Maya went out often enough that Sober Maya had learned how to take care of Drunk Maya. She kept a pack of makeup wipes in her purse so she could remove her makeup in the car home and left ibuprofen and coconut water on her bedside table before she left the house. Last night, she’d been particularly good to herself: she’d even remembered to wear her retainer and headscarf. Maya woke slowly, stretching and letting out a yawn before sliding her satin sleep mask off her eyes and onto her forehead, then was abruptly confronted by the realization that two other girls were asleep in her room—one next to her on her California king–sized bed, the other on the Hermès throw she’d spread over the floor.
Oh, yeah. In many ways, the night had been like any other, but when Maya closed her eyes to remember it, there were some bizarre memories that stood out from the haze. She had taken her usual pre-club selfies in the Uber on the way to SNEAK, but yes—and Maya checked her camera roll to make sure—there were two girls she’d never seen before in all the pictures, huddled beside her in the back seat. She didn’t remember how they’d ended up crashing on her floor, but it wasn’t the craziest thing in the world. She did live in an amazing apartment in an amazing neighborhood (thanks to her parents, not her barely paid fashion PR job).
She remembered the bathroom at The Bar and the car to SNEAK. She remembered taking her fourth shot of Patrón and being shocked, yet pleased, when Gabbie kicked off her ugly little pumps and climbed on the table as the opening notes of “Back That Azz Up” rang through the club. She even remembered that when she’d stumbled into a Duane Reade to get a Band-Aid for a growing blister on the way home, Dee made a beeline for the Cheetos and spent about ten minutes deciding whether she wanted crunchy or puffy. But there was another thing, a thing she could feel herself brushing over as she worked through the highlight reel of the night. It involved her phone, a flash of light, a weird feeling in her chest—she pushed it away and decided to think of something more pleasant: breakfast.
Maya was trying to decide whether she should force herself out of bed to get a bagel from the deli or just open up DoorDash when Gabbie jolted awake.
“Oh my god!” Gabbie gasped, sitting up straight. “Oh god,” she said again, this time slower. She closed her eyes and slapped a hand over her mouth. “I feel like I’m dying.” Gabbie blinked at the surroundings. “What the . . .” she began as her gaze landed on Maya. “Where am I?”
“Ugh,” Delali groaned from the floor, where her face was pressed against her backpack. She rolled into a sitting position, pulling her braids into a ponytail as she looked around the room. Sunlight poured into the bedroom from the east-facing windows, bathing Maya’s billowing white canopy, massive floor-length mirror, and lavender accent chair in a warm glow—and exacerbating Delali’s colossal hangover. “Shit,” Delali said, closing her eyes against the pounding of her temples. “I need a fucking bagel.”
Maya watched the girls thoughtfully. Gabbie was staring at herself in the mirror above Maya’s vanity, bemoaning the fact that she had spent the night sans bonnet. Delali was digging into her backpack, looking for the tube top she’d taken off on the way to the club last night to reveal a red bralette.
“I know a place,” Maya said finally. She rolled out of bed, stepped over Delali’s outstretched legs, and started changing.
It didn’t surprise Delali that Maya’s favorite “deli” was the kind of place written about in restaurant blogs and photographed for foodie Instagram accounts (complete with hideous rainbow cream cheese and branded T-shirts pinned to the walls). It was the kind of NYC-transplant watering hole that, for obvious reasons, Delali avoided like the plague. When they arrived, the line to get in was spilling out the door and onto the sun-dappled sidewalk. Delali had gotten her bagel (toasted cinnamon raisin, plain cream cheese) before Gabbie and Maya had even finished ordering. She stood by the door, biting into the bagel as it cooled and lamenting the fact that Maya had led them to a tourist trap in the midst of one of Delali’s most violent hangovers to date. She watched as Maya explained her complicated order to the employee behind the counter, enunciating as if she were speaking to a child. After Gabbie had changed her order four or five times, the girls finally joined Delali at the door. She tossed the polka dot–patterned wax paper into the trash and pushed the shop door open.
“OMG,” Gabbie burbled as they walked down the sidewalk. “This bagel is so effing good!”
“Right?” Maya replied.
Delali nodded listlessly, thinking about the three-dollar bodega bagel she had every other morning on her way to class, which was definitely better.
“Hey,” a voice called from behind them. Maya and Gabbie stopped to turn, but Delali didn’t have to look or even hear another word to know what was happening. The greeting had been delivered in a familiar pitch and tenor—it was the anxious, grating, faux-casual tone of a fan. “Are you—Delali Tuh-may-kloe?”
Delali cringed at the butchering of her name, though she was secretly relieved. Pronunciation of her name was the basis on which she decided whether to give “fans” the time of day, and this one was an easy no. Delali turned toward the voice, pursed her lips, and, knowing how shitty she probably looked, lied. “No,” she said. “My name’s Jenna. But I get that a lot.”
Delali turned back around and kept walking, Gabbie and Maya hurrying to catch up. Early in her career, Delali had been paranoid about upsetting fans in interactions like this. But over time she’d found that if she sent out enough social media–documented free swag, signed the personalized cards her assistant wrote in her signature boyish handwriting, and donated to random people’s GoFundMes, her Georgia cachet went a pretty long way on its own. It turned out the way her fans felt about her had literally nothing to do with her. They didn’t even know that donations were tax-deductible.
“Holy crap!” Gabbie said. All of a sudden, she could see what Delali’s box braids had disguised so well last night. “I knew I knew you from somewhere. You’re Georgia Simmons! From Georgia on My Mind!” Georgia Simmons famously wore a straight bob.
Maya was quiet. She thought she’d clocked it last night but had been reluctant to give Delali the attention she was probably used to.
“That’s me!” Delali said in the signature Georgia cadence.
“Ugh, I have so many questions!”
“Please, God, not right now,” Delali said.
“Oh.”
An awkward lull fell between the girls.
“Well, did y’all have fun last night?” Maya asked, trying to restore the mood.
“I had an uh-may-zing time,” Gabbie gushed. “I’ve never danced that much in my life!”
“It was cool,” Delali added. If she was being honest, it was pretty impressive that Maya had managed to get them direct, skip-the-line access to the door of SNEAK, free drinks, and a cozy spot by the hot tub without Delali having to step in. She was already starting to feel a reluctant sense of fondness toward the two girls, the kind that typically came after a night of dancing, drinking, and judging men. Sure, Gabbie reminded her of a Black Kimmy Schmidt and Maya was a sort of basic, zillennial Hillary Banks, but they’d had some good drunk laughs.
Maya rolled her eyes at Delali’s lukewarm assessment and took another bite of her scooped bagel. The girls walked the next several minutes without speaking, stopping awkwardly when they reached the intersection of East 9th and Avenue A. They didn’t actually know where they were going, and here was as good a place as any to split up. But no one made the move to part.
Delali spoke. “So are we not gonna talk about what happened last night?” Her heart jumped as she said it. The strange moment on the sidewalk was the first thing that had come to her mind that morning, even as she’d complained about her hangover and gotten dressed. The light, the breathless pause, the sudden pull toward the phone—it all rushed back to her as soon as she woke up. The other girls had to remember it, too, but as Delali said it, she felt her stomach pitch with nerves.