“Cuddle party, man!”
Rhys woke up on Saturday morning to something thudding against his chest. What the fuck? He’d just been having a dream that he was living in the bakery section of Zabar’s, in a self-constructed hut of baguettes. It was a pretty good dream actually. Now he opened one eye to a brilliant blue sky, with clouds floating above him. Where the fuck was he?
Hint: not an Upper West Side food emporium.
“You’re awake!” a gleeful voice called. Suddenly, the tanned face of Lucas appeared above him, grinning.
“Guh,” Rhys burbled. It was too hard to actually form any words. He opened one eye again. His eyes felt weird and crusted together. Lucas was standing above him, clad in one of Rhys’s dad’s kilts, sans shirt. He was holding what Rhys recognized as his parents’ custom-made sheets from the Monogrammed Linen Shop in London above his head like a tent.
“Come on, feel the love, brother!” a female voice slurred in a half-stoned, half-drunk monotone. Rhys suddenly noticed a strange weight on his arm. He looked over to see Lisa slung across it, her hairy armpit raised to the sun as if in salutation.
That’ll wake you up in the morning.
Rhys hurriedly pushed himself up into a standing position. He felt seasick, like the time he and his parents had spent a month cruising on the Aegean, then stopped abruptly on some random island. As soon as he’d stepped ashore, he’d thrown up, even though he’d never once felt sick on the boat.
“You don’t look so good,” Lucas said in concern. “You need a bowl.” He pulled his pipe out of the back pocket of his cargo shorts.
“No!” Rhys yelled, practically ready to hurl as he stood up. Lucas shrugged, then lay in the spot Rhys had been, snuggling next to Lisa. Lucas closed his eyes and immediately seemed to fall asleep. Rhys glanced wildly around, feeling his heart beat faster and faster. What the fuck had happened last night? He looked around the terrace. There was a pyramid constructed out of empty Tecate cans, and, inexplicably, the Italian greyhound sculpture from downstairs.
“What did we do?” Rhys mumbled weakly, though it wasn’t like anyone was listening. He wobbled down the narrow staircase from the terrace to the rest of the house. Maybe they’d just spent the whole time on the terrace. Maybe it wasn’t too bad.
Or maybe it’s a million times worse.
“What’s going on?” Rhys called tentatively, walking into the kitchen. Tins of caviar were open and strewn across the Italian marble island in the center of the room.
“Dude, I think your fridge is broken. The milk tastes funky.” Vince shook his head sadly, pulling away from the refrigerator. Rhys looked down and realized half the hardwood floor was covered with four inches of water.
“Man, that party rocked,” Vince continued, seemingly un aware water was pooled up to his ankles. Rhys nodded tightly. As long as the damage was confined to the kitchen, it wasn’t that bad.
“Dude, you’re such a fucking good swimmer. You were tearing it up on the float last night.”
Sitting on the floor, among the corgis’ food bowls, was a kid Rhys had never even seen. He was stacking a pile of scones into a tower, furrowing his brow in consternation. Rhys gripped the countertop for support. All of a sudden, images from last night flashed through his mind. Bobbing for his mom’s tomatoes in the pool. Making bongs out of the tomatoes. Smoking up. Sharing a sloppy kiss with Lisa on the balcony. Raiding the kitchen cabinet and the wine cellar. Oh no.
“I’m gonna be sick,” Rhys announced, turning and bolting to the bathroom. Inside, tomato juice stained the delicate rose-printed wallpaper. A guy and a girl were both sleeping peacefully in the tub, the guy holding a bong protectively against his chest like a long-lost friend.
“Out!” Rhys yelled. Even yelling hurt. All he wanted to do was take a long shower and hope this was a long, weird, trippy nightmare that would soon be over.
The phone rang.
“’Lo?” Rhys could hear Vince answer from the kitchen.
“Out!” Rhys bellowed again to the sleeping couple in the tub before tearing out and grabbing the phone, his heart pounding.
“Rhys, darling? Who was that?” Lady Sterling trilled on the other end of the line. She sounded even more British than usual.
“Um, the… delivery guy,” Rhys finished lamely.
“Darling, really? Why’s he answering the phone?” Lady Sterling asked in confusion. “Ah well, your father and I will be home this evening. I just wanted to let you know. We had a delightful time but then your father’s awful brothers got into the old family business and we just couldn’t be bothered,” she finished.
Rhys cringed. “Sure, Mom,” he said automatically, noticing Vince curiously picking up a delicate glass daisy-filled vase from a small end table in the corner.
“Put that back!” Rhys hissed.
“Rhys?” Lady Sterling asked questioningly.
“I’m—I have to go.” Rhys rushed to hang up the phone. He wasn’t even sure how many people were still in the house.
Where there’s smoke, there are dirty hippie stoners….