Salt on the Rim

Continued from Tequila Sunrise. 

“You need to get out of bed,” Lori throws a granola bar by her feet, “and you need to eat something.”

“What’s the point?” Whitney says. Her voice is rough. When she rubs her eyes it feels like sandpaper. She wants to cry, but the tears won’t come.

There aren’t any left.

Lori sits, crossing her legs. Whitney feels like she is being inspected, surveyed. Lori’s round face registers worry and fear.

Whitney has only seen Lori embrace her mother and ex-boyfriend. She loathes physical contact, flinches when someone touches her, and makes it a point to distance herself in crowds. When Lori clasps Whitney’s thin, clammy hand, it is a precious gift: a reminder that love and compassion still exist.

After Whitney showers, she discovers Lori still in their dorm room. She flips through Wired, looking disinterested and bored.

“I’m taking you to breakfast. We don’t have to talk about anything, but I think you might want to,” Lori says without looking up, “and I’m here to listen to anything you want to tell me.”

Whitney nods and offers a half-smile. Lori is missing her favorite class right now, something about theoretical math where boys made bedroom eyes at her until they found out she was their intellectual superior. Such a turn-off.

Clad in black American Apparel leggings and an oversized hoodie, legs jittering under the table because she is so nervous (and maybe because of the strong coffee), Whitney spills everything. She picks at her veggie omelet, but devours half of the pancakes they’re sharing. Their favorite diner is deserted because it’s a Tuesday morning, and Whitney feels safe to tell the story.

“She said she isn’t sure she wants to be in a relationship anymore,” Whitney begins, “and I was so floored by it. Who says that?”

“It’s bullshit,” Lori agrees, taking a swig of coffee.

“It is bullshit. One day you love me, and the next you want to go out and fuck without a care?”

Lori chokes on her coffee, the laugh bubbling over the cup in the form of hot caffeine-laced spit. Whitney begins to giggle, and when the waitress comes over to refill their mugs she eyes the two of them and hands them some extra napkins without a word. Lori mops up the spill on her side and Whitney dabs at the droplets that made it to her part of the booth.

For almost two minutes, she does not think about her now ex-girlfriend.

That afternoon, Lori insists that she cleanse herself of the last relationship.

“Destroy any trace of her,” Lori says. She swears it helps, and holds out a trash bag.

It’s easier than Whitney thought it would be. Most of it is in her top desk drawer: pictures and ticket stubs, miscellaneous mementos of blossoming love. Whitney throws them all away, but not the lesson: love grows, and sometimes dies.

Her hand lingers against the last item: a white envelope. She opens it and sees the dried remnants of flowers, color fading to sepia tones like an old photograph.

“Is that ‒ money?” Lori asks. There are crisp bills in the envelope, too.

“Three hundred bucks,” Whitney sighs.

“I didn’t think she was that, erm, financially well-off?” Lori tries her best to not sound judgmental or bitchy. “Did she give you three hundred dollars?”

“It’s mine,” Whitney looks away. “These are the flowers she gave me on our six-month anniversary. I saved up enough cash so she could come with us for spring break. It was gonna be a surprise.

“Do you think ‒ maybe if she knew ‒ ”

“No,” Lori’s voice is firm and a shade angry. “No, absolutely not. You do not need to pay someone to be your girlfriend. Not a girl who once referred to you as ‘her little Mulan,’ which is easily one of the most racist things I’ve ever heard. Not a girl who can’t see how wonderful you are, who doesn’t love you or even like you enough to know she wants to be with you. She is a stupid, ignorant twat who will only weigh you down.”

Whitney picks the flowers out of the envelope and throws them in the bag.

Lori insists Whitney spend the money on herself. A treat. A new beginning. Anything that could be construed as absolute self-indulgence. Whitney considers getting another tattoo, but doesn’t feel like exposing herself to unnecessary pain. She keeps the money tucked away until she can decide.

The day before their flight, she realizes what she wants.

She sits down and places the envelope on the counter. The mirror reflects a maudlin girl with a silver glitter headband, flakes of which have fallen onto her long, shiny black hair like twinkling stars.

“That’s three hundred dollars. Give me whatever you’d like.”

The stylist nods. He asks a few questions about her typical style and daily routine. Since Whitney’s doing research over the summer, she doesn’t need something that can transition to what the stylist sarcastically calls the “corporate cut.”

“Too many econ majors come in here,” he moans, “‘Oh, give me something really edgy ‒ like bangs, but really subtle bangs.’”

“What are subtle bangs?” Whitney asks.

“Face-framing layers,” the stylist responds.

The cut he gives her isn’t subtle. It is edgy ‒ a short, choppy thing that strays into rebel territory when he colors it a bold lipstick red.

“I can’t get over it,” Lori gushes. They’re catching dinner before the flight, perched at the bar at the airport Chili’s.

“Ladies?” The bartender places two napkins in front of them.

“Chips and salsa,” Lori chirps.

“Two margaritas, on the rocks, salt on the rim,” Whitney catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror and grins.

Written by: Erin Justice

Photograph by: Vrinda Agrawal

Tequila Sunrise

“I am so goddamned hungover,” Nicole moans.

The thin queen mattress shudders from her restlessness, and Cheyenne groans in response. “Ohmigod, were you still asleep? I thought you were awake!”

“Mmmph,” Cheyenne manages.

She feels Nicole wiggle closer, her body heat radiating through a thin camisole. Nicole’s body brushes against hers and Cheyenne blushes. She wants to roll over and cup Nicole’s round face in her hands, kiss her and say, “I have been madly in love with you since orientation.”

Cheyenne swallows the words before they can escape. Along with their bitterness, she tastes stale tequila and beer. The room smells like old vomit and sweat, and Cheyenne concentrates on keeping her stomach settled. The fantasy yields to a more practical reality: sobriety.

Small miracle, Cheyenne thinks when she sees the dark shades drawn. The light might repel too many shadows and illuminate too many secrets, like desire, hunger, and lust.

“I think I’m still drunk,” Cheyenne croaks. The room spins around her and she closes her eyes.

“Lucky,” Nicole pokes Cheyenne in the ribs. “You can still fight it off.”

“Huh?”

“The hangover,” Cheyenne doesn’t need to open her eyes to know Nicole is rolling hers.

“I thought that was like, an urban legend.”

“Think of it as an experiment. When people ask us what we did on spring break, we can tell them we hypothesized some metabolic shit.”

Nicole doesn’t know a lot about science, but she does know booze.

Cheyenne rolls out of the thin bed they share and stumbles toward the dresser, decorated with carved initials and school slogans by previous budget-conscious occupants.

“I would drink a gallon of water if I could,” Nicole continues from the bed.

“Is it gallons here?” Cheyenne paws through the drawer until she finds the tiny plastic bottle. She shakes it, and the rattle comforts and torments.

“Why wouldn’t it be?” Nicole asks.

“Metric system, right?” Cheyenne shoves the chair away from the mini fridge. The door swings open, and the bottle of water in front of her seems to glow.

“I don’t remember any of that,” Nicole pauses, “but whatever. I would drink a metric fuckton of water if I could.”

“Let me take these and you can have some,” Cheyenne pops three Advil into her mouth and takes a huge swig of water.

The burn hits her tongue first. When the artificial cotton candy flavor registers, she coughs vodka everywhere.

“Was that the vodka?” Nicole laughs.

Cheyenne looks over and Nicole’s camisole has shifted. The neckline is low, too low, and Cheyenne sees more of her left breast, the shape and tint of a nipple. She no longer thinks of sobriety. Fantasies conquer her concentration.

The night before takes advantage of this lapse.

The cloying sweetness of the cotton candy and the burn of the vodka commingle with the stagnant taste of old alcohol. The rush of sickness overwhelms her, and Cheyenne scrambles over a haphazard tower of luggage and a pile of skintight dresses and heels.

After excavating water bottles from the luggage and binge-eating their granola bar stash, Nicole and Cheyenne clean up and escape the hotel room. The sun is too bright, and Cheyenne worries that she didn’t apply enough sunscreen. Her pale peach skin has a reddish tint to it. Nicole’s skin shimmers bronze, contrasting with a microscopic turquoise bikini and oversized white cotton shirt. Cheyenne risks a glance at her cleavage.

Nicole angles a floppy hat over straight dark hair. Paired with the shirt and an obnoxious scarf tied around her thin waist, Nicole looks like a sexy pirate.

“Beach or resort pool?” Nicole asks.

“Beach is cheaper,” Cheyenne says.

“And creepier. I bet those Sig guys we met last night will be at the resort.”

Cheyenne doesn’t want to ask. Admitting she blacked out is embarrassing. The thought of hearing about some hot dudes Nicole wants to flirt with makes Cheyenne cringe.

When they enter the lobby, Nicole glides over to a couple of guys sitting in wicker chairs next to a pink marble column. She perches on the arm of one chair. Its occupant strokes her thigh with disturbing familiarity.

“Feeling okay, Cheyenne?” The other man stands up and offers her his chair.

“Sure, I guess,” Cheyenne says. The guy has a face like a ferret and disproportionately small hands. Cheyenne remains where she is and stifles a laugh.

“Spring break, right?” The guy shrugs his shoulders. “I don’t want to assume anything, but just in case - I’m Adrian and this is Tyler.”

Tyler gives a thumbs-up without looking over. Nicole monopolizes his attention, and he hers.

“Nice to meet you - again,” Cheyenne runs a hand through her long black hair and offers Adrian a wan smile.

“We were gonna lounge by the pool for the afternoon,” Nicole chirps. “Wanna join?”

“We’ll get changed and meet you there,” Adrian responds. “There’s a bar in the pool. I’ll take a margarita if you’re up for splitting it, or cerveza if you aren’t.”

Adrian pronounces it “cerveeeza” and Cheyenne wants to punch him.

“Aren’t they great?” Nicole gushes at the pool. Cheyenne leaves Nicole with her tanning lotion, which smells like lighter fluid and cinnamon. Less sexy, more pirate, Cheyenne thinks.

“I’ll be at the bar,” Cheyenne gags. She adjusts the waistband of her bikini so the tiny Greek letters on her hipbone peek out.

Cheyenne wades into the lukewarm pool and orders a Dark & Stormy. She leans against the counter and brainstorms ways to salvage spring break with Nicole and ditch the frat boys.

“You’re in Kappa?” Slender fingers graze Cheyenne’s hip, then linger. A petite Asian girl with a choppy red bob inspects her tattoo. The girl raises her arm and displays an elaborate one of her own, complete with the same Greek letters. “Hurt like a bitch on my ribcage, but it makes me feel so badass. I’m Whitney.”

“Cheyenne,” Cheyenne traces the interwoven knots down Whitney’s side. They are linked by their sorority tattoos and their inability to stop touching them.

“Tequila sunrise, please,” Whitney’s fingers brush against the length of Cheyenne’s stomach as she turns to the bartender. Both women know it is not an accident.

“You know what? Make that two,” Cheyenne smiles.

Written by: Erin Justice
Photograph by: Hannah Chertock