can barely breathe through these congested sinuses. I peek through sore, swollen eyes at the rude shock of daylight streaming in between the drapes, past the putrid mountain of sodden tissues lying on the bed beside me. Oh my god, what on Earth have I gone and done?
As I stumble sleep-drunk to the bathroom, I catch my reflection as I walk past the vanity and recoil in horror—puffy raccoon eyes that drip with smeared tar-black eye makeup complement a bramble-bush hairstyle that is topped off only by the sallow pallor of my cheeks. Train wreck on the outside as well as the inside. Perfect. I shake my head as the memory of what I did last night again replays, probably for the millionth wretched time.
